“That is not half so bad a sell on me,” said Bram Stoker, after the laughter was over and the drinks passed around, “as the bottle of ‘good old American rum’ was on Wilson Barrett[“]1. Just before he came to this country for the first time some friend in New York who had evidently had experience in London barber’s shops sent Barrett a demijohn2 of American rum. Barrett was delighted. He invited four friends to join him in brewing a punch. The cork was drawn, the lemons, spices, and hot water were on the table.