“It is a little surprising.  I have noticed, now that you speak of it, his habit in this respect.”

“He might as well, on his own theory, prescribe thin clothing and damp air to one whose father or mother had died of consumption as alcoholic stimulants to one, who has the taint of dypso-mania in his blood.  In one case as in the other the disease will almost surely be developed.  This is common sense, and something that can be understood by all men.”

“And yet, strange to say, the very men who have in charge the public health, the very men whose business it is to study the relations between cause and effect in diseases, are the men who in far too many instances are making the worst possible prescriptions for patients in whom even the slightest tendency to inebriety may exist hereditarily.  We have, to speak plainly, too many whisky doctors, and the harm they are doing is beyond calculation.  A physician takes upon himself a great responsibility when, without any knowledge of the antecedents of a patient or the stock from which he may have come, he prescribes whisky or wine or brandy as a stimulant.  I believe thousands of drunkards have been made by these unwise prescriptions, against which I am glad to know some of the most eminent men in the profession, both in this country and Europe, have entered a solemn protest.”

“There is one thing in connection with the disease of intemperance,” replied the other, “that is very remarkable.  It is the only one from which society does not protect itself by quarantine and sanitary restrictions.  In cholera, yellow fever and small-pox every effort is made to guard healthy districts from their invasion, and the man who for gain or any other consideration should be detected in the work of introducing infecting agents would be execrated and punished.  But society has another way of dealing with the men who are engaged in spreading the disease of intemperance among the people.  It enacts laws for their protection, and gives them the largest liberty to get gain in their work of disseminating disease and death, and, what is still more remarkable, actually sells for money the right to do this.”

“You put the case sharply.”

“Too sharply?”

“Perhaps not.  No good ever comes of calling evil things by dainty names or veiling hard truth under mild and conservative phrases.  In granting men a license to dispense alcohol in every variety of enticing forms and in a community where a large percentage of the people have a predisposition to intemperance, consequent as well on hereditary taint as unhealthy social conditions, society commits itself to a disastrous error the fruit of which is bitterer to the taste than the ashen core of Dead Sea apples.”

“What about Dead Sea apples?” asked Mr. Elliott, who came up at the moment and heard the last remark.  The two gentlemen were pew-holders in his church.  Mr. Elliott’s countenance was radiant.  All his fine social feelings were active, and he was enjoying a “flow of soul,” if not “a feast of reason.”  Wine was making glad his heart—­not excess of wine, in the ordinary sense, for Mr. Elliott had no morbid desire for stimulants.  He was of the number who could take a social glass and not feel a craving for more.  He believed in wine as a good thing, only condemning its abuse.