The ways of the people seemed to be quiet, smooth, orderly, and republican.  There is nothing to drink in Portland, of course; for, thanks to Mr. Neal Dow, the Father Matthew of the State of Maine, the Maine liquor law is still in force in that State.  There is nothing to drink, I should say, in such orderly houses as that I selected.  “People do drink some in the town, they say,” said my hostess to me, “and liquor is to be got.  But I never venture to sell any.  An ill-natured person might turn on me; and where should I be then?” I did not press her, and she was good enough to put a bottle of porter at my right hand at dinner, for which I observed she made no charge.  “But they advertise beer in the shop windows,” I said to a man who was driving me—­“Scotch ale and bitter beer.  A man can get drunk on them.”  “Waal, yes.  If he goes to work hard, and drinks a bucketful,” said the driver, “perhaps he may.”  From which and other things I gathered that the men of Maine drank pottle deep before Mr. Neal Dow brought his exertions to a successful termination.

The Maine liquor law still stands in Maine, and is the law of the land throughout New England; but it is not actually put in force in the other States.  By this law no man may retail wine, spirits, or, in truth, beer, except with a special license, which is given only to those who are presumed to sell them as medicines.  A man may have what he likes in his own cellar for his own use—­such, at least, is the actual working of the law—­but may not obtain it at hotels and public houses.  This law, like all sumptuary laws, must fail.  And it is fast failing even in Maine.  But it did appear to me, from such information as I could collect, that the passing of it had done much to hinder and repress a habit of hard drinking which was becoming terribly common, not only in the towns of Maine, but among the farmers and hired laborers in the country.

But, if the men and women of Portland may not drink, they may eat; and it is a place, I should say, in which good living on that side of the question is very rife.  It has an air of supreme plenty, as though the agonies of an empty stomach were never known there.  The faces of the people tell of three regular meals of meat a day, and of digestive powers in proportion.  O happy Portlanders, if they only knew their own good fortune!  They get up early, and go to bed early.  The women are comely and sturdy, able to take care of themselves, without any fal-lal of chivalry, and the men are sedate, obliging, and industrious.  I saw the young girls in the streets coming home from their tea parties at nine o’clock, many of them alone, and all with some basket in their hands, which betokened an evening not passed absolutely in idleness.  No fear there of unruly questions on the way, or of insolence from the ill-conducted of the other sex.  All was, or seemed to be, orderly, sleek, and unobtrusive.  Probably, of all modes of life that are allotted to man by his Creator, life such as this is the most happy.  One hint, however, for improvement, I must give even to Portland:  It would be well if they could make their streets of some material harder than sand.