To drown care and sorrow men drink. The spirit of wine freely quaffed
will master either bodily pain or mental suffering--for a time. There
is no form of the one or phase of the other so difficult to subdue as
the pang of jealousy. Wine must be deeply quaffed before that corroding
poison can be washed free from the heart.
But there is a partial relief in the wine-cup, and I sought it. I knew
it to be only temporary, and that the sorrow would soon return. But
even so--even a short respite was to be desired. I could bear my
thoughts no longer.
I am not brave in bearing pain. I have more than once intoxicated
myself to deaden the pitiful pain of a toothache. By the same means I
resolved to relieve the dire aching of my heart.
The spirit of wine was nigh at hand, and might be imbibed in many forms.
In one corner of the "smoking-saloon" was the "bar," with its elegant
adornments--its rows of decanters and bottles, with silver stoppers and
labels its glasses, and lemons, and sugar-crushers--its bouquet of
aromatic mint and fragrant pines--its bunches of straw tubes for
"sucking" the "mint-julep," the "sherry-cobbler," or the "claret
sangaree."
In the midst of this _entourage_ stood the "bar-keeper," and in this
individual do not picture to yourself some seedy personage of the waiter
class, with bloodless cheeks and clammy skin, such as those
monstrosities of an English hotel who give you a very _degout_ for your
dinner. On the contrary, behold an _elegant_ of latest fashion--that
is, the fashion of his country and class, the men of the river. He
wears neither coat nor vest while in the exercise of his office, but his
shirt will merit an observation. It is of the finest fabric of the
Irish loom--too fine to be worn by those who have woven it--and no Bond
Street furnishing-house could equal its "make up."
Gold buttons glance at the sleeves, and diamonds sparkle amid the
profuse ruffles on the bosom. The collar is turned down over a black
silk riband, knotted _a la Byron_; but a tropic sun has more to do with
this fashion than any desire to imitate the sailor-poet. Over this
shirt stretch silk braces elaborately needle-worked, and still further
adorned by buckles of pure gold. A hat of the costly grass from the
shores of the South Sea crowns his well-oiled locks, and thus you have
the "bar-keeper of the boat." His nether man need not be described.
That is the unseen portion of his person, which is below the level of
the bar. No cringing, smirking, obsequious counter-jumper he, but a
dashing sprig, who, perhaps, _owns_ his bar and all its contents, and
who holds his head as high as either the clerk or captain.
As I approached this gentleman, he placed a glass upon the counter, and
threw into it some broken fragments of ice. All this was done without a
word having passed between us.
I had no need to give an order. He saw in my eye the determination to
drink.
"Cobbler?"
"No," said I; "a mint-julep."
"Very well, I'll mix you a julep that'll set your teeth for you."
"Thank you. Just what I want."
The gentleman now placed side by side two glasses--tumblers of large
size. Into one he put, first, a spoonful of crushed white sugar--then a
slice of lemon--ditto of orange--next a few sprigs of green mint--after
that a handful of broken ice, a gill of water, and, lastly, a large
glass measure of cognac. This done, he lifted the glasses one in each
hand, and poured the contents from one to the other so rapidly that ice,
brandy, lemons, and all, seemed to be constantly suspended in the air,
and oscillating between the glasses. The tumblers themselves at no time
approached nearer than two feet from each other! This adroitness,
peculiar to his craft, and only obtained after long practice, was
evidently a source of professional pride. After some half-score of
these revolutions the drink was permitted to rest in one glass, and was
then set down upon the counter.
There yet remained to be given the "finishing touch." A thin slice of
pine-apple was cut freshly from the fruit. This held between the finger
and thumb was doubled over the edge of the glass, and then passed with
an adroit sweep round the circumference.
"That's the latest Orleans touch," remarked the bar-keeper with a smile,
as he completed the manoeuvre.
There was a double purpose in this little operation. The pine-apple not
only cleared the glass of the grains of sugar and broken leaves of mint,
but left its fragrant juice to mingle its aroma with the beverage.
"The latest Orleans touch," he repeated; "scientific style."