I think it will be allowed that, whatever else this story may be, it has
been, so far, genteel. It is with regret, therefore, that, in the very
opening of this eighth chapter, I find myself driven to the use of a
word which hardly seems to comport with the previous dignity of our
narrative. But, after turning the matter over in my mind again and
again, I have found it impossible to discover any satisfactory synonyme,
or invent any delicately-phrased equivalent for the very plebeian
vocable in question. With the reader’s kind permission, therefore—
To a philosopher and a philanthropist (and I am somewhat of both, after
a Bushwhackerish fashion) the word _Lager Bier_ should undoubtedly be
one of the most precious additions to a language already rich in such
expressive linguistic combinations as Jersey Lightning, Gin Sling, Rum
and Gum, Rye and Rock, Kill-Round-The-Corner, Santa Cruz Sour, Stone
Fence, Forty-Rod, Dead Shot, etc., etc., etc., not to mention a host of
such etymological simples as Juleps, Smashes, Straights, and Cobblers.
For the introduction into this country of the mild tipple it indicates
has unquestionably done more to arrest drunkenness than all the
temperance societies that have been, are, or shall be. Still, the word
itself, spell it how you will, has hardly a distinguished air; and hence
I long sought, and should gladly have adopted, some such aristocratic
expression as Brew of the Black Forest, Nectar of Gambrinus, Deutscher’s
Dew, Suevorum Gaudium (_i.e._ Schwabs’ Bliss)—some genteel phrase, in a
word—but that I was unwilling to sacrifice precision to elegance.
Now, the necessity that I am under of alluding to the Solace of Arminius
at all, arises in the simplest way.
At the period of which I am writing, this beverage, newly introduced,
had great vogue in Richmond, notably among the young men. Especially did
college-bred young fellows give in a prompt adhesion to the new faith;
and if, in any party of such, assembled to discuss, in a double sense,
this new ethereal mildness, there was found any man who had attended the
German universities, that man was the lion of the evening. His it was to
excite our wonder by reciting deeds of prowess that he had witnessed;
his to tell us what had been done; his to show us how it could be done
again. I wonder whether a young medical man whom I knew in those days
(now a staid and solid doctor) remembers the laugh which greeted him
when he essayed to explain, to an attentive class that he was coaching
in the new knowledge, how the German students managed actually to pour
their beer down their throats,—swallowed it without swallowing, that
is.
“It is the simplest thing in the world,” said he. “See here.” And
turning a glass upside down over his mouth, its entire contents
disappeared without the slightest visible movement of his throat.
“Didn’t you see how it was done? The whole secret lies in the _voluntary
suppression of the peristaltic action of the œsophagus_.”
“The deuse you say!” cried a pupil. “Then, if that be so, I for one say,
Let’s all suppress.” And that became the word with our set for that
season, and much beer perished.
Why is it that a man recalls with such pleasure the follies of his
youth? And why is it that the wise things we do make so little
impression on our minds? For my own part, I can remember, without an
effort, scores of absurdities that I have been guilty of, while of acts
of wisdom scarcely one occurs to me.
The favorite haunt of my beer-drinking friends at this period was a
smallish room,—you could not have called it a saloon,—a regular nest
of a place, situated, not to be too explicit, not very far from, say
Fourth Street. Our little nook stood alone in that part of the city,
and, being so isolated in an exceedingly quiet neighborhood, it met
exactly the wants of the jovial though orderly set of young professional
men who, with the honest Teutons of the vicinage, frequented it.
Well, on the occasion to which I have referred, half a dozen of us were
grouped around a table, and were unusually merry and bright. Our
doctor’s new word had been hailed as a real acquisition, in honor of
which there was some sparkling of wit, and more of beer,—a happy saying
being as real a provocative of thirst as a pretzel,—and, moreover,
there had arisen between him and a young and promising philologist,
lately graduated at the university, and since become a distinguished
professor in the land, a philologico-anatomical, serio-comical
discussion, in which the philologian maintained that it was hopeless for
American to emulate German youth in this matter of drinking beer, while
at the same time maintaining a voluntary suppression of the peristaltic
action of the œsophagus, for the very simple reason that the throat of
the German, incessantly opened wide in pronouncing the gutturals of his
language, and hardened by the passage of these rough sounds, becomes in
process of time an open pipe, a clear, firm tube,—in a word, a regular
rat-hole of a throat, such as no English-speaking youth might reasonably
aspire to. The medical man, I remember, came back at him with the quick
smile of one who knows, and asked him if he did not confound the larynx
with the œsophagus.
“I do,” broke in a young lawyer.
“You do what?”
“I confound the larynxes and œsophagusses of both of you. Mine are
growing thirsty. I say, boys, let’s suppress ’em both. Here, fünf bier!”
The mild Teuton behind the bar obeyed the order with a smile. He was
never so well pleased as when a debate arose among us, sure that every
flash of wit, every stroke of humor, would be followed by a call for
beers all round.
I don’t think we ever drank more than we did on that evening (I really
believe the beer was better then than now); and just as we were in the
midst of one of our highest bursts of hilarity the door opened behind
me.
“Hello!” said the doctor, in a whisper; “there’s our grenadier!”
Turning, I saw Don Miff standing by the counter, exchanging in the
German language a few commonplaces (as I supposed) with the dispenser of
beer.
“Who is he? Where did you ever see him before?” I asked.
“Why, here, of course. Is it possible that this is the first time you
have seen him? Why, he has been coming here every evening for a week at
least. Ah, I remember, you have not put in an appearance for about that
time. We boys have nicknamed him ‘the Grenadier.’ He always takes a seat
at that table where he is now, and, after sitting about an hour, and
drinking two or three glasses of beer, goes off. We are curious to know
who the deuse he can be.”
“Does he always come alone?”
“Invariably. Never speaks to a soul, save Hans, of course. What! do you
know him?”
The Don’s eyes and mine had met, and we had bowed; he with the smile
courteous, I with the smile expansive and bland, born of many beers.
“No; I can’t say that I do. I have met him on the street merely. But I
am rather interested in him,—why, I will tell you hereafter. I say,
boys,” I continued, “let’s have him over here.”
“Good!”
I approached the Don with my sweetest smile, and, saluting him, said
something about our being a jolly party over at our table, and wouldn’t
he join us?
“Thanks; with pleasure,” said he, rising; and the “boys,” seeing him
approach, made room for him with much hospitable bustle.
“Mr. Smith,” said he, in a low voice, as we crossed the room.
“Mr. Whacker,” replied I; and, seizing his hand, I shook it with
unctuous cordiality.
Are we not all brethren?