Ballantine’s Literary Ads: Erle Stanley Gardner

July 17, 2016 By Jay Brooks

Between 1951 and 1953, P. Ballantine and Sons Brewing Company, or simply Ballentine Beer, created a series of ads with at least thirteen different writers. They asked each one “How would you put a glass of Ballantine Ale into words?” Each author wrote a page that included reference to their beer, and in most cases not subtly. One of them was Erle Stanley Gardner, whose most well-known character was Perry Mason.

Today is the birthday of Erle Stanley Gardner (July 17, 1889–March 11, 1970). He “was an American lawyer and author. Though best known for the Perry Mason series of detective stories, he wrote numerous other novels and shorter pieces, as well as a series of non-fiction books, mostly narrations of his travels through Baja California and other regions in Mexico.” His Ballantine ad ran in 1952.

ballantine-1952-Gardner

His piece for Ballantine was done in the form of a Perry Mason script, written on his personal stationary from his home in Temecula, California:

If you are calling upon me to put a glass of Ballantine Ale into words, I’m inclined to retain Perry Mason to state the case for me:

Mr. Mason:

“We offer in evidence this green bottle containing an amber beverage, bearing the famous three-ring label.

“We propose to prove that the content of this bottle is accepted as the nation’s outstanding ale, from the standpoint of purity, body and flavor.

“In fact, your Honor, we contend that Ballantine Ale begins where other brews leave off! And the whole country knows it.”

The District Attorney:

“I object. How can you prove that the whole country knows it?”

Mr. Mason:

“That fact already has been proved, your Honor. Ballantine Ale is America’s largest-selling ale … outsells any other 4 to 1!

“And, if the Court please, may I suggest that the Court try a glass of Ballantine Ale? And when you do, may it please the Court!”

At this point, Mr. Mason and I rest our case.

ballantine-1952-Gardner-text

This one is definitely one of the cheesier ones in the series. I’ll feature the rest on their respective authors’ birthdays throughout the year.

Chasing Utopia(s)

June 7, 2016 By Jay Brooks

Today is the birthday of poet, writer, commentator, activist, and educator Nikki Giovanni. She’s currently an English professor at Virginia Tech, and has authored over twenty collections of poetry, children’s books, and many other works. She isn’t much of a beer drinker, sad to say. But her mother apparently was, and that’s what she wrote a story about: honoring her mother by searching out what she believed was one of the best beers around, Samuel Adams’ Utopia [sic].

nikki-giovanni

Curiously, even though her story was printed in a prominent magazine and then later collected into a book, meaning editors and copy people presumably poured over it, nobody noticed that Utopia was not the actual name of the beer that was so central to the story. The actual name of the beer, of course, is Utopias. It’s possible it was by design, and I can see a scenario where the “s” was left off to give the phrase “chasing utopia” more meaning. That gaffe aside — if indeed it was one — it’s still an interesting story.

When Giovanni’s mother passed away, Nikki Giovanni decided drinking wine, which she preferred, wouldn’t do. But she also didn’t think that the pedestrian beers that her mother favored wouldn’t quite pay the proper respect, and she decided to find out what was the best beer in the world, and decided for her purposes that it was Utopias, and then wrote about the experience of trying to find a bottle for the July 2011 issue of Poetry Magazine.

Michel Martin interviewed Nikki Giovanni on NPR in early 2014, about her new book, and the Chasing Utopia story:

MICHEL MARTIN, HOST: We start today with the award-winning writer Nikki Giovanni. She’s one of the best-known and most celebrated poets of our time. She’s known for her accessible and beautiful writing about home, family, friends and even food. Nikki Giovanni is the university distinguished professor of English at Virginia Tech. She’s also the author of 28 books. Her latest “Chasing Utopia” is a combination of essays and poetry. I spoke with her when the book was first published last year, and she began by telling me how she chose the title “Chasing Utopia.”

NIKKI GIOVANNI: Well, it really is that my mom died now in 2005. And so it’s been a while, but, you know, losing your mother, even though it’s the right order of things, is sad. I was a mother’s child. And I stayed very, very sad. And I finally said, you know, Nikki, you have to get out of this. And mommy, every day — we knew that mommy was dying when she said no she didn’t want a beer because every day of her life, she drank a beer. And so I said to myself, well, I’m missing mommy, why don’t I have a beer? But I really — I hate to say it, Michel, I just don’t like beer. And so it was like, OK, if you’re going to drink a beer, then you ought to drink the number one beer in the world. So I went and looked it up. Well, it turns out it’s Utopias, which is actually a beer by Sam Adams. So I called a man at my local store, Keith (ph), and he said, Nikki, we never get Utopias. You know, we’re a small market, they never sell us any Utopias. Well, I started to do what I do when things don’t go well. I just started to complain. You know, everybody starts going – why can’t I find a Utopias? And I happened to be on NPR actually, and the guy who makes Utopias heard it. And he actually sent it to me. But in the meantime, I had been to a government agency. I’ve been every place, you know, and everybody was like, oh, you’ll find utopia. And I was like, no, it’s a beer for Christ’s sake. So it’s been really fun learning about beers, and it makes me smile because I think of my mother. And I know that she’s sitting in heaven, you know, kicking back. She’s a Bud Light person.

MARTIN: She’s a Bud Light — not even a Utopias? What?

GIOVANNI: No. She couldn’t afford Utopias.

MARTIN: Maybe her tastes will change in heaven. Would your mom have enjoyed Utopia, or would that be too rich for her blood?

GIOVANNI: Oh, no. Mommy would’ve enjoyed it. Mommy enjoyed anything. But, you know, I could take my mother a glass of water and she would – and that’s what I loved about her. She would like, oh, I’ve never had water this good. What did you do to the water? You know, my mother always made me feel incredibly competent. And I don’t think anybody else has taken that place in my life actually.

Here’s the story itself, from the Poetry Foundation website:

Thanks to social networking, G.K. Chesterton’s remark that “poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese” has recently been given wide, if undeserved, circulation; anyone who consults the Poetry Foundation’s online poetry archive will find his claim not to be true. Hoping to disprove any larger point he may have been making, however, we asked several poets to mix memory and desire — for food — in the pieces that follow. Bon appetit!

•

So here is the actual story. I was bored. Bored even though I had the privilege of interviewing Mae Jemison, the first Black woman in space, who said she pursued a degree in physics and also became a medical doctor to keep her mind occupied. Mae’s iq must be nine hundred and fifty-five or thereabouts. I asked: “How do you keep from being bored?”

And she replied: “A friend of my father’s once told me ‘If you’re bored you’re not paying attention.’”

So I said: “Beer.”

We are foodies, my family and I. My grandmother was an extraordinary cook. Her miniature Parker House rolls have been known to float the roof off a flooded house in hurricane season. Grandpapa made pineapple ice cream so rich and creamy, with those surprising chunks that burst with citrusy flavor. My sister, Gary Ann, made spring rolls so perfectly the Chinese complained to the State Department, and my Aunt fries chicken just short of burning that has been known to make the Colonel denounce his own kfc. Mommy was the best bean cooker in this world—and still is, I’m sure, in the next. I do a pretty swell pot roast myself. We are, in other words, dangerous when it comes to food.

Mommy also liked pig feet. Boiled. Not pickled.

I was sad when Mommy died. Then six weeks later Gary Ann died. Then my Aunt Ann. I tried to find a way to bring them back.

Beer.

Mommy drank Miller Genuine Draft. Gary Ann drank Bud Light. Not me. What did I have in common with those guys on tv who were throwing a football around and looking just shy of fat? Nothing. They bored me. If it was going to be beer, I needed to learn something.

Going through books, I came across Utopia. Sam Adams. The number one beer in the world. Having always been a fan of start at the top, I called my local beer store. “I’d like to order a Utopia, please.” Thinking this would be easy.

“No Way,” Keith said. “We never get that!”
ok. I called Bounty Hunter. They have everything. That’s where I bought my Justice Series: Blind Justice, Frontier Justice, Poetic Justice. Great red wines.

“No, ma’am, we don’t sell beer.”

Utopia is only on a special allotment to Canada, where it is sold as a “Special Brew.” If I could just get to Canada, I could find my Utopia. But, dadgummit, the tsa would take it from me, claiming it was over three ounces. I’d be doggone if I would provide that group with Utopia. Never. Never. No Canada for me.

Samuel Adams’s Utopia is only brewed every other year. There will be a batch coming out this year, but it goes really quickly. There are folk who work at the Sam Adams Brewery just to be able to smell it, and I have heard, though I doubt that it’s true, that you are strip-searched when you leave work during Utopia season. Once, they say, someone belched and was immediately arrested.

Utopia is incredibly special, is the number one beer in the world because the aroma alone is worth the price. Can a beer be “chewy” while at the same time smooth as silk? Can a beer make you feel like a queen while bringing out your libido, making you want to howl? Indeed it can. Utopia makes you want a Swan for your Leda. A Lancelot for your Guinevere. A boiled pig foot for your low-down blues. Special? Are your first pair of stockings special? Is the first time your Mom let you wear lipstick special? Is your first kiss special? It’s Utopia.

But here is the happy part. I am a poet. I occasionally get invited to speak at Important Government Agencies. I was thrilled. Sure, someone will say: Why would you, a poet, a rebel, you who hate the tsa and think railroads should make a big comeback, you who think modern wars are stupid and unworthy—why would you speak for an Important Government Agency? Well, for one thing, I am an American. So government, whether I like it or not, R Me. For another thing, I know they have the world’s best computers. I was charming. I was funny. I was very nice and a good citizen. I wanted an illegal favor.

“Please, sir,” said I, “can you find Utopia?”

“Of course, little lady,” said the Director. “It’s in your heart and mind.” He smiled a lovely smile and patted me on my shoulder. Not wanting to appear to correct him, I smiled the smile of the defeated. And waited for him to leave. I asked his assistant.
“I think,” he pontificated, “it is in your soul. Search deep and you will find it.”

I knew I needed someone of color. Finally an older man, grey hair cut short, came by. “Please excuse me,” I said, “I’m trying to find Utopia. Can you help?”

“Why sure,” he said “as soon as I can find a safe computer.” We moved into another room and he made me stand way away from him so that I could not see the screen. He pulled up a website. “Here you go.” And he was right. “I can’t buy it as it’s against the rules, but get someone else to go to this site. I hear it’s a great beer. At $350 a pint, it ought to be.”

And now that I’ve found Utopia, I am at peace. I have Utopia, and if I were Egyptian I would be buried with it. I use it to start conversations and make friends. It is not for mortals. Or Americans. Utopia is for the gods.

The above piece was included in her latest collection of poems,
also entitled Chasing Utopia, published in 2013.

Happy Towel Day!

May 25, 2016 By Jay Brooks

towel
In addition to being “Geek Pride Day” today, it’s also “Towel Day,” which is a tribute to Douglas Adams that was started in 2001. If you haven’t read or are otherwise familiar with The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy — I’m disappointed in you — but here’s why a towel is relevant to that story, as explained in Chapter 3:

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you — daft as a brush, but very very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have “lost.” What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Hence a phrase that has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in “Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.” (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.)

The idea is that on May 25, fans should openly carry a towel with them, in fact they want you to make “sure that the towel is conspicuous — use it as a talking point to encourage those who have never read the Hitchhiker’s Guide to go pick up a copy. Wrap it around your head, use it as a weapon, soak it in nutrients — whatever you want!”

But since this is beer-focused place, and I don’t want to shortchange you, here are some beer towels that are educational as well as useful as any towel would be. So hopefully, you carried your towel with you today. If not, there’s always next year.

beer-towel-1
This beer towel is available from the Baltic Shop.

beer-towel-2
This one on beer and food pairing is likewise from the Baltic Shop.

beer-towel-3
And so is this one on beers of the world.

A Tankard Of Porter

February 14, 2016 By Jay Brooks

poetry
Here’s an odd little love poem to beer, called “A Tankard of Porter.” It was written by William Woty in 1759. I’m not sure if it’s a good poem or a bad one, and history seems divided, as well, at least about the poet. Wikipedia‘s entry refers to Woty as a “hack writer,” describing him as “an English law clerk and hack writer, known for light verse.” Another source describes him a bit more kindly.

William Woty came to London, possibly from the Isle of Wight, to clerk for a solicitor. He participated in debating clubs and published poetry in the newspapers that was later collected his volume, The Shrubs of Parnassus. Woty was involved with William Dodd in the Christian’s Magazine, and with Francis Fawkes in The Poetical Calendar. About 1767 he found a patron in Washington, earl Ferrers, for whom he did legal work. Woty died at Loughborough, 15 March 1791, having acquired some reputation as a bon vivant.

But regardless of whether it’s a good or bad poem, it certainly is rich with descriptive language and allusions. It was originally published February 17, 1759 in either the Universal Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette 2. So decide for yourself. Epic poem or abomination?

A Tankard Of Porter

The foaming Cup replete with mad’ning juice
Of Gallic Vines, to others’ taste I leave.
Why should I sicken for exotic draughts,
Since with kind hand domestic Ceres gives
Potations more robust! — Replenish here—
Boy! take this honest Tankard — fill it high
With buxom Porter, such as Hercules,
Was Hercules in being, would imbibe.
Behold its pyramid of tow’ring froth,
Brown as a nut, and sparkling on the sight;
Tho’ some prefer it white as Alpine snow,
Or Caelia’s milky orbs! encircled oft
Amidst my jovial intimates, to her,
Benignant Goddess of the Barley-mow,
Who ever guards, and swells the smiling ear,
Her own libation let me offer up
With thanks exulting, ’till I can no more.
‘Tis this enlivens the Freethinker’s brain,
Great bulwark of the Robinhood debate!
By this he dares his florid argument,
And pours forth unpremeditated tropes.
How shall I speak its praise! this mental balm
To the desponding chairman, vig’rous nurse
Of spirits warlike, to the soldier’s breast
Impenetrable steel, nerve of his nerves;
And comfort to the sailor in the storm!
Rouz’d from the lethargy of sleeping thought,
By Porter’s fluid, the mechanic prates
Of state-connections, as at night he sits
With smoke envelop’d, over Truemans’ Mild.
Say! is it her, who pleads for British freedom,
This little Monarch in his potent cups!
Is’t he, whose ample mind excursive roves
To where the Prussian Hero leads his troops
Against united forces! this the Man
Who plans an expedition, lays down rules
To settle politic concerns, and dares
With sage advice to dictate to a Throne?
Grant it! but ’tis the Porter’s manly juice
That animates his organs, gives his tongue
The liberty of speech, his hollow thought
Impregnates quick, and sets his brain on fire.
At rich Hortensio’s table tho’ thou’rt held
In estimation cheap, thy charms to me
Are not diminish’d; for secure from ills,
I quaff thy salut’frous stream, whilst he,
(Sad slave to appetite, that knows no bounds)
Drinks in each glass th’ inflammatory gout,
“And thousand other ills that flesh is heir to.”

Can dear-bought Claret boast of services
With thine co-equal? Or can Punch itself,
However temper’d, or with Wenman’s rum,
Or Ashley’s brandy, or Batavian ‘rack,
High-priz’d, diffuse hilarity like thine!
Absurd — before the nodding Barley-sheaf
The Gallic vine must bow, and Gallic butlers
To the stout British Draymen must give way.
Now when the evening creeps with gradual step,
And wraps the day within her sable shroud;
Come, Tankard, to my hand, and with thee bring
The Pipe, companion meet. Attended thus
My nectar will I quaff, and fill the room
With smoak voluminous, ’till Morpheus’ wand
Slow-breaking thro’ the cloud mine eye-lids close,
And fix me snoring in my elbow-chair.

tankard-of-porter

Beer In Ads #1373: Getting Outside A Guinness With R.L.S.

November 13, 2014 By Jay Brooks

Thursday’s ad is for Guinness, from 1955. The ad features Scottish writer Robert Louis Stevenson, who was born today in 1850. R.L.S. — as he’s referred to in the tagline — was the author of “Treasure Island,” the “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,” and many others. According to the ad, which ran in the Illustrated London News, Stevenson was aboard a cruise ship in the South Pacific in 1893, when he wrote a letter to a person named Colvin, a portion of which was also part of the ad copy:

Fanny ate a whole fowl for breakfast, to say nothing of a tower of hot cakes. Belle and I floored another hen betwixt the pair of us, and I shall no sooner be done with the present amanuensing racket than I shall put myself outside a pint of Guinness. If you think this looks like dying of consumption in Apia, I can only say I differ from you.

Guinness-1955-RL-Stevenson-Ltr-Feb-19-1893

Jane Austen, Brewer

January 24, 2014 By Jay Brooks

I suspect I’m not the only man in the world whose wife loves Jane Austen. And I further would not be surprised to learn that I’m not alone in not feeling quite the same level of joy at every new film or television adaptation of one of her works. (Is that enough “nots” in one sentence?) Oh, I’ve enjoyed a few of the costume dramas, I confess. I thought “Clueless” was quite enjoyable. So I don’t want you to think I’m an irredeemable boor. I’ve suffered through — ahem, I mean seen — most of them, and it’s not been as horrible as, say, “Dallas” or “Knot’s Landing” or any of a number of similar dreck.

But my interest in Jane Austen just shot up 99%, thanks to an article posted by BBC Magazine yesterday, Beer: The Women Taking Over the World of Brewing. It’s a great article all on it’s own, one of the few to treat the subject of women in beer with a decent amount of respect, for a change. But what caught my attention was a sidebar about Jane Austen by alcohol historian Jane Peyton.

It is a truth that should be universally acknowledged — Jane Austen not only drank beer but brewed it too.

As a teenager she would have learned how to make beer by helping her mother in the Hampshire vicarage where she grew up.

Brewing was part of household duties and even the women of genteel 18th Century families such as the Austens would know how to do it, even if the chores were sometimes delegated to domestic staff.

In a letter to her sister Cassandra, Jane wrote “and I that have the great cask, for we are brewing spruce beer again….”

As in most houses small beer (low alcohol) was served at the Austen dining table as a safe source of drinking water for all members of the family — children too — so Jane would certainly have tasted the results of her labour.

jane-austen-glass
It certainly makes sense, though I’d never really stopped to think about it before. Austen apparently mentioned her brewing efforts in letters to her sister Cassandra. In one of them she mentions small beer while in two others she talks about her spruce beer.

Austen also mentions spruce beer in her 1815 novel, “Emma.”

“But one morning — I forget exactly the day — but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book: it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down….”

And according to “Cooking with Jane Austen,” when the Austen family lived at Stoneleigh, her mother wrote about the “mansions ‘strong beer’ and ‘small beer’ cellars.” And Mrs. Austen also “brewed beer at Steventon in the last years of the eighteenth century and at Chawton cottage many years later.”

It almost makes me want to read her again … nah. Still, she’s now a bit more interesting.

Ozias-Humphrey-jane-austen

The Man With The Golden Liver

December 26, 2013 By Jay Brooks

Today’s infographic is an odd one, entitled The Man With the Golden Liver. It’s a serious (as far as I can tell) review of the fourteen James Bond books written by Ian Fleming, examining how much alcohol the fictional character James Bond drank. The result of their work (reading novels, mostly) was published in BMJ, the British Medical Journal, under the title Were James Bond’s drinks shaken because of alcohol induced tremor? Here’s what they found:

Results After exclusion of days when Bond was unable to drink, his weekly alcohol consumption was 92 units a week, over four times the recommended amount. His maximum daily consumption was 49.8 units. He had only 12.5 alcohol free days out of 87.5 days on which he was able to drink.

Conclusions James Bond’s level of alcohol intake puts him at high risk of multiple alcohol related diseases and an early death. The level of functioning as displayed in the books is inconsistent with the physical, mental, and indeed sexual functioning expected from someone drinking this much alcohol. We advise an immediate referral for further assessment and treatment, a reduction in alcohol consumption to safe levels, and suspect that the famous catchphrase “shaken, not stirred” could be because of alcohol induced tremor affecting his hands.

So they undertook the examination of the drinking habits of a fictional character and concluded he was a high risk drinker, worrying what consequences might befall him. I’d laugh my head off if the goal didn’t appear to be to warn others not to follow his example and drink too much. Has their been a problem with copycats pretending to be British superspies and binge drinking in the process? And that’s been since 1953, when the first book was published. So it’s been sixty years. You think we’d have seen this epidemic by now. If anything, based on the fact that no one reads books anymore, this has to be a waning problem, if indeed it as ever one to begin with.

To be fair, a number of years ago I did something similar, looking through the Fleming novels for instances when 007 drank beer, which I detailed in a post called James Bond’s Beer. But my goal was entertainment, not science, and I had no aspirations to warm people about unhealthy behavior in a character who wasn’t real. The “scientists” who undertook this “study” even have the cojones to say that “the author Ian Fleming died aged 56 of heart disease after a life notable for alcohol and tobacco excess,” suggesting a connection between the author and his fictional creation. Fleming himself always said that he’d based 007 on a Serbian field agent, Dušan Popov, although there are plenty of other contenders.

Another ridiculous caution is their finding that based on their analysis of Bond’s consumption he would have frequently drove a car with a BAC of 0.08 or above, which they note is above the legal limit in the UK. Except that the last Bond work that Fleming wrote was published in 1966. That’s one full year before the UK passed the Road Safety Act, imposing a BAC percentage. So if we’re continuing this absurd line of reasoning, it doesn’t even work by their own standards. At any rate, it’s an interesting infographic, I could just do without the proselytizing.

007-drinking
Click here to see the infographic full size.

The Romance Of The Barmaid

October 28, 2013 By Jay Brooks

barmaid
In 1849, a book described as “sketches of life and character, with illustrative essays by popular writers” was published by David Bogue in London. Entitled Gavarni in London , the name comes from the illustrations by French artist Paul Gavarni. They’re apparently drawings that Gavarni did in England, and there are a total of 23 of them, each with an essay by popular writers of the day. There were acrobats, street beggars, thieves along with scenes from the West End, Greenwich Fair and others. There was also one about a Barmaid, the female bartender in the mid-17th century. The Barmaid essay was written by J. Stirling Coyne, who was an English playwright who was similar to Jonathan Swift or Alexander Pope. Open Library has the whole book available online to read, or go straight to The Barmaid to see it in the original, or just read it here below Gavarni’s illustration of The Barmaid.

Coyne-barmaid

THE BARMAID

Who is she that sitteth in the shrine of the temple of Bacchus? — the Priestess of that ancient worship whose mysteries are celebrated in the Halls of Evans. Her brows are crowned with mint and juniper, and her shining tresses curl like the rind of the artfully peeled orange upon her polished shoulders; in her right hand she beareth a bowl of fragrant nectar, and in her left presseth a golden lemon; gas-lights burn brilliantly around her, and the rich odours of Geneva fill the air; pleasantly she smileth upon her customers through clouds of incense wafted from patrician Principes or plebeian Pickwicks, and tempereth the ardency of Cognac with mild modicums from the New River. A legion of kind familiar spirits obey her behests: hers are the refreshing fountains of Soda, and hers the gently-flowing waters of Carrara! Who asks her name? Who knows not the pretty Barmaid — the modem Hebe, whose champagne is not more intoxicating than her aeillades?

Like the moon she never shines with full lustre till night; then she comes out in all the fascinations of satin and small talk — bestowing, with perfect impartiality, a smile upon one admirer, a tender glance upon another, and a kind word or two upon a third; leaving each in the happy belief that he is himself the fortunate individual upon whom she has secretly bestowed her affections. She carries on a flirtation while concocting a sherry-cobbler, accepts a lover in the act of sweetening a glass of toddy, and even permits a gentle pressure of the hand when giving you change out of your sovereign. But all this is selon son metier — a mere matter of business with which the heart has nothing to do.

Thus the Barmaid seems to be a kind of moral salamander, living unharmed in the midst of the amorous furnace in which Destiny has placed her. Long habit has perhaps inured her o this state of insensibility, upon which her safety as well as her happiness depends; but we believe it is an established fact in her history that no Barmaid ever gave away her heart, or permitted it to be sponged from her fingers’ ends, across the counter.

It is during her soiree — when her little court is filled with Gents, swells, and loungers from the theatres, that the Barmaid’s triumph is at its height. Then in the plenitude of her power she flings hack saucy repartees to pert addresses, and generally — for she has the sympathies of her audience with her — turns the laugh against the fool who has the temerity to hazard a skirmish of wit with her.

She has a wonderful acquaintance with all the floating topics of the day, and talks with as much confidence of Sir Robert’s great speech, and Sibthorpe’s last joke as a parliamentary reporter. She thinks the Guards “delightful fellows,” and declares her decided partiality for moustaches; she has a’settled conviction that Jullien is “a duck,” and considers the two mounted Blues at the Horse Guards models of manly and equine beauty.

These, however, are but the general outlines of the portrait : the Barmaid, like the chameleon, takes her local colour from the character of her visitors, and insensibly adopts the professional manners and language of the class in society with which she associates. Thus, at Limehouse she is marine, and in Albany Street military; in the neighbourhood of the Temple, and all about Chancery Lane she talks of sittings, and after-sittings — of caveats, pleas, and demurrers, with the gravity of an old Chancery barrister. In the vicinity of Covent Garden, along the Strand, and up the Haymarket, the Barmaid discourses most eloquently upon things theatrical; she has all the scandal of the green-rooms “by express,” and knows the name of every danseuse who gives Lord So-and-so a seat in her brougham in Hyde Park. She calls Mr. Macready “Mac,” and Buckstone “little Bucky;” she has, moreover, a white satin slipper of Taglioni’s, and a presentation copy of Baugniet’s admirable lithographic portrait of Paul Bedford, with the great creature’s autograph at foot, framed and hung up in the bar. In the Sporting Houses the Barmaid affects the Turf, and confesses, privately, that she has no objection to the Ring. She knows, the names of the favourites for the Derby and Leger, and backs them all round for any amount of gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, and other small wares, knowing that if she wins, she will be paid; and, if she loses, she never insults a gentleman by mentioning it. Within the circuit of half-a-mile of the London University the Barmaid is a blue; and if you be not on your guard, you may chance to get floored with a quotation from Horace, or a problem from Euclid. Besides these, there is the medical student Barmaid — near the hospitals; and the musical Barmaid — near the operas; and the artist Barmaid — anywhere; and the newspaper Barmaid — everywhere; with fifty others in various professions, who having picked up a smattering of the subjects they hear continually discussed, talk upon them as fluently, and sometimes quite as sensibly, as their instructors.

Having sketched the Barmaid at home, let us now present her to our readers as she appears abroad. True, her enjoyments beyond the narrow limits of the bar, and that mysterious little back parlour behind it, have been few; she has lived all her life amidst the grimy bricks and tiles of London. But she has an instinctive love of Nature implanted in her heart. The geranium in the little pot on her window-sill, and the flowers that she daily places in water on a shelf in the bar, are touching evidences that her heart has not lost its freshness in the withering atmosphere in which it has been placed.

When her periodical holiday arrives — that anxiously looked-for happy

“________ day that comes between
The Saturday and Monday” —

how joyfully does she prepare for an excursion with “the young man that keeps her company” to Greenwich, or Hampstead, or Rosherville; but most she delights in a trip to Richmond by water. Seldom beats a happier heart than the young Barmaid’s on a fine summer’s morning, when, with a delicious consciousness of liberty — that only those whose patrimony is servitude can taste — she hurries, with her equally happy lover, on board “The Vivid” steamer at Hungerford-pier — trembling lest they should be late, although they are full twenty minutes before the time of starting. During the voyage up, she is in raptures with every object she sees; — the winding banks — the beautiful villas, peeping through thick foliage — the green aits — and the graceful swans, whose snowy plumage acquires a dazzling splendour as they glide in the dark shadow of the overhanging shore. Everything, in short, is brighter and fairer than ever it appeared before. Then there is the landing, and the walk up the hill to the Park — where, seated under an umbrageous chestnut-tree, she gaily unpacks her handbasket, and produces her little feast. Were ever sandwiches so delicious! And the snowy napkin for a table-cloth; and the salt in a wooden lemon, unscrewing at the equator — the prize of some dexterous hand at the popular game of “three throws a penny;” and the morsel of cheese in the corner of an old newspaper; and the white roll; and the something — in the very bottom of the basket, carefully concealed from view — which must not be seen till the fitting moment arrives — and which, after the sandwiches have been dispatched, and a good deal of coaxing and coquetting has been performed, is brought forth, and proves to be a Lazenby’s sauce bottle, full to the cork with — what do you think? — real French brandy — the very best pale we engage too. Of course this cleverly managed little incident gives occasion for fresh laughter, and the lover begins to fancy how pleasant it would be to have a wife who could feel so much solicitude for his comforts; and this thought sinks into his heart as the brandy sinks in the flask; and by the time they have got on board “The Vivid” on their return, he has almost made up his mind to pop the interesting question.

We will not follow the pair to the reserved seat they have secured in a quiet comer of the deck, for there are little mysteries even in the heart of a Barmaid which we hold inviolably sacred. All we are at liberty to divulge is, that the conversation must be deeply interesting; for, when a gruff voice shouts — “Now then! Hungerford! Who ‘s for Hungerford?” as the steamer slowly approaches the pier, she raises her head with the expression of one who has been disturbed from a pleasing dream ; and looking around her exclaims — “Dear me! I declare we’re at Hungerford already!”

* * * * * *

“A change comes o’er the spirit of my dream.” — Five years have passed away the girl has become a matron — the pretty Barmaid has ripened into a handsome Hostess. She now stands behind her own bar, the undisputed mistress of her little realm; waiters tremble at her nod, and enamoured Gents get intoxicated upon her smiles. Time has mellowed, but not impaired her beauty — at least not in the estimation of those who measure feminine beauty by the standard of Reubens. The roses on her cheeks have perhaps taken a deeper tint — her abundant hair, wandering no longer in ringlets over her neck, is clustered beneath a cap of the most becoming fashion — the light robe is replaced by the glossy black satin — and a massive gold chain depends from her neck, where the plain ribbon hung before; but she is still the same frank, lively, and kind creature that we always knew her. The Hostess, indeed, is but the perfected Barmaid; — to whose numerous admirers we respectfully dedicate this sketch.

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