157: Temperance, Prohibition, and the Path to the 18th Amendment
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near you. That's the letter K, the number 12 dot com slash HTDS. K12 dot com slash HTDS. It's late in the afternoon, June 6th, 1900. Carrie Nation is seated in her buggy, the reins in her hands, but it's her horse, Prince, that's leading the way on this dusty Kansas road just north of the state line with Oklahoma. You heard me right. The horse is steering.

You know, this uncertain buggy ride will be a long one, so let me explain as Prince pulls us along. A little earlier, perhaps this morning, perhaps some days ago, Carrie felt that God told her to travel to the nearby town of Kiowa and smash its saloons, all of which operate illegally in violation of the 1880 amendment to the Kansas State Constitution's prohibition against manufacturing or selling liquor.

The six-foot-tall, husky 53-year-old and devotee of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union is up for it, hence the pile of brickbats in her buggy. But Carrie would prefer it if the good Lord could give her just a little reassurance that this is indeed His will. That is why she's letting Prince do the driving.

Her friend, Mrs. Springer, lives along this road, so Carrie figures that if her trusty steed, so familiar with this warm path, turns toward the Springer house, then she will know God does not want her to act. In that case, Carrie will stay the night with Mrs. Springer, which is, after all, the story she gave her husband.

But if Prince continues on the road to Kiowa, then she'll know without a doubt, God wants her to smash these saloons. No, these oases of sin filled with that life-destroying, illegal to sell in Kansas liquid that is alcohol. And now the trip to speed. Let's see where the horse leads us. The hot summer sun is low in the Kansas sky, but just ahead is the Springer home. Carrie relaxes her hands all the more. She will not influence Prince. And as they reach the house,

The horse completely ignores his old habits, paying no attention to the Springer's gate as he continues trudging along the dusty road. Okay then, it's on to Kiowa. It's now early the next morning, Thursday, June 7th, 1900. With a basket of what looks like parcels hanging from her right arm, Carrie makes her way into a Kiowa, Kansas saloon. This place is run by Mr. Dobson, and right now, he's standing behind the bar with another gentleman.

As they talk, Carrie approaches, then interrupts. Mr. Dobson, I told you last spring when I held my county convention here to close this place, and you didn't do it. Now I have come with another remonstrance. Get out of the way. I don't want to strike you, but I am going to break tip this den of ice.

And with that, Carrie reaches into her basket, grabs one of her parcels, which are actually wrapped up pieces of bricks, and hurls it at the mirror behind the bar. Cracks shoot across the mirror as the brick hits its mark, then falls, crashing down on the glass bottles of spirits below. In absolute shock, Mr. Dobson and his friend back into the corner as the towering, powerfully built woman grabs and throws another brick back. Then another. And still another!

She then heads to several other saloons and does the same thing. Eventually, she comes to a place owned by Bill Lewis. Carrie locks eyes with the employee at the bar and bellows at him. Young man, come from behind that bar. Your mother did not raise you for such a place.

Carrie then reaches for a truly large brick. She throws it with all her might at the gorgeous, ornate, and massive mirror behind the bar. It slams into this work of art, then falls down, shattering bottles below. Yet incredibly, the mirror remains intact, and Carrie is out of bricks. Disappointed but not undaunted, Carrie casts her eyes about and takes note of the billiards table on which rests exactly one ball.

The woman of faith exclaims, "Thank God!" She grabs the ball and slings it at the undoubtedly expensive mirror. Carrie doesn't only crack it, she puts a hole right through it. Stepping outside, the vigilante temperance fighter finds that Kiowa's remaining saloons have locked their doors, while locals have poured into the street, expressing their shock and dismay at what she has done.

That's fine. Whatever they think, no one can shake Carrie of her conviction that alcohol is the devil's drink and today she's done the Lord's work by enforcing the Kansas Constitution.

Walking into the middle of the street, standing taller than nearly all, she boldly challenges the citizens of Kiowa. "I have destroyed three of your places of business, and I have broken a statute of Kansas. Put me in jail. If I am not a lawbreaker, your mayor and councilmen are. You must arrest one of us, for if I am not a criminal, they are."

Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. That June day in Kiowa was only the beginning of Carrie Nation's saloon busting. She soon swapped the brickbats for a hatchet as she continued her attacks on saloons, which she cheekily called hatchetations.

Carrie's husband divorced her, and she got arrested some 30 times as she continued her hatchet-wielding, smashing hatchetations on saloons nearly until her death in 1911. And now that we've warmed up with Carrie Nation, we're ready for today's tale, the story of Prohibition. It's a long path, and to do it justice, we need to track America's relationship with liquor from its boozy colonial heydays up to the 18th Amendment.

To that end, we'll first contextualize why the Colonials drink like fishes. We'll then meet various individuals and organizations, starting with the American Temperance Society and the Washingtonians, both of which are looking to hold an intervention with Uncle Sam. But is total abstinence from the drink, or teetotalism as it comes to be called, truly necessary?

Ah, we'll find this mid-century idea divides the temperance movement, even as Maine and a few other states experiment briefly with prohibition. Entering the late 19th century, the Women's Christian Temperance Union will carry the torch, or hatchet, if you're carrying nation. But crucial a role as these women, who are so very sick of abusive drunk men, will play in prohibition's tale, will then meet the organization and the man who really push it over the edge, the anti-saloon league's Wayne B. Wheeler.

Wayne just might be the most effective lobbyist in American history, and we'll watch him gobble up Ohio, then national politicians, until he has the dry votes needed for a constitutional amendment prohibiting the sale, manufacture, and transportation of alcohol. And quick side note that, as a father myself, I can't help but add for the kids listening, please remember that, despite my usual jokes and the historical arguments I'll share in favor of the drink, alcohol abuse is not a game.

Please be quick to remember the damage we'll see liquor do in this episode. Please discuss alcohol with your parents, obey the law, and be responsible. Okay, dad mode off, back to professor. Time to follow Uncle Sam's journey from barfly to white-knuckling it in the 1920s. And we start in the colony of Massachusetts Bay. Rewind. Colonial America does not lack alcohol.

As the Puritan flagship, the Arabella, makes the transatlantic voyage from England to the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1630, the vessel is carrying 10,000 gallons of wine and three times as much beer as water. And although Harvard president Increase Mather warns a few decades later against the excess of drinking, he clarifies that, quote, drink is in itself a good creature of God, close quote.

Of course, I trust that you remember from the earliest of HTDS episodes the ubiquitousness of Madeira wine in colonial America, the Coca-Cola of the era, as I put it, and further recall the impact of the 1764 Sugar Act on New England's 159 commercial rum distilleries, all so very dependent on imports from Caribbean sugar plantations. Yes, rum plays its role in the revolution, particularly with the army.

According to one British surgeon visiting with New England forces in 1775, without New England rum, a New England army could not be kept together. They drink at least a bottle of it a man a day. Seems the spirit of 76 isn't the only spirit on America's lips as we enter the revolutionary era. John Adams begins each day with a glass of hard cider. James Madison goes through a pint of whiskey daily. Thomas Jefferson is America's original wine snob.

As John Adams complains to his diary after one dinner with TJ, "There was, as usual, a dissertation upon wines." Meanwhile, George Washington's whiskey distillery is, by the end of his life, one of his most lucrative endeavors at Mount Vernon. And of course, there's the legendary September 14th, 1787 City Tavern bar tab that I told you about in episode 15.

Though not run up exclusively by Philadelphia convention delegates, they likely represent their fair share of the 55 gentlemen toasting the near completion of the Constitution that night. They, uh, raised quite a few glasses to the Union. 45 gallons of alcohol, to be exact. But to be clear, these A-lister founders are the era's moderate drinkers. Luther Martin is the founding father who will drink you under the table.

Historian Richard Beeman speculates that Luther may have been drunk while speaking at the Constitutional Convention. And it's further alleged that Luther is so plastered while arguing before the U.S. Supreme Court during Fletcher v. Peck in 1810 that Chief Justice John Marshall adjourns to let the brilliant but buzzed lawyer sober up. Luther Martin just might be America's original high-functioning alcoholic. Okay, Luther really just sounds like an alcoholic.

So why isn't his drinking a career-destroying scandal? Well, he's a heavy drinker, but this is a time of heavy drinking. Englishman Frederick Marriott recalls booze being everywhere during his 19th century travels in the U.S.,

If you meet, you drink. If you part, you drink. If you make acquaintance, you drink. If you close a bargain, you drink. They quarrel in their drink and they make it up with a drink. They drink because it is hot. They drink because it is cold. If successful in elections, they drink and rejoice. If not, they drink and swear. And the habit is only growing.

By 1830, Americans 15 years old and up consume an average of seven gallons of pure alcohol per year. That's about three times the rate of 21st century Americans. Sounds like Uncle Sam needs an intervention, but hang on. Let's get some context on what's driving these early republic drinking habits. First, booze is medicinal. Suffering from scurvy, headaches, sore muscles? You need a beer, my friend. Ladies giving birth?

Epidurals don't exist yet, but rum mixed with milk does. Arthritis? Snakebite? Rye whiskey it is. Alcohol is also more reliably clean than water, and although Americans in the colonial era and early republic know about boiling water, hence the popularity of tea and coffee, surplus grain production makes whiskey cheaper than these hot drinks in the early 1800s.

Well, if you're a typical American and on a budget, buzzed is better than dead from dysentery. But good God, no wonder historian W.J. Rorabaugh's book on this era of American history is titled The Alcoholic Republic. Medicine and economics aside, these early generations of Americans are aware of the dangers of alcohol. They see the early deaths, addiction, illness, and bad to downright violent choices many make under the influence.

That's why the Puritans and so many founding fathers are fans of moderation with alcohol, an idea that some begin to call temperance. It's an idea that the Quakers, who seem to be ahead on everything, start encouraging as a group before we even reach the 1800s. In fact, it's a Quaker-rooted Declaration of Independence signee, Dr. Benjamin Rush, who publishes the first temperance pamphlet in 1784.

Titled, An Inquiry into the Effects of Ardent Spirits Upon the Human Body and Mind, the good doctor argues that fermented beverages like beer and wine are not an issue, but distilled spirits, the hard stuff, they are. And these should be regulated by the government. That message doesn't really land, though, until the early 19th century's industrial revolution. The new, emerging urban lifestyle makes home and work two separate arenas. The first female, the latter male.

Leaving the factory after a hard day, workmen stop by the saloon for drinks with the boys. Some blow all of their pay. Some go home drunk and turn to domestic violence. Public drunkenness is up. Employers worry about the sobriety of machine workers. In this environment, temperance societies pop up. Most are tied to churches. No surprise, this era is also the Second Great Awakening. And the most prominent of these is the American Temperance Society, which is founded in 1826.

With revivalists traveling from town to town to spread the temperance gospel, it has over 1.5 million members by 1835. Like most of society, the ATS believes that drunkards, those we would call alcoholics, are beyond hope and focus on convincing those not addicted not to drink. At all, in fact. Yes, this is a step past moderation, and this total alcohol avoidance, known as teetotalism, divides its members.

The ATS and other temperance groups help curb Uncle Sam's drinking, but as the Panic of 1837 sucks up funds, this first wave of temperance reform groups dries up. And yet, some Americans still want to kick the habit. That's what drives six men in Baltimore, Maryland, to found their own group in 1840.

Naming the organization in honor of our moderate drinking but never wasted capital F founding father, George Washington, the Washington Temperance Society or Washingtonians meets frequently so its members can discuss both their failures and temptations with the drink. The group spreads quickly and just a year later, they're sending out missionaries of their own, this time to help the drunkard. It's March 23rd, 1841.

We're at the Green Street Methodist Church in New York City, as a countless stream of men make their way into this house of God. Perhaps they just want out of the rain on this gloomy day, but that doesn't matter to John Hawkins. He's traveled from Baltimore to the Big Apple to save souls from alcohol, and by God, he'll take the audience however he can get it. This is New York City's first official meeting of the Washington Temperance Society. With everyone seated, John Hawkins makes his way to the podium.

The 43-year-old Washingtonian with flowing hair and a strong jaw announces to the crowd that he is a reformed drunkard. He recounts how, as an apprentice to a hatter for eight years, he became accustomed to daily drinking, but it all changed for him last June. As John says, "...the first two weeks of June, I averaged, it is a cross to acknowledge it, as much as a quart and a pint a day."

That morning, I was miserable beyond conception and was hesitating whether I should live or die. My little daughter came to my bed and said, I hope you won't send me for any whiskey today. I told her to go out of the room. She went weeping. I wounded her sorely, though I had made up my mind I would drink no more. I suffered all the horrors of the pit that day, but my wife supported me. She said, hold on, hold on.

Next day, I felt better. Monday, I wanted to go down and see my old associates who had joined the Washington Society. I went and signed. I felt like a free man. If there is a man on earth who deserves the sympathy of the world, it is the poor drunkard. Suddenly, a man in the crowd shouts to John, Can I be saved? I am a poor drunkard. I would give the world if I was as you are.

John yells back, "You can be my friend. Come down and sign the pledge and you'll be a man." With the aid of two others in the audience, the man is brought forward to the altar of the church where he signs a pledge. Then others come forward. With the assurance of a supportive friend group, they all sign the Washingtonian pledge to drink no more. 10% of Washingtonian members are reformed or reforming drunkards.

I suppose we could say they are something of a predecessor to the 20th century's Alcoholics Anonymous, even if the two aren't related. In 1842, a mere two years after its six-man founding, the Washingtonians have 15 societies in Baltimore and 23 in New York. Spreading west, a gangly Illinois politician by the name of Abraham Lincoln doesn't join the Washingtonians, but he does speak at their events. They provide much assistance to their members, be that a shoulder to cry on, sharing a laugh, or even bail money.

But just a year later, the Washingtonians hit their peak. Between lack of organization, perceived bad blood between members and religion, and new societies like the Sons of Temperance taking up the charge, the Washingtonians fade away, as do their methods. The focus on reforming the individual drops as more Americans come to view drunkenness not as an individual issue, but as a societal one that requires government intervention. Meanwhile, Temperance also finds a voice in the arts in the 1830s and 40s.

In the 1830s, more than 12% of American novels engage with temperance. Edgar Allan Poe's 1843 short story, The Black Cat, is the tale of a violent, animal and wife-killing alcoholic. An 1844 stage play called The Drunkard or The Fallen Saved tells the tale of a good, loving husband and father turned wife beater blowing through his children's money until he reforms with the help of his moral in-laws and friends.

Oh, and it turns out his uncle left him a fortune, so he's rich, happily ever after. This play crushes it. P.T. Barnum's American Museum brings in 3,000 people per showing. And as we enter the mid-19th century, teetotaling laws start to emerge. In Portland, Maine, Mayor Neal Dow convinces the state legislature to outlaw the sale or production of alcohol in 1851. Mainers can only have alcohol now for medicinal purposes.

The Maine law, as it's known, is the first state-level prohibition law in the nation and a dozen other states soon follow suit. But these laws won't survive the decade as temperance comes up against other social issues. Temperance is mixing with xenophobia as some merely want to stick it to alcohol-consuming immigrants from Ireland and Germany. In fact, Mayor Neil Dow hates the Irish and in 1855, a 3,000-strong crowd filled with Irish who know they're his targets riot against his Maine law.

And while abolitionists often support temperance, Republican leaders prioritize defeating slavery over defeating alcohol. Yet, temperance soon finds a new champion in America's middle-class women. As the fight for women's rights picks up, women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton become involved in other social issues ranging from fighting slavery to temperance. The impetus for the latter, of course, is stopping alcoholic husbands from wasting family money and beating their wives and children.

Elizabeth and others organize and speak against the drink, but as we know from episode 119, American women are well aware that words aren't always sufficient. Sometimes you have to act. It's the evening of December 23rd, 1873. A crowd of women and men have gathered in Hillsboro, Ohio's music hall to listen to noted Bostonian physician Diocletian Lewis give another temperance lecture.

The good doctor, or Dio as he's known, is riding a bit of a high after two of his recent speeches in New York inspired the whole congregation to confront local saloons. And now, Dio will see if he can light the same fire in Ohio. The bearded Bostonian describes his childhood, memories of his father stumbling home intoxicated, his mother praying for his father's redemption,

Dio breaks hearts recounting his time working 10 to 14 hours per day in a cotton mill at the tender age of eight just to keep the family afloat. But then redemption came. In 1830, his mother led a band of women on a crusade against the saloons of Auburn, New York. The saloons closed and his father was saved.

D.O. encourages these Ohio women to follow that example, exclaiming, Ladies, you might do the same thing in Hillsboro if you had the faith. More than 75 women stand. They will do it. The men stand and agree to support the women. It starts tomorrow. It's 10 o'clock the next morning, December 24th, 1873. Christmas Eve.

Last night's group and a few others have reassembled inside the tall, brick Presbyterian church. Everyone is dressed in black. Some have their doubts. But Eliza Thompson steps up. Known affectionately as Mother Thompson, this fair-featured, 57-year-old, lifelong Hillsboro resident lost her son Alan to drunkenness.

She wasn't at the meeting last night and wasn't on board at first, but fortified by her reading of the 146th Psalm this morning, she's ready to do what she can to spare another parent her grief. Mother Thompson shouts to the gathered women, "'Let us form in line two and two and let us at once proceed to our sacred mission, trusting alone in the God of Jacob.'"

The women form ranks, then march out of the church and into the streets of Hillsborough as Mrs. Cowden, Presbytery Minister's wife, leads them in singing a hymn. Trudging through the mud and snow, the women push past their astonished husbands and into Dr. William Smith's East Main Street drugstore. Once inside, Mother Thompson instructs Mrs. Milton Boyd to read the pledge.

The woman bellows at the owner. "In the name of God and humanity, we make our appeal, knowing as we do that the sale of intoxicating liquors is the parent of every misery. We, the mothers, wives, and daughters representing the moral and religious sentiment of our town, earnestly request that you will pledge yourself to cease the traffic here in these drinks forthwith and forever." As the women fall to the floor in prayer,

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Between the winter of 1873 and the spring of 1874, the number of women going on the offensive against alcohol by marching and directly confronting saloons on the Women's Crusade as it comes to be known, grows faster than Dr. Diocletian Lewis can lecture. These marching, hymn singing, temperance crusaders have their successes but experience plenty of backlash too. In Ashland, Nebraska, opponents throw paint at the women.

In Carthage, Missouri, it's rotten eggs. In Yerkesville, Ohio, it's bricks. In Cleveland, Ohio, a mob attacks the Crusaders, injuring two women, a male supporter, and a policeman. In Elkhart, Indiana, 100 rioters confront 50 Crusaders, dousing the women in booze and striking one with a wooden box. The women respond by returning the next day 100 strong, and by the end of the week, 200 women are marching.

Sounds terrifying, but for these women, it's less terrifying than the alternative of living with fist-throwing inebriated men. See, even as beer overtakes distilled spirits as America's alcohol of choice, drunk husbands abusing their wives and children remains a huge problem, and these ladies have had enough. They're fighting back against the saloons pocketing their husbands' wages. They want to put an end to careless, inebriated men physically and sexually abusing them.

And frankly, challenging saloons like this is as good a course as any. Few women have the vote in 1874, only those in the territories of Wyoming and Utah, nor is divorce legal in all circumstances. Even when it is legal, the cost and the doubts of financial support for a woman and her children after divorce make it a terrifying prospect.

Helen Sparrow describes some of these very real alcohol-fueled fears and challenges as she serves as the spokeswoman for Six Crusaders on trial in Portland, Oregon. These evils, your honor, are not in far-off lands, but at our own doors, as that wife can testify, who a few months since went to a prominent saloon in this city and pled with the proprietor to sell her husband no more liquor, as her life was in danger whenever that husband came home under its influence.

And she was coldly told, "Oh well, if I do not sell him liquor, someone else will." Or that other wife whose husband can go to his home to make it such a hell upon earth that the children must be sent from the house and the wife remain in terror of her life. Such instances are not rare, and it is on behalf of these suffering sisters that we act. The jury have kindly recommended us to mercy.

We ask no mercy. We demand justice. Unlike the movements before them, these women won't fizzle out. The Crusaders organize, and by the end of 1874, they become the Women's Christian Temperance Union, or the WCTU. Under the leadership of its second president, Francis Willard, the WCTU spreads nationwide, from the biggest cities to Indian reservations, even to the far north in Alaska. And these ladies are upping their game.

They aren't just taking the saloons to task. They're calling for cities and states to prohibit the sale of alcohol entirely. They also take the battle to education. Check out these math questions from an 1880s textbook, courtesy of the WCTU. A, if a family spends 15 cents a day for beer, how much is expended in four weeks? B, how many loaves of bread at 10 cents a loaf could be bought for the same money?

I'll save you the time. The answer to A is $4.20 and for B, it's 42 loaves of bread. These same textbooks declare that a single sip of alcohol leads to irreversible damage and a quick death. And all of this is working. Saloons and brewers alike watch their profits and reputations plummet. But unlike Joan Jett, the beer industry does give a damn about its bad reputation.

Large brewing families and companies like Anheuser, Busch, and Pabst go on a desperate PR campaign. They decide to make their case to America on its 100th birthday at the 1876 Centennial Exhibition. It's May 10th, 1876. We're among the over 180,000 people packed into the 285-acre fairgrounds at Fairmount Park in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania for the Centennial Exposition.

It was 100 years ago this very summer that the Second Continental Congress declared independence, and now Philly is hosting this exceptional World's Fair. Beautifully laid out next to the Schuylkill River, it includes over 200 buildings with displays from over 50 nations and colonies, all powered by the 40-foot-tall giant Corliss steam engine and machinery hall.

Unfortunately, Alexander Graham Bell's demonstration of his new telephone won't be here until June and Auguste Bartholdi's 40-foot tall arm and torch from his Statue of Liberty won't be here till August. But don't let that discourage you.

There's so much to see right now. We have the 35-acre Occupy Main Hall, literally the largest building ever constructed at this time. We could check out some new inventions like typewriters or band-aids, or maybe try some new foods, including Heinz ketchup, Heyer's root beer, or this exotic newly imported fruit, the banana. Tell you what, President Ulysses S. Grant's speech isn't until later, so let's kill some time by grabbing a few drinks at the Brewer's Building.

Stepping inside the beautiful, two-story, heavily windowed structure, we're first greeted at the north entrance by a statue of King Gambrinus, the jolly, whimsical German who, according to folklore, gifted the world with lager beer. Huh, he sure looks happy. Maybe lager is good for what ails ya.

Continuing on, we encounter a medallion on display telling us that, quote, Close quote.

Wow! Sounds like these companies are really doing their part for the American economy. These brewers must love America. No wonder we saw a big US flag flying atop the cupola as we walked in. And look at this bottle display of Pennsylvania colony founder William Penn's brewery. My goodness, who knew brewing had such American, such colonial heritage? Surely then, we need not think of beer as some foreign Germanic influence.

We sample a few brews from the building's 207 vendors. My, that hits the spot on a hot summer's day. But as we do, one vendor with the malt liquor committee hands us a booklet. Flipping through it, we read that brewing is, quote, an art, science, and industry that either from ignorance or prejudice has many enemies, close quote. Hmm. As we continue reading, the pamphlet reaffirms what these kind vendors kept saying.

that American brewers provide a drink that consists of clean water, only 3.5% alcohol, and is made with the same ingredients as bread. It's exactly what a hard-working American man needs after a long day on the job. Well then, this brew isn't just satisfying. Between its contribution to Uncle Sam's Walt, its legacy from William Penn, and nourishment of the American worker, my God, this pamphlet makes beer sound downright patriotic.

Okay, that comparison of beer to bread is about as porous as a slice of sourdough. But with over 10 million people visiting the Centennial Exhibition by its end in November 1876, the brewing industry's ice-cold advertisement lands.

Meanwhile, the New York Times publishes an article the following year about the history and success of German lager that does not lean into stereotypes about Germans or beer drinkers, that does not make jokes about drunks. Instead, it describes the brewer's, quote, gigantic establishments doing an enormous business, close quote. Of course, one World's Fair won't do all the heavy lifting.

Most of the campaigning against the WCTU isn't happening in big buildings with pamphlets, but in the saloons themselves, with a free, hearty, and salty meal and a pint of beer, with free drinks for anti-prohibition voters. And naturally, these men are reminded that saloons are not just about the beer and the mug. They're about manhood and brotherhood. Finally, the liquor industry's most convincing argument for state and national legislators is green.

Let's never underestimate the mighty dollar's persuasive powers. The brewers are doing it. While Kansas votes to amend its state constitution to go dry, more or less, in 1880, the brewing lobby is changing the conversation. To quote historian Jeffrey R. Hankins, By the late 1880s, German brewers had shifted the alcohol debate from an emotional crusade to an objective and scientific study.

They advocated lager beer as a way to decrease American drunkenness and increase the morale of an industrializing workforce. Beer was now called a national drink. Close quote. Ah, and let's not forget that last point. Though of German origin, these brewers are pouring their lager into the American melting pot. They're making lager American. Sounds like the Women's Christian Temperance Union is losing ground. And the WCTU has another challenge, mixed messaging with other social issues.

As Elizabeth Cady Stanton argued previously, the WCTU of the 1880s is arguing that temperance, women's suffrage, and maybe even socialism all go hand in hand. For some, that's just too radical. Some suffragists don't want to be tied to radical prohibition movements while some temperance supporters, especially men, don't want to support women's suffrage. Yeah, it's getting messy. None of this is to say that the WCTU is out of steam.

It's pushing for temperance or prohibition legislation, but that effort is reliant on local grassroots efforts, which often requires something to jumpstart the movement. And as we enter the 20th century, one such event happens in the District of Alaska. It's sometime in the morning, November 5th, 1901.

We're in Alaska's gold rush boomtown of Skagway, where US Marshal James Shoup is braving the cold, holding his coat tight as the winds howl and he shuffles his way along Seventh Avenue toward the federal courthouse. It's a rough part of town, notorious for its saloons, and by saloons, I mean brothels.

As we learned in episode 88, the late 1890s Klondike Gold Rush brought a lot of hopeful, gold-panning men to Alaska, and their presence has built a whole new economy that revolves around a clientele of young men, which is a polite way to say booze and prostitution. Yeah, James is never bored as a lawman up here on the last frontier, but as he walks today, passing one two-story wooden structure after another, not even he can anticipate what's about to happen.

Walking by one of Skagway's many saloons, James sees a woman burst out of its front doors. She's drunk, stumbling, and according to the Daily Alaskan, only wearing, quote, "enough clothes to fill a thimble," close quote. James knows who this is right away. He arrested her last year. This is the notorious Popcorn Kate. Blushing, James cautiously approaches the 29-year-old woman, asking if maybe she'd like to step back inside and get some clothes.

Kate answers, "I am only taking the knife cure and I don't need any grass to walk on either." Okay, she's plastered. Maybe even worse than last year when James took her away in a wheelbarrow. Again, it seems he needs to place Kate under arrest. A rather awkward task given that she's naked, but luckily for James, some help has arrived. Marshal Snook and Officer Tanner. The three men flank the intoxicated woman.

As they do, she backs up against a saloon window. Kate takes a look at that window, smiles, and says, "My hands are aching with the cold, and if I put them through this window, the pain will be gone." Before anyone can stop her, Kate smashes her hands through the window pane. Impressive as the pun is for someone so drunk, there's no time to appreciate Kate's wit. Her glass slashed hands are bleeding in streams.

The men dress the wounds and the woman, then take her for further medical attention. Popcorn Kate, or Maggie Marshall to use her real name, spends the next 15 months sobering up in the Skagway jail. Now, as we know from episode 88, Skagway, Alaska has been free from the rule of notorious gangster and con man, Soapy Smith, ever since he got gunned down a few years back.

Yet, even with him gone, it's clear that the town is entering the 20th century without having shed its rough boomtown and frontier ways of gambling, prostitution, and saloons. Ah, but the Woman's Christian Temperance Union is ready to help Skagway overcome all three of those vices. The WCTU will win on this issue, but it will take well over a decade, specifically after women in Alaska gained the right to vote in 1913. Ooh, that's quite a wait.

And as we enter the 20th century, those pursuing prohibition hardly think that waiting or counting on women's suffrage across the nation is the answer. There has to be a faster way, one that perhaps is a little less inflammatory than Carrie Nation's hatchet too. And that is where the Anti-Saloon League comes in.

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Founded by Reverend Howard Russell in Oberlin, Ohio in 1893, the Anti-Saloon League, or the ASL, has one mission. In the saloon.

As the Reverend and his associates see it, other prohibition movements failed due to the wrong focus. The Washingtonians were too focused on the individual instead of legislation. The WCTU's messaging is too intertwined with women's suffrage. And although the Prohibition Party is at its peak in the early 1890s, most of its influence is watered down by competition from other reform-minded third parties and, of course, by the fact that, as a political party, it has to hold policies on other issues.

But the Anti-Saloon League can put all of its efforts into one idea, outlawing liquor. That's especially true since the hiring of Wayne B. Wheeler. Wayne hopped on the Prohibition bandwagon as a boy in Trumbull County, Ohio, when an inebriated field hand stabbed him through the leg with a pitchfork. Yeah, okay, I guess we can see where he's coming from.

Standing at 5 and a half feet with short hair, glasses, and a neatly brushed mustache, Wayne Wheeler looked like a pencil-pushing pushover when he graduated from Oberlin College and started full-time with the ASL in 1894. But oh, Hal looks deceived. The young Ohioan proved a powerhouse, and upon finishing his law degree in 1898, the ASL put Wayne in charge of its legal offices in Ohio. Now, he's delivering speeches and filing suits with a fury.

In 1903, Wayne is promoted to the ASL's superintendent for the state of Ohio. Using pressure politics, Wayne unleashes the Anti-Saloon League's fury on "wet politicians" — that is, those who approve of the drink. It's beyond effective at drying up the state legislature. To quote author and historian David Okrent's description of Ohio politics in 1903: "The newly elected Ohio legislature installed that year was custom-built by the ASL. Wayne B. Wheeler, general contractor."

Close quote. Ah, but Wayne still has one foe that's keeping him from using the Ohio State government as his personal playground. Governor Myron T. Herrick. Here's the deal. Per the ASL's directions, the Buckeye State Legislature takes up the Brannock Act. This is a local option law, meaning that it opens the door to small jurisdictions, like a city or county, voting on a given issue. And in this case, the issue is kicking saloons out of town.

No surprise here, the ASL has been pursuing local option laws for years, drying up one municipality or county at a time. But strong-jawed, mustache-wearing Governor Myron Herrick and his likewise handsome Lieutenant Governor Warren G. Harding have reservations about the Brannock Act. Don't get me wrong, the governor is willing to see through this bill that would allow the approval of 40% of a town to give saloons the boot. But he wants cities to vote on the matter, not rely on a mere petition.

Well, that's enough to incur the wrath of Wayne Wheeler. The fiery prohibitionist sets out to destroy the popular incumbent Republican in the 1905 election. Week after week, Wayne hammers Governor Myron Herrick in the ASL's newspaper, The American Issue. He calls the governor the, quote unquote, champion of the murder mills, by which, of course, Wayne means the champion of saloons. In a later article, Wayne describes the governor as insufficiently Republican,

To quote him, "If the whole blasted gang of political parasites in Ohio, we mean Cox, Dick, Herrick, and their tools, are not all fired out of public life, all fired quick, the state will deserve the doom that is inevitable and that is now well on its way. No decent Republican will lose his standing in the party because he fails to vote in 1905 to perpetuate the reign of these fellows." Close quote.

Meanwhile, the scrappy ASL leader oversees the distribution of over 75 million pages of attack ad literature and arranges for 3,000 public meetings, assailing the Republican incumbent governor as the allegedly wet candidate. Wayne also sees to it that the ASL backs Democratic challenger John Patterson, describing him as, quote, a high-grade conservative Christian man who has always stood for the best things in our state and national life, close quote.

Governor Myron Herrick has to go on the defensive. In an October speech, he warns Ohio voters of the ASL's power, saying that, "No one attempted to boss me but the leaders of the Anti-Saloon League, and now they have gone to the other side."

A month later, just before the election, the pro-Myron Herrick Dayton Herald further warns that, quote, Democrat John Patterson's election would put into full power in this state the greatest political machine that Ohio has ever known, close quote. The results of Ohio's 1905 gubernatorial election is nothing short of astounding.

Myron Herrick, a darling, popular, rising star in the Republican Party, who two years ago in 1903 soundly defeated his Democratic opponent by more than 100,000 votes, loses by 43,000 votes. Newly elected Governor John Pattison dies of Bright's disease just six months after taking office, but that doesn't matter much to the ASL.

His replacement, the 71-year-old Lieutenant Governor, a hero of the Battle of Gettysburg, Andrew Harris, is also a dry politician. Meek as Wayne Wheeler looks, he's proven the power of the ASL. Wayne writes to his board of directors that, And he's right. No Ohio politician dares to dance with Wayne or the ASL after this.

Two years later, in 1908, Wayne reports that 60% of Buckeyes live under dry legislation. Impressive. The Anti-Saloon League is relentless, ruthless even, as it dries up the nation one city, one county, and one state at a time. The ASL has its natural allies, like the Women's Christian Temperance Union, and wealthy teetotalers, like oil tycoon John D. Rockefeller. But the organization will work with pretty much anyone. It has no boundaries.

In the South, the Anti-Saloon League sells prohibition to Black voters as a way to prove their devotion to Booker T. Washington's principles, while simultaneously selling prohibition to white segregationists as a mechanism for controlling Black neighborhoods. That's right. The ASL has no issue working with the NAACP or the KKK. It has no issue working with Republicans or Democrats. It will do anything to advance prohibition.

And so, the ASL successfully leads the charge in spreading prohibition from one state to another. By 1916, prohibition exists in 16 separate states. Meanwhile, other developments across the 19-teens open the door for a national move. In 1913, the 16th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution allows the federal government to enact an income tax. Oh, that means Uncle Sam is no longer so reliant on liquor taxes. Wayne Wheeler loves that.

Wanting something more ironclad than a mere law, so easily disposed of like the main laws of half a century ago, he pushes for a prohibition amendment, which Congressman Richard Hobson of Alabama introduces in 1914. While the vote in the House of Representatives is a majority, 197 for, 190 against, it isn't the two-thirds majority that the Constitution requires for an amendment.

But let's not forget that 1914 also sees the outbreak of the Great War, and as we know from episode 132, the U.S. enters the fight against the German Empire in 1917. Ah, anti-German sentiment is up. Suddenly, those German-descent brewers no longer feel so American. Yet, can anti-German sentiment provide the last bit of momentum needed to overcome the concerns of the South's dry congressmen, who nonetheless feel strongly about states' rights?

What about dry congressmen who oppose women's suffrage and question if passing one social issue-focused amendment, such as prohibition, won't open the door for the ladies too? As doughboys answer the draft to fight lager-loving Germans, the gentleman from Texas, Senator Morris Shepard, puts forth a resolution for a prohibition amendment. The Senate votes 65-20 in its favor on August 1, 1917.

With spectators packing the gallery seats, the House of Representatives gives its blessing as well with a vote of 282 to 128 on December 17th. That's a vote of more than two-thirds in both houses of Congress. At this point, if three-fourths of the several states ratify it, and do so within seven years, only because Congress is imposing that deadline in this instance, this proposed amendment will meet the requirements of Article 5 of the U.S. Constitution. It will come to life.

The seven-year deadline is more than met. A mere 13 months later, January 16, 1919, Nebraska becomes the 36th of the 48 states to ratify. That's three-fourths. Prohibition is officially the 18th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Now, what exactly is prohibited? That's all in the Amendment's first section, which states that:

Ah, so it isn't technically illegal to drink. It's the making, selling, and transporting of alcohol that's becoming unconstitutional.

Sounds like a lot of good citizens are going to buy a lot of liquor over this last legal-to-buy year. And just to round it out, I'll mention that the amendment has two more articles. The second empowers Congress and the states to enforce the amendment by appropriate legislation, while the third contains that easily-met seven-year deadline to ratify. Thus, the one-year countdown to prohibition begins. Drinkers binge, brewers mourn. Napa Valley vineyards rip out their grape vines and plant fruit trees.

Finally, the day comes. Teetotalers gladly welcome alcohol's death. And for some in Virginia, that means a celebratory funeral. It's Saturday afternoon, January 17th, 1920. The first official day of nationwide prohibition. And the quickly built wooden temporary tabernacle on the corner of 20th and Granby in Norfolk, Virginia is nearly bursting with attendees. 15,000 people in a space designed for 9,000.

The reason is the speaker. It's none other than the former Chicago White Stockings baseball player turned evangelist preacher, Billy Sunday. In fact, this massive house of God was built specifically for the thin-haired 57-year-old preacher's visit, and hardly a soul dares to miss the opportunity to see him preach. Especially when his sermon is, well, alcohol's denunciation masquerading as a eulogy. Billy steps up to the pulpit.

As he does, the doors fly open and 20 men, all dressed in costumes and led by one dressed as the devil himself, step inside carrying a 20-foot long black casket. Inside is the corpse, if you will, of John Barleycorn. Police clear those outside still trying to push into the packed church as the crowd inside roars with applause and laughter.

the organ plays a funeral dirge as the casket is laid before the dais and crowned with a wreath of pink carnations after which the 20 costumed pallbearers lead the audience in singing john barleycorn's body lies a moldering in the clay billy sunday surveys the crowd hundreds of wctu women in the front rows are smiling ear to ear three little girls hand him white roses

Once he's able to quiet the crowd, the ball-playing preacher launches into one of his classic fiery orations. No earnest, intelligent man or woman can deny but that the saloon and drunkenness was the curse of the United States. The only business the saloon helped was the devil's business. And now that it has gone, it leaves rejoicing. Goodbye, John Barleycorn, old top.

We didn't need your money bad enough to allow you to snatch bread from hungry women and children. The people are free from the chains you riveted about them at last. The wrath of an outraged public has been quenched and your putrid corpse is hanging from the gibbet of public shame. You are God's worst enemy. You are hell's best friend. I hate you with a perfect hatred. I love to hate you.

Farewell, you good-for-nothing, godforsaken, iniquitous, bleary-eyed, bloated-faced old imp of perdition. Farewell. And having said his piece about the personification of liquor, Billy climbs atop the pulpit and waves the American flag as the people sing. Mocking funerals have a long tradition in America. All the way back in episode two, I told you about the mock funerals held for liberty amid the Stamp Act crisis.

But those mock funerals ended with Colonials getting drinks at the pub. For some reason, I don't think Billy Sunday and his congregants stuck with that last part of the tradition. But speaking of the colonial era, we have now completed our journey from the relatively buzzed colonies to the prohibition enacting 18th Amendment's first day in effect, January 17th, 1920. We encountered a lot of forceful organizations and colorful characters along the way.

Like the WCTU and hatchet-wielding Cary Nation, both of Hume Future Generations will often charge with the lion's share of responsibility for Prohibition.

Yet, while their influence was significant, I admit that I find it a curious thing to blame women for prohibition when Jeanette Rankin was the only woman serving in the Congress that gave its two-thirds approving vote to the amendment. When three-fourths of the states gave their assent to this 18th amendment before the 19th granted American women full voting rights.

No, I find myself agreeing with the analysis of 1920s America. That if any single organization or individual deserves the credit or blame for prohibition, it's the Anti-Saloon League and Wayne B. Wheeler. The man whom the New York Evening World describes as, quote, the legislative bully before whom the Senate of the United States sits up and begs, close quote. Or to quote the New York Herald Tribune,

Without Wayne B. Wheeler's generalship, it is more than likely we should never have had the 18th Amendment. That's right. It may well be that no one has organized, lobbied, and played kingmaker more effectively than Wayne up to this point in American history. Nor was Wayne Dunn. He also put his foot on the scale of Congressman Andrew Volstead's proposed National Prohibition Act of 1919, a.k.a. the Volstead Act.

This is where the 18th Amendment's phrase, intoxicating liquors, gets defined. And those who supported the amendment thinking it would only prohibit hard liquors were in for a shock. While the law has its carve-outs, including wines for religious purposes, whiskey for medicinal uses, and, not daring to upset rural Americans, home-manufactured hard cider, the ASL guides the Bolstead Act's definition of intoxicating liquors to a 0.5% limit.

And so, with the 18th Amendment and its enforcing Volstead Act passed, the Great Prohibition Experiment begins. But only minutes into this experiment, just after midnight January 17, 1920, six masked, pistol-wielding men make off with two freight cars of whiskey in a Chicago rail yard. It's an inauspicious beginning, one that indicates the story of America and liquor is far from over. And next time, we'll continue that story

as we try our hand at bootlegging. History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode researched and written by Greg Jackson and Will King. Production by Airship. Sound design by Montmore Bach. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit htbspodcast.com.