The county record. [volume] (Kingstree, S.C.) 1885-1975, 1914-03-12

alcohol. There are a good many men
in the bar-room, but they are quiet
and orderly, and seem to be filled
the spirit of rejoicing Christians.
Many women, extremely good
women-we do not joke-go to the
tavern, but they do not linger in
the Water Wagon. nor do they enter
the long and sterilized bar room
sterilized of all iniqulty. On the
contrary, they hurry down stairs to
q long room in the bowels of the
earth. This room is the heart and
soul of the tavern. and here so great
is the purity, piety, virtue and be-
nevelence, that you Immediately be-
gin to feel the awakening Of what
Maxim Gorkey, the Russian writer
and patriot, called a redemptive
spirit of shame"-shame that your
past has been so dissolute and de-
graded.
This room is the real old tav-
ern." Its floor is thickly sanded-
with good, clean, wholesome sand.
The chairs and tables are old-time
and somewhat rickety. The lamps
are cheap, old-fashioned, greasy and
dim. A huge, ancient, Saxon look
ing fireplace stands at one side, with
huge black iron dogs, shovel and
tongs. Logs and fagots lie upon
the ponderous andirons. Curious
old pots and vases and jugs and
mugs and flagons fill the mantel
piece. In one corner, dripping from
the bungs upon the sand-are piled
up into a great mountain hogs
heads, casks, barrels. kegs, and
demijohns. When we saw the drip
ping bungs our soul was much lift
ed up, and we longed for an object
of charity upon whom or which we
might sacrifcially bestow our few
remaining nickels.
In this room are an organ, piano
and a wicked and vulgar graphic
phone. The graphophone spelled
with but little cessation and inspired
you to pray earnestly for a quick
translation into the heavenly rest
whittier your footsteps were surely
tending. The graphophone is the
most serious anachronism of the
Subway Tavern, for in the happy
days of the ancient time the devil
had not invented the graphophone.
On the walls of this subterranean
chamber hang quaint and strange
old pictures, Ind as we could find
no merit whatever in any of them.
we naturally concluded they were
works of high art.
Opening out from the sanded par
lor, and running farther and deeper
into the bowels of the earth, stretches
a vast and darkling cook room.
From this room are brought to you
and placed on your round table any
manner and all manner of viands,
from roast beef to "chop suey."
Your refreshing fluids come to you
from above-manna. The sandy
parlor was full of gay, fluffy. feath-
cry people-men and women, all
ages, colors, nationalities and con-
ditions except the negro. There
were dozens of fluffy blonde girls,
with pink and blue and white para
soils. 1t is the fluffy blonde girl
with the parasols that takes the
cake" And peroxide widows with
strange .figures-plumped up in sec
tons. And many base ball boys.
with wildly disheveled foretops. with
their wounded and bleeding shanks
covered upby thinnest lace stockings.
And old men and women, chewing
and drinking and mumming and
cumming. And pet dogs and par
rots and monkeys.
We saw none of Bishop Potter's
plain, honest, poor people, seeking a
place of virtuous relaxation, and the
fluffy girls and peroxide widows and