United States Playing Cards and the Ghost of the Pacific Garden Saloon

Some years ago I developed an instructive interest in reading the labels of the purchases I make. It’s amazing what you can learn. Pay attention to the information where something originates and you can accumulate for yourself a mental glossary of all kinds of interesting geographical facts. Where exactly is Bingham Farms, Michigan, for instance, the home of my recently purchased brand of hand sanitzer? Turns out it’s not too far from Detroit. Actually, upon closer inspection, the sanitizer itself was made in China but at least it was “distributed” via the motor city.

And upon taking a look at a recent Christmas Gift, prior to tucking it away in the closet of "never see again," I learned that the Mango Mandarin concentrated fragrance spray I received was ironically, despite the name, made in New Albany, albeit with an obvious bit of Chinese marketing leverage employed. New Albany is a suburb of Columbus, not Shanghai. Nevertheless it, too, now enjoys a familiarity in my mind that it never would enjoy if not for the labels on products.

This actually brings me to a point. Just this afternoon I purchased a set of Bicycle Playing cards, read the label, and was freshly reminded of the fact that they are made right here in Cincinnati. Upon further investigation, however, I was surprised to discover that, in fact, they are actually made in Erlanger, Kentucky, a suburb of Cincinnati not too far away from the airport. This revelation led me to check out the company’s website which I must confess was very educational in its own right. Not only are Bicycle playing cards local; but virtually all playing cards used the world over, in Casinos, gambling halls, aw well as friendly, neighborhood card games are made in Cincinnati. Bee, Bicycle, Aviator, Maverick, as well as those personalized terrorist watch list cards distributed by the Federal Government all had their origins in Greater Cincinnati with United States Playing Card.


The company, which began in 1867 as Russel, Morgan and Company, established its first headquarters at 20 College Street on the 1st and 2nd floors of what was then the Cincinnati Enquirer Building and what is presently the next door neighbor of The Cincinnatian Hotel. Many years have come and gone since then, and while the Cincinnatian Hotel (i.e. The Palace) remains, the piece of real estate perched on what is now referred to as the “Old Enquirer Building” and former first home of the largest playing card company in the world has changed many times over the years. The photograph above shows the Enquirer building as it stood in 1903 adjacent to the Atlantic Garden, a pub of some renown I am told, and by the looks of it an excellent place to grab a beer, shoot some pool and play a game of Poker.

Further investigation intriguingly revealed that upon the spot where The Cincinnatian Hotel is now located stood yet another tavern coincidentally called the Pacific Garden. Well, maybe it was not such a coincidence, afterall. I may never delve deep enough to discover which came first – The Atlantic or The Pacific – but I did learn that for many years both were proud participants in a little high-spirited competition and one upmanship, as well as designees in an unofficial mutual appreciation society, most evidently displayed whenever the city or organization saw fit to celebrate an event with a marching band or parade.

In the 19th Century, Parade’s were a much more common form of entertainment. Virturally every occassion it seemed gave the proprietors of some organization, institution or business an opportunity to boast, brag or celebrate with a parade. Given the fact that Cincinnati was largely a walking town in those days, as most towns were, and there were few entertainment options for those who preferred dweliing indoors, people, if they were not already marching in one, would gather outside to take in that month's or even that week's inevitable parade.

This, of course, was the era of extravagent marching bands and military music, headed by such magnificent figures as that musical impresario John Philip Souza; and what went better with a raucous marching song, especially in a German drinking town such as Cincinnati, than a cold beer on a hot day. Keep in mind that way back when, in order to get a cold beer, you couldn't just make a detour towards your referigerator. Rather it was more than likely you had to procure one at a saloon, ice-house, or garden (the preferred designations for pubs or bars in the 19th Century); for very few people could afford the luxury of their own ice-house and therefore bottled beer was an innovation that had yet achieved much relavance.

It is hard for us to appreciate now; but 19th Century Urban Americana was replete with Saloon life. The saloon or beer garden was where business was conducted, politics were practiced, speeches were given, and the daily rituals of countless personal interactions were performed. In fact, so commonplace were the saloon and the parade to 19th and erly 20th century existence that it's easy to see the pageneatry that must have been involved when these two fixtures of daily existence met under the auspices of a marching band.




Here in Cincinnati, it is said that, whenever a marching or Military band would pass near the corner of 6th and Vine streets, just as it reached the threshold between the two ocean-christened taverns, The Atlantic and The Pacific, the band would strike up a rendition of “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean” as they were marching by. So popular was this song that, until the “Star-Spangled Banner” was formally adopted as the National Anthem in 1931, it was one of a handful of songs used unofficially as the Nation’s anthem by many if not even most people in America. Perhaps it was because of its beer-soaked roots as a party and parade song, as well as a patriotic favorite, that kept “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean” from achieving similar long-term fame.

Truly the most interesting little details of life – those things, in other words, which really flesh out a story – often arrive as a coincidental annex to the information we originally intended to find. I merely glanced at a playing card, which inspired me to learn more about the history and current whereabouts of the US Playing Card Company, only to be tossed about from one piece of information to another until I’d woven together what I think amounts to quite a little piece of Americana. The thread of a great story never ends and so I’m certain there will be plenty of time to revisit this particular one in future posts.

In the meantime, it leaves me pondering a number of things. First, how truly fantastic it is that such a culturally signficant company like the U.S. Playing Card Company got its start. Second, I don't think I'll ever pick up a deck of cards again, whether in a local supermarket or a card game in Vegas, and forget the debt card-lovers everywhere owe to our town. Third, I wish I could have seen that parade so many years ago.

Finally, and perhaps a little eerily, it makes me wonder about that peculiar 19th century figure that a Cincinnatian Hotel employee has reported seeing exiting my office late at night, an inebriated, older gentleman perhaps still thinking he's stalking the ancient cellar corridors of his old watering hole, the Pacific Garden, dressed in a top-hat, humming a song and attired like he was on his way to a parade. Was this friendly apparition humming “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean?” Perhaps he was! One thing's for certain. It makes me want to learn how to hum that song in homage to the old man and the garden he used to frequent.

The First Cincinnatian was a Roman

Admit it. You've passed him a time or two. Passed him...yes...but did you ever really look at him? Maybe you hadn't the time, preferring simply to stride by during your brisk, morning jog. Or maybe a brief, errant glance was all you could spare the old man as you escorted your unruly and impatient children to Sawyer Point for the Labor Day fireworks celebration. Could it be perhaps that the only time you ever peered at him at all was out of the corner of your eye while you made your way to the serpentine wall for a lazy afternoon picnic or riverboat excursion?

Well, you're not alone in your passive, insouciant hustle. I suspect over half the city has no clue he's even there, standing tautly at Bicentennial Commons, back straight, composure erect, just waiting for you or someone else to honor him with a moment's consideration. After all you owe him and people like him a great deal. Admitedly I didn't notice him either until several years back when I was making my way to the Tall Stacks Music Festival and came upon his bearded countenance, looking askance at the city, wearing a toga, and holding out what I thought at the time - inaccurately it turns out - to be a very "cool" weapon. He sparked my interest, and I decided to do a little investigation.

The next time you're at Sawyer point, maybe you should stop by also. If the kids are tugging at your coattails, pacify them by buying them an ice cream cone. This should allow just enough time to take a really good look at him. He's certainly worth a look. His strong and stately presence makes an immediate impact; and you are as likely to be fascinated by his bronze tan and sinewy posture as the kids are by the stylish sandals on his feet. Who is he? I'm not exactly sure what that thing in his hand is. An axe bounded in dynamite? No, it couldn't be. I've seen enough Hollywood period pieces to know what he's wearing is a toga, definitely a bit of "Roman" attire; and the Romans certainly hadn't invented explosives.

It turns out that what this Roman actually holds is a "Fasces". Never used in battle, it is rather a symbol of power and authority used in the ancient civilization to denote trust and leadership. Essentially a bundle of rods with the head of an ax projecting through it, it is actually much more than that. A Fasces bestows honor and respect on the man who wields it; and, in this instance, the man who wielded it - Cincinnatus - was heralded down through the ages as the individual who wielded it most responsibly.

So much so, in fact, that 2,500 years later a city on a yet undiscovered continent would be named in his honor. A group of army officers, calling themselves the Society of Cincinnatus, believed it most pertinent that the first major town settled in the aftermath of the Revolutionary War be named in honor of a hero that would always call to the mind the humble and unselfishly couragous contributions of great leadership in times of national crisis. Just as Cincinnatus had set aside his plow to pick up his sword to challenge the enemies of his own Roman Republic, so did the group of Soldiers in the Society of Cincinnatus leave their own farms and homes to pick up the muskets and cutlasses they used to challenge the efforts of the British to squash their own nascent Repbulic. Once done, victorious soldiers like Cincinnatus and Washington, who could have easily seized power as their milatristic spoils, rather chose instead to yield their weapons, to surrender the Fasces, and to pick back up their farming implements, returning to their fields; and forsaking power to fulfill the greater responsibility of civic virtue. The bundled ax or "fasces" was like a relay baton, granted in trust to the receiver, the ruler, and once the job was complete, surrendered in trust back to the bestower, the people.

Then, when called upon yet again, just as Washington was during the crisis of the Constitutional Convention, or Cincinnatus when he was called out of retirement to put down a second revolt, each returned to power just long enough to prove that the only power worth having is that which can be employed responsibly and used for the greater common good. Cinncinnatus, as was his lot, saved the Roman Republic twice; while Washington founded a nation and later established the theretofore unheard of precedent and peaceful transition of democratically elected power.

Both men have been lauded for their efforts, and both men have had towns named after them. You knew the story of Washington, and now you know the story of Cincinnatus.



Legend has it that Cincinnatus was plowing his fields when a Roman emissary came to him to announce the people's greater need of his service. Undaunted, Cincinnatus forsook his private interests, strode into the arena, saved his country and, upon casting away his sword, later - and more importantly - preserved the march of Civilization with his plow. To this day we have not forgot his example, or those of others like him. How can we, especially in Cincinnati, when just the mere mention of name, conjures up such a wonderful history.

His story will hopefully continue to be our story. His tale is a testament to uncomplicated courage, and self-abdication in the face of tremendous public challenges and personal temptation. It is something we can all learn from - Cincinnatian and American Citizen alike - as each of us face in our own way the many competing and often clashing responsibilities of our lives, some calling for one kind of sacrifice and some calling for another. In the end, it is the job we do in the "fields," at our jobs, in our homes, as citizens, perhaps you in the office, yard, or on the highway, me in the hotel, but all of us with the understanding that there is greater cause for doing what we do, a cause which goes beyond our personal inclinations, extending to our families, friends, co-workers, and fellow citizens, and often calling for greater public discernment.

We all have responsibilities to and for each other. Our personal freedom can only be the result of our public responsibility. This is what Cincinnatus teaches us, a lesson in citizenship; and this is further the ideal upon which the city of Cincinnati was founded. It is one of the reasons why I am very grateful to be a Cincinnatian; and why also that, although at first surprised, I was elated to discover that the first Cincinnatian, at least symbolically, was very deservedly a Roman General and citizen farmer.