CHAPTER VIII.
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?