Diary in America, Series Two. Фредерик Марриет

compounded from the contents of several rows of bottles behind them. Here the eye reposes on masses of pure crystal ice, large bunches of mint, decanters of every sort of wine, every variety of spirits, lemons, sugar, bitters, cigars and tobacco; it really makes one feel thirsty, even the going into a bar. (See Note 3.) Here you meet every body and every body meets you. Here the senator, the member of Congress, the merchant, the store-keeper, travellers from the Far West, and every other part of the country, who have come to purchase goods, all congregate.

      Most of them have a cigar in their mouth, some are transacting business, others conversing, some sitting down together whispering confidentially. Here you obtain all the news, all the scandal, all the politics, and all the fun; it is this dangerous propinquity, which occasions so much intemperance. Mr. Head has no bar at the Mansion-house in Philadelphia, and the consequence is, that there is no drinking, except wine at dinner; but in all the other hotels, it would appear as if they purposely allowed the frequenters no room to retire to, so that they must be driven to the bar, which is by far the most profitable part of the concern.

      The consequence of the bar being the place of general resort, is, that there is an unceasing pouring out, and amalgamation of alcohol, and other compounds, from morning to late at night. To drink with a friend when you meet him is good fellowship, to drink with a stranger is politeness, and a proof of wishing to be better acquainted.

      Mr. A is standing at the bar, enter B. “My dear B, how are you?”—“Quite well, and you?”—“Well, what shall it be?”—“Well, I don’t care—a gin sling.”—“Two gin slings, Bar-keeper.” Touch glasses, and drink. Mr. A has hardly swallowed his gin sling, and replaced his cigar, when, in comes Mr. D. “A, how are you?”—“Ah! D, how goes it on with you?”—“Well, I thankey—what shall we have?”—“Well, I don’t care; I say brandy cocktail.”—“Give me another,” both drink, and the shilling is thrown down on the counter.

      Then B comes up again. “A, you must allow me to introduce my friend C.”—“Mr. A”—shake hands—“Most happy to make the acquaintance. I trust I shall have the pleasure of drinking—something with you?”—“With great pleasure, Mr. A, I will take a julep.”—“Two juleps, Bar-keeper.”—“Mr. C, your good health”—“Mr. A, yours; if you should come our way, most happy to see you,”—drink.

      Now, I will appeal to the Americans themselves, if this is not a fair sample of a bar-room.

      They say that the English cannot settle any thing properly, without a dinner. I am sure the Americans can fix nothing, without a drink. 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; they begin to drink early in the morning, they leave off late at night; they commence it early in life, and they continue it, until they soon drop into the grave. To use their own expression, the way they drink, is “quite a caution” (See Note 4.) As for water, what the man said, when asked to belong to the Temperance Society, appears to be the general opinion, “it’s very good for navigation.”

      So much has it become the habit to cement all friendship, and commence acquaintance by drinking, that it is a cause of serious offence to refuse, especially in a foreigner, as the Americans like to call the English. I was always willing to accommodate the Americans in this particular, as far as I could; (there at least, they will do me justice;) that at times I drank much more than I wished is certain, yet still I gave most serious offence, especially in the West, because I would not drink early in the morning, or before dinner, which is a general custom in the States, although much more prevalent in the South and West, where it is literally, “Stranger, will you drink or fight?” This refusal on my part, or rather excusing myself from drinking with all those who were introduced to me, was eventually the occasion of much disturbance and of great animosity towards me—certainly, most unreasonably, as I was introduced to at least twenty every forenoon; and had I drunk with them all, I should have been in the same state as many of them were—that is, not really sober for three or four weeks at a time.

      That the constitutions of the Americans must suffer from this habit is certain; they do not, however, appear to suffer so much as we should. They say that you may always know the grave of a Virginian; as from the quantity of juleps he has drunk, mint invariably springs up where he has been buried. But the Virginians are not the greatest drinkers, by any means. I was once looking for an American, and asked a friend of his, where I should find him. “Why,” replied he, pointing to an hotel opposite, “that is his licking place, (a term borrowed from deer resorting to lick the salt:) we will see if he is there.” He was not; the bar-keeper said he had left about ten minutes. “Well, then, you had better remain here, he is certain to be back in ten more—if not sooner.” The American judged his friend rightly; in five minutes he was back again, and we had a drink together, of course.

      I did not see it myself, but I was told that somewhere in Missouri, or thereabouts, west of the Mississippi, all the bars have what they term a kicking-board, it being the custom with the people who live there, instead of touching glasses when they drink together, to kick sharply with the side of the foot against the board, and that after this ceremony you are sworn friends. I have had it mentioned to me by more than one person, therefore I presume it is the case. What the origin of it is I know not, unless it intends to imply, “I’m your’s to the last kick.”

      Before I finish this article on hotels, I may as well observe here that there is a custom in the United States, which I consider very demoralising to the women, which is that of taking up permanent residence in large hotels.

      There are several reasons for this: one is, that people marry so very early that they cannot afford to take a house with the attendant expenses, for in America it is cheaper to live in a large hotel than to keep a house of your own; another is, the difficulty of obtaining servants, and, perhaps, the unwillingness of the women to have the fatigue and annoyance which is really occasioned by an establishment in that country: added to which is the want of society, arising from their husbands being from morning to night plodding at their various avocations. At some of the principal hotels you will find the apartments of the lodgers so permanently taken, that the plate with their name engraved on it is fixed on the door. I could almost tell whether a lady in America kept own establishment or lived at an hotel, the difference of manners are so marked; and, what is worse, it is chiefly the young married couples who are to be found there. Miss Martineau makes some very just comments upon this practice:—

      “The uncertainty about domestic service is so great, and the economy of boarding-house life so tempting to people who have not provided themselves with house and furniture, that it is not to be wondered at that many young married people use the accommodation provided. But no sensible husband, who could beforehand become acquainted with the liabilities incurred, would willingly expose his domestic peace to the fearful risk. I saw enough when I saw the elegantly dressed ladies repair to the windows of the common drawing-room, on their husbands’ departure to the counting-house after breakfast.

      “I have been assured that there is no end to the difficulties in which gentlemen have been involved, both as to their commercial and domestic affairs, by the indiscretion of their thoughtless young wives, amidst the idleness and levities of boarding-house life. As for the gentlemen, they are much to be pitied. Public meals, a noisy house, confinement to one or two private rooms, with the absence of all gratifications of their own peculiar convenience and taste, are but a poor solace to the man of business, after the toils and cares of the day. When to these are added the snares to which their wives are exposed, it may be imagined that men of sense and refinement would rather bear with any domestic inconvenience from the uncertainty and bad quality of help, than give up housekeeping.”

      If such is the case in boarding-houses, what must it be in hotels, where the male company is ever changing. It is one constant life of scandal, flirting, eating, drinking, and living in public; the sense of delicacy is destroyed, and the women remind you of the flowers that have been breathed upon till they have lost their perfume.

      Miss M observes:—