The Flowing Bowl - A Treatise on Drinks of All Kinds and of All Periods, Interspersed with Sundry Anecdotes and Reminiscences

By Author	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Title	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Language

Download this book: [ ASCII ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: The Flowing Bowl - A Treatise on Drinks of All Kinds and of All Periods, Interspersed with Sundry Anecdotes and Reminiscences
Author: Spencer, Edward
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Flowing Bowl - A Treatise on Drinks of All Kinds and of All Periods, Interspersed with Sundry Anecdotes and Reminiscences" ***

available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/b21529346

Some characters might not display properly in this UTF-8
text file (e.g., empty squares). If so, the reader should
consult the the original page images noted above or the
html version:
Transcriber’s note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

like this: {52}.

THE FLOWING BOWL, By EDWARD SPENCER

* * * * * *

_By the Same Author_

CAKES AND ALE

A Memory of many Meals; the
whole interspersed with various
Recipes, more or less original,
and Anecdotes, mainly veracious.

THIRD EDITION

Small Crown 8vo, Cloth, 2s.

_Cover designed by Phil May_

THE GREAT GAME
AND HOW IT IS PLAYED

A Treatise on the Turf,
full of Tales

Small Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s.

LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS

* * * * * *

THE FLOWING BOWL

A Treatise on Drinks of All Kinds and of
All Periods, Interspersed with Sundry
Anecdotes and Reminiscences

EDWARD SPENCER

(‘Nathaniel Gubbins’)

Author of ‘Cakes and Ale,’ etc.

London
Grant Richards
1903

PREFACE

I claim no merit for the following pages, other than may attach
to industry, application, the gift of copying accurately, and the
acquisition of writer’s cramp. The mechanical writing is—to the great
joy of the compositors who have dealt with it—every letter mine own;
but the best part of the book has been conveyed from other sources.
In fact the book is, as the old lady said of the divine tragedy of
_Hamlet_, “full of quotations.” The hand is the hand of Gubbins, but
the voice is, for the most part, the voice of the great ones of the
past, including Pliny and Gervase Markham. The matter, or most of it—I
am endeavouring to drive the fact home—is culled from other sources;
and if this is the most useful and interesting work ever published it
is more my fortune than my fault.

The genial reception of my earlier effort, _Cakes and Ale_—which
was condemned only by worshippers of _Ala_, who were not expected
to applaud—together with the hope of earning something towards the
purchase of a Bath Chair—have induced me to issue this little treatise
on liquids, as a companion to my first cloth-bound book. And innate
modesty—I stick to “innate,” despite the critics—compels me to add that
I think the last is the better work. I will, however, leave a generous
and discriminating public to decide that question for itself.

LONDON, CHRISTMAS EVE, 1898.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE OLD ADAM

Introductory — Awful habits of the ancients — A bold, bad book —
Seneca on the Drink Habit — The bow must not be always strung —
_Ebrietatis Encomium_ — The noble Romans — “Dum vivimus vivamus” —
The skeleton at the banquet — Skull-cups — “Life and wine are the
same thing” — Virgil and his contemporaries — Goats for Bacchus —
The days of Pliny — Rewards for drunkenness — Novellius Torquatus
— Three gallons at a draught — A swallow which did not save Rome —
The antiquity of getting for’ard — Noah as a grape-grower — Father
Frassen’s ideas — Procopius of Gaza — New Testament wine — Fermented
or not? — Bad old Early Christians — Drunkenness common in Africa —
Religion a cloak for alcohol — Tertullian on cider — Paulinus excuses
intemperance — Excellence of Early Christians’ intentions . . . Pages
1–10

CHAPTER II

MORE FRIGHTFUL EXAMPLES

Eating and drinking the only work of the monks — Nunc est bibendum —
An apology for Herodotus — A jovial pope — Good quarters in Provence
— Intemperance of holy men — A tippling bishop — Alexander the Great
— “Lovely Thais sits beside thee” — A big flare-up — Awful end of
Alec — Cambyses always shot straight — Darius the strong-of-head —
Philip drunk and Philip sober — Dionysius gets blind — Tiberius loved
the bowl — So did Flavius Vobiscus, the diplomatist — Bluff King Hal
— The Merry Monarch and the Lord Mayor — Dear Old Pepys — A Mansion
House wine-list — Minimum allowance of sack — A slump in brandy — A
church-tavern — Dean Aldrich — The Romans at supper — “The tippling
philosophers” . . . Pages 11–21

CHAPTER III

DRINKS ANCIENT AND MODERN

The Whitaker of the period — France without wine — Babylonian boozers
— Beer discovered by the Egyptians — A glass of bitter for Cleopatra —
Brainless Persians — German sots — Turning the tables — Intemperance
in the North — Chinese intoxicants — Nature of Sack — Mead and morat —
Vinous metheglin — Favourite tipple of the Ancient Britons — Braggonet
— Birch-wine — “The inwariable” of Falstaff — A recipe by Sir Walter
Raleigh — Saragossa wine — Usquebaugh — Clary — Apricock wine . . .
22–35

CHAPTER IV

SOME OLD RECIPES

Indifference of the Chineses — A nasty potion — A nastier — White
Bastard — Helping it to be eager — Improving Malmsey — Death of the
Duke of Clarence — Mum is _not_ the word — English champagne — Life
without Ebulum a blank — Cock ale — How to dispose of surplus poultry
— Painful fate of a pauper — _Potage pauvre_ — Duties of the old
English housewife — Election of wines, not golf — Muskadine — Lemon
wine — Familiar recipe — King William’s posset — Pope’s ditto . . .
Pages 36–47

CHAPTER V

GLORIOUS BEER

Nectar on Olympus — Beer and the Bible — “Ninepenny” at Eton — “Number
One” Bass — “The wicked weed called hops” — All is not beer that’s
bitter — Pathetic story of “Poor Richard” — Secrets of brewing —
Gervase Markham — An “espen” full of hops — Eggs in ale — Beer soup
— The wassail bowl — Sir Watkin Wynne — Brown Betty — Rumfustian —
Mother-in-law — A delightful summer drink — Brasenose ale . . . 48–60

CHAPTER VI

ALL ALE

Waste not, want not — The right hand for the froth — Arthur Roberts
and Phyllis Broughton — A landlord’s perquisites — Marc Antony and
hot coppers — Introduction of ale into Britain — Burton-on-Trent —
Formerly a cotton-spinning centre — A few statistics — Michael Thomas
Bass — A grand old man — Malting barleys — Porter and stout — Lager
beer — Origin of bottled ale — An ancient recipe — Lead-poisoning —
The poor man’s beer . . . 61–71

CHAPTER VII

A SPIRITUOUS DISCOURSE

What is brandy? — See that you get it — Potato-spirit from the
Fatherland — The phylloxera and her ravages — Cognac oil — Natural
history of the vine-louse — “Spoofing” the Yanks — Properties of Argol
— Brandy from sawdust — Desiccated window-sills — Enormous boom in
whisky — Dewar and the trade — Water famine — The serpent Alcohol —
Some figures — France the drunken nation, not Britain — Taxing of
distilleries — _Uisge beatha_ — Fusel oil — Rye whisky — Palm wine —
John Exshaw knocked out by John Barleycorn . . . Pages 72–82

CHAPTER VIII

OTHER SPIRITS

Old Jamaica pine-apple — “Tots” for Tommy Atkins — The grog tub
aboard ship — _Omelette au rhum_ — Rum-and-milk — Ditto-and-ale — A
maddening mixture — Rectifying gin — “The seasoning as does it” — Oil
of turpentine and table-salt — A long thirst — A farthing’s worth of
Old Tom — Roach-alum — Dirty gin — Gin and bitters — “Kosher” rum
— An active and intelligent officer — Gambling propensities of the
Israelites — The dice in the tumbler — Nomenclature at “The Olde
Cheshyre Cheese” — “Rack” — “Cork” . . . 83–90

CHAPTER IX

CUPS WHICH CHEER

Claret combinations — Not too much noyeau — A treat for schoolboys
— The properties of borage — “Away with melancholy” — _Salmon’s
Household Companion_ — Balm for vapours — Crimean cup — An elaborate
and far-reaching compound — Orgeat — A race-day cup — “Should auld
acquaintance be forgot?” — Sparkling Isabella — Rochester’s delight
— Freemason’s relish — Porter cup — Dainty drink for a tennis-party
. . . 91–100

CHAPTER X

PUNCH

Derivation of the word questioned — Not an Asiatic drink —
“Pale-punts” — No relation to pale punters — Properties of rum — Toddy
as a tonic — Irish punch — Glasgie ditto — O’er muckle cauld watter —
One to seven — Hech sirs! — Classical sherbet — Virtues of the feet
of calves — West India dry gripes — Make your own punch — No deputy
allowed — Attraction of capillaire — Gin punch — Eight recipes for
milk-punch — University heart-cheerers . . . Pages 101–114

CHAPTER XI

STRANGE SWALLOWS

“Wormwood!”—The little green fairy — All right when you know it, but⸺
— The hour of absinthe — Awful effects — Marie Corelli — St. John the
Divine — Arrack and bhang not to be encouraged — Plain water — The
original intoxicant — Sacred beverage of the mild Hindu — Chi Chi —
Kafta, an Arabian delight — Friends as whisky agents — Effervescent
Glenlivet — The peat-reek — American bar-keeper and his best customer
— “Like swallerin’ a circ’lar saw and pullin’ it up again” —
Castor-oil anecdote — “Haste to the wedding!” . . . 115–125

CHAPTER XII

“THE BOY”

Definition of the youth — The valley of the Marne — An Archbishop
in sparkling company — All is not cham. that fizzes — Beneficial
effects of Pommery — Dire memories of the Haymarket — The bad boy at
York — A hair of the canine — The good boy — Gout defied — Old Roman
cellars — A chronic bombardment — Magnums to right of ’em — Duties
of the disgorger — Simon the cellarer — Fifteen millions of full
bottles — Pro-dig-i-ous! — Gooseberry champagne a myth — About Médoc
— The ancients spelt claret with two “r’s” — Hints on adulteration —
“Château Gubbins” — New wine — Gladstone claret — “Pricked!” . . .
Pages 126–136

CHAPTER XIII

THE OLD WINES AND THE NEW

Decline and fall of port — Old topers — A youthful wine-bibber — The
whisky age succeeds the port age — “Jeropiga” — Landladies’ port —
A monopoly — Port _v._ gout — A quaint breakfast in Reading — About
nightcaps — Sherry an absolutely pure wine — Except when made within
the four miles’ radius — Treading the grapes — “Yeso” — Pliny pops up
again — “Lime in the sack” — What the _Lancet_ says — “Old Sherry” —
_Faux pas_ of a General — About vintages . . . 137–148

CHAPTER XIV

THE LONG AND THE SHORT OF IT

The Long Drink — Cremorne Gardens — Hatfield — Assorted cocktails —
Brandy-and-Soda — Otherwise Stone Fence — Bull’s milk — A burglar’s
brew — More cocktails — A “swizzle” — L’Amour Poussée — A corpse
reviver — A golden slipper — A heap of comfort . . . 149–161

CHAPTER XV

STILL HARPING ON THE DRINK

Sangaree — Slings — John Collins — Smashes — Sour beverages — Home
Ruler — Burning brandy — A prairie oyster — A turkey ditto — About
negus, for white-frock and black-mitten parties — Egg nogg — A doctor
— A surgeon-major — A new locomotive — Rumfustian — Pope — Bull’s
milk — A bosom caresser — The Colleen Bawn — Possets — Sir Fleetwood
Fletcher . . . Pages 162–173

CHAPTER XVI

“APPLE SASS”

Ancient British seider — Conducive to longevity — The best made in
Normandy — Which develops into champagne — And other popular and
salubrious wines — Non-alcoholic cider — A loathsome brew — German
manufacturers — Medical properties of apple juice — Away with
melancholy — The mill and the press — Pure wine — Norfolk cider
— Gaymer’s gout-fuge — Revival of the industry — Old process of
cider-making — Improving the flavour — Boiled cider — Hippocras —
Juniper cider — An ancient cider-cup . . . 174–184

CHAPTER XVII

CORDIALS AND LIQUEURS

A chat about cherry brandy — Cherry gin — And cherry whisky — Sloe gin
— Highland cordial — What King Charles II. swallowed — Poor Charles!
— Ginger brandy — Orange-flower brandy — Employment of carraway
seeds — The school treat — Use and abuse of aniseed — Do not drink
quince whisky — Try orange brandy instead — A hell-broth — Curaçoa —
Cassis — Chartreuse — The monks as benefactors — Some quaint tavern
“refreshers” — Kirschenwasser — Noyeau — Parfait amour — Maraschino —
A valuable ginger cordial . . . Pages 185–197

CHAPTER XVIII

THE AFTERMATH OF REVELRY

Revelry means remorse — And “Katzenjammer” — And other things — Why
will ye do it? — The devil in solution — Alcoholism a disease — An
accountant on wires — A jumpy journalist — A lot of jolly dogs — What
is “Langdebeefe”? — To cure spleen or vapours — Directly opposite
effects of alcohol — The best pick-me-up in the world — An anchovy
toast — Baltimore egg nogg — Orange quinine — About brandy and
soda-water — A Scorcher — Brazil relish — St. Mark’s pick-me-up — A
champion bitters — A devilled biscuit — Restorative sandwiches — Fresh
air and exercise best of all — Stick to your nerve! . . . 198–210

CHAPTER XIX

THE DRINKS OF DICKENS

The lesson taught by “Boz” — Clothing Christmas — Dickens’s drunkards
— Fantastic names for ales — Robbing a boy of his beer — A school
supper — Poor Traddles — Micawber and punch — Revelry at Pecksniff’s
— Todgers’s “doing it” — Delights of the “Dragon” — Sairey Gamp’s
requirements — What was in the teapot — The “Maypole” — Sydney
Carton’s hopeless case — Stryver’s model — “_Little D._ is Deed
nonsense” — Dear old Crummles — A magnum of the Double Diamond —
Newman Noggs — Brandy before breakfast — Mr. Fagin’s pupils —
Orange-peel and water — Quilp on fire — “Pass the rosy” — Harold
Skimpole — Joey Bagstock — Brandy-and-tar-water — That ass Pumblechook
— An inexhaustible bottle — Jaggers’s luncheon — Pickwick v. total
abstinence — Everything an excuse for a dram — Brandy and oysters —
“The inwariable” — Milk-punch — Charm of the _Pickwick Papers_ . . .
Pages 211–226

CHAPTER XX

SWORN OFF!

Introduction of temperance into England — America struck it first
— Doctor Johnson an abstainer — Collapse of the Permissive Bill —
Human nature and forbidden fruit — Effects of repressive legislation
— Sunday closing in Wales — Paraffin for miners — Toasting her
Majesty — A good win — A shout and a drink — Jesuitical logic of the
prohibitioners — The end justifies the means — A few non-alcoholic
recipes — Abstainers and alcohol — Pure spring-water _v._ milk-punch —
“Tried baith!” . . . 227–237

INDEX OF RECIPES . . . 239–243

CHAPTER I

THE OLD ADAM

I wish to state at the outset that this little work is not compiled in
the interests of the sot, the toper, and the habitual over-estimator
of his swallowing capacity. That the gifts of the gods, and the
concoctions of more or less vile man, should be used with moderation,
if we wish to really and thoroughly enjoy them, is a truism which needs
no repetition; and although at the commencement of this work many
“frightful {2} examples” of the evils of over-indulgence will be found
mentioned, nothing but moderation will be found counselled in my book,
from cover to cover.

In the past, drunkenness was not always regarded as a vice, and this
is evident from much of the literature of former generations. In the
course of my researches into the alcohol question I have come across a
little book which bears the shameful and abandoned title of _Ebrietatis
Encomium, or the Praise of Drunkenness_. And this book, which conveys
such questionably moral aphorisms as “It is good for one’s health to be
drunk occasionally,” and “The truly happy are the truly intoxicated,”
claims to prove, “most authentically and most evidently, the necessity
of frequently getting drunk, and that the practice is most ancient,
primitive, and catholic.”

The author commences with what he calls “a beautiful passage out of
Seneca:—

“The soul must not be always bent: one must sometimes allow it a little
pleasure. Socrates was not ashamed to pass the time with children. Cato
enjoyed himself in drinking plentifully, when his mind had been too
much wearied out in public affairs. Scipio knew very well how to move
that body, so much inured to wars and triumphs, without breaking it,
as some nowadays do . . . ; but as people did in past times, who would
make themselves merry on their festivals, by leading a dance really
worthy men of those days, whence could ensue no reproach, when even
their very enemies had seen them dance. One must allow the mind {3}
some recreation: it makes it more gay and peaceful. . . . Assiduity of
labour begets a languor and bluntness of the mind: for sleep is very
necessary to refresh us, and yet he that would do nothing else but
sleep night and day would be a dead man, and no more. There is a great
deal of difference between loosening a thing, and quite unravelling
it. Those who made laws have instituted holidays, to oblige people to
appear at public rejoicings, in order to mingle with their cares a
necessary temperament. . . . You must sometimes walk in the open air,
that the mind may exalt itself by seeing the heavens, and breathing the
air at your ease; sometimes take the air in your chariot, the roads and
the change of the country will re-establish you in your vigour; or you
may eat and drink a little more plentifully than usual. Sometimes one
must even go as far as to get drunk; not indeed with an intention to
drown ourselves in wine, but to drown our care. For wine drives away
sorrow and care, and goes and fetches them up from the bottom of the
soul. And as drunkenness cures some distempers, so, in like manner, it
is a sovereign remedy for our sorrows” (Seneca _de Tranquillitate_).

Such sentiments were doubtless popular enough in Great Britain at
the commencement of the present century—when _Ebrietatis Encomium_
was published—when three and four bottle-men slept where they fell,
“repugnant to command”; and malt liquor, small or strong, was the only
known matutinal restorative of manly vigour. But my own experience is
that {4} the sorrow and care which may be temporarily driven away by
drowning them in the bowl are apt to return within a very few hours,
reinforced an hundredfold, with their weapons re-sharpened, their
instruments of torture put in thorough working-order, and with many
other devils worse than themselves. A man, sound in body and mind, may
really enjoy a certain amount of good liquor without feeling any ill
effects next morning; but woe to him who seeks to drown that which
cannot sink; to crush the worm which knows not death! The individual
has yet to be born who can flourish, either in body or soul, on his own
immoderation; and but for a chronic state of thirst in early youth I
should not now be reduced to the compilation of drink statistics for a
living.

But the ancients, in their heathen philosophy—which, by the way, was
once recommended to Christians to follow—took no thought for the
morrow. “Carpe diem!” was the head and front of the programme of the
Roman patricians, who used to cry aloud at their feasts, by way of
grace before meat:—

AMICI,
DUM VIVIMUS
VIVAMUS!

This was probably the original version of “We won’t go home till
morning,” and was sung, or shouted, at all bean-feasts and smart
supper-parties. The ancient Egyptians made use of a very extraordinary,
and a very nasty, custom in their festivals. They shewed to every
guest a {5} skeleton, before the soup was served. This, according to
some historians, was to make the feasters think on their latter end.
But others assert that this strange figure was brought into use for
a directly opposite reason; that the image of death was shewn for no
other intent than to excite the guests to pass their lives merrily, and
to employ the few days of its small duration to the best advantage;
as having no other condition to expect after death than that of this
frightful skeleton.

This was the idea of one Trimalchion, who, Petronius tells us, thus
expressed himself on the subject: “Alas! alas! wretched that we are!
What a nothing is poor man! We shall be like this, when Fate shall have
snatched us hence. Let us therefore rejoice, and be merry while we are
here.” The original Latin of this translation is much stronger, and had
better not be given here. And the same Trimalchion on another occasion
remarked: “Alas! Wine therefore lives longer than man, let us then sit
down and drink bumpers; life and wine are the same thing.”

The Scythians undoubtedly used to drink out of vessels fashioned from
human skulls, and probably had the same design in doing so as the
Egyptians had in looking on their nasty skeletons.

In Virgil’s time, his contemporaries—and very probably the old man
himself—drank deep; but instead of fighting, and breaking things, and
jumping on their wives, and getting locked up, they brought their own
heathen religion into their debaucheries. In more civilized circles, at
this end of the most civilized century, the reveller {6} goes out “to
see a man,” and subsequently “shouts for the crowd”; but in Virgil’s
time a man who had a drink was said to be “pouring forth libations to
the gods,” “making sacrifices”—more especially to Bacchus, the wine
deity, whom nothing under the slaughter of a he-goat was supposed to
propitiate. And the “Billy” was chosen for the sacrifice, because the
tender shoots of the vine formed his favourite food, in a land in which
there was neither brown paper, nor wall-plaster, nor salmon-tins, to
nibble. And these sacrifices to the rosy god were “occasions” (as they
say in the City) indeed! I have often wondered what the ancients did to
cure a headache; and whether a man said to be “possessed of a devil”
was in reality suffering from Alcohol, “the Devil in solution,” in the
shape of _delirium tremens_ in one of its many and objectionable forms.

In the time of Pliny, drunkenness and debauchery appear to have been
the principal studies of the nations about whom he had information.
A man was actually _rewarded_ for getting drunk—tell it not in Vine
Street, W.! The greatest drinker got the most prizes; and Pliny
informs us that whilst the Parthians contended for the distinction
of having the hardest heads and the longest swallows, they were
simply “not in it” with the Milanese, who had a real champion in one
Novellius Torquatus. This man, according to history, could have given a
market-porter of the present day, a brewer’s drayman, or a stockbroker,
any amount of start over the Alcohol course, and “lost” him.

This Novellius won the championship from all {7} pretenders, and
“had gone through all honourable degrees of dignity in Rome, wherein
the greatest repute he obtained was for drinking in the presence of
Tiberius three gallons of wine at one draught, and before he drew his
breath again; neither did he rest there, but he so far had acquired the
art of drinking, that although he continued at it, yet was never known
to falter in his tongue; and were it ne’er so late in the evening he
followed this exercise, yet would be ready again for it in the morning.
Those large draughts also he drank at one breath, without leaving in
the cup so much as would dash against the pavement.”

Ah! We have nobody up to this form to talk about nowadays; and if men
have improved in morality they must have deteriorated in capacity, or
the occupation of gaolers and warders would be gone. And the poor old
poet “Spring Onions,” with even a tenth part of the powers of endurance
and swallow of Novellius Torquatus, might have escaped even one
solitary conviction.

“If the antiquity of a custom,” writes the author of _Ebrietatis
Encomium_, “makes it always good and laudable, certainly drunkenness
can never deserve sufficient recommendation. Every one knows that Noah
got drunk after he had planted the vine. There are some who pretend to
excuse him, that he was not acquainted with the strength of wine. But
to this it may very well be answered that it is not very probable so
wise a man as Noah should plant a vine without knowing its nature and
property. Besides it is one thing to know whether he got drunk at all:
and another whether he had an intention to do so.” {8}

The amount of water previously experienced by Noah should surely be
sufficient to purge him of the offence of making too free with the
fruit of the vine!

“But,” continues the laudator of ebriety, “if we give any credit to
several learned persons, Noah was not the first man who got fuddled.
Father Frassen maintains ‘that people fed on flesh before the Flood,
and drank wine.’ There is no likelihood, according to him, that men
contented themselves with drinking water for fifteen or sixteen hundred
years together. It is much more credible that they prepared a drink
more nourishing and palatable. These first men of the world were endued
with no less share of wit than their posterity, and consequently wanted
no industry to invent everything that might contribute to make them
pass their lives agreeably. Before the Flood men married, and gave
their children in marriage. These people regaled each other, and made
solemn entertainments. Now who can imagine that they drank at those
festivals nothing but water, and fed only on fruits and herbs! Noah,
therefore, was not the inventor of the use which we make of the grape;
the most that he did was only to plant new vines.”

Procopius of Gaza, one of the most ancient and learned interpreters
of Scripture, thinks it no less true that the vine was known in the
world before Noah’s time; but he does not allow that the use of wine
was known before the patriarch, whom he believes to be the inventor of
it. As for the wine mentioned in the New Testament, we are now assured
by modern commentators—total {9} abstainers every one—that it was
unfermented, devoid of alcohol, and non-intoxicating. I had certainly
always looked upon the wine which Timothy was enjoined to take for his
“stomach’s sake,” as some form of brandy.

The Early Christians—like far too many of the late ditto—were terrible
topers. Ecclesiastical history tells us that in the primitive church
it was customary to appoint solemn feasts on the festivals of martyrs.
This appears by the harangue of Constantine, and from the works of St.
Gregory Nazianzen, and St. Chrysostom. Drunkenness was rife at those
feasts; and this excess was looked upon as permissible. This is shewn
by the pathetic complaints of St. Augustine and St. Cyprian, the former
of which holy fathers thus delivered himself:—

“Drunken debauches pass as permitted amongst us, so that people turn
them into solemn feasts, to honour the memory of the martyrs; and that
not only on those days which are particularly consecrated to them
(which would be a deplorable abuse to those who look at those things
with other eyes than those of the flesh), but on every day of the year.”

St. Cyprian, in a treatise attributed to him, says much the same thing:—

“Drunkenness is so common with us in Africa that it scarce passes for a
crime. And do we not see Christians forcing one another to get drunk,
to celebrate the memory of the martyrs?”

Cardinal du Perron told his contemporaries “that the Manichæans said
that the Catholicks were people much given to wine, but that they {10}
never drank any,” which sounds paradoxical. Against this charge St.
Augustine only defends them by recrimination. He answers, “that it was
true, but that they (the Manichæans) drank the juice of apples, which
was more delicious than all the wines and liquors in the world.” And
so does Tertullian, who said the liquor press’d from apples was most
strong and vinous. His words are: “Succum ex pomis vinosissimum.”

I trust that in quoting all those things I am not becoming wearisome,
at the very commencement of my work; the main object being to show that
all the drinking in the world is not done by the present generation of
vipers.

But the Early Christians were excused for their habits of soaking, by
Paulinus, on the grounds of the “excellence of their intentions”; which
naturally reminds us of the celebrated excuse of the late Monsieur
Thiers, on a much later occasion. The words of Paulinus are, when
translated and adapted:—

But yet that mirth in little feasts enjoy’d
I think should ready absolution find;
Slight peccadillo of an erring mind,
Artless and rude, of all disguises void,
Their simple hearts too easy to believe
(Conscious of nothing ill) that saints in tombs
Enshrin’d should any happiness perceive
From quaffing cups, and wines’ ascending fumes,
Must be excus’d, since what they did they meant
With piety ill plac’d, yet good intent.

Similar pleas are occasionally urged by roysterers nowadays, yet they
are but seldom credited in their own parishes.

{11}

CHAPTER II

MORE FRIGHTFUL EXAMPLES

Eating and drinking the only work of the monks — Nunc est bibendum —
An apology for Herodotus — A jovial pope — Good quarters in Provence
— Intemperance of holy men — A tippling bishop — Alexander the Great
— “Lovely Thais sits beside thee” — A big flare-up — Awful end of
Alec — Cambyses always shot straight — Darius the strong-of-head —
Philip drunk and Philip sober — Dionysius gets blind — Tiberius loved
the bowl — So did Flavius Vobiscus, the diplomatist — Bluff King Hal
— The Merry Monarch and the Lord Mayor — Dear old Pepys — A Mansion
House wine-list — Minimum allowance of sack — A slump in brandy — A
church-tavern — Dean Aldrich — The Romans at supper — “The tippling
philosophers.”

Not even popes, saints, or bishops were exempt from accusations of
loving the juice of the grape, or of the apple, too well. We read in
the adages of Erasmus that it was a proverb amongst the Germans that
the lives of the monks consisted in nothing but eating and drinking.
One H. Stephens says on this subject, in his apology for Herodotus:—

“But to return to these proverbs, theological wine, and the abbot’s,
or prelate’s, table. I say {12} that without these one could never
rightly understand the beautiful passage of Horace:—

Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero
Pulsanda tellus; nunc Saliaribus
Ornare pulvinar Deorum
Tempus erat dapibus sodales,

nor this other:—

Absumet haeres Caecuba dignior
Servata centum clavibus: et mero
Tinget pavimentum superbo
Pontificum potiore coenis.”

Modern popes have always had a reputation for abstemiousness; but this
same Mr. Stephens—who must have been somewhat of a slander-monger—in
his same apology for Herodotus (what about the apology for Stephens?)
mentions a popular little song of the day, which commenced:—

Le Pape qui est à Rome
Boit du vin comme un autre homme,
Et du l’Hypocras aussi.

And I can recall a cheery, albeit most likely libellous, song, which
some of us used to sing at school, beginning:—

The Pope he leads a joyous life.

It appears to be a fact that many former popes drank hard; and if
Petrarch is to be believed, the long stay made by the court of Rome
at Avignon was on account of the excellence of the French wines; and
that it was merely for that {13} reason that they stayed so long in
Provence, and removed with so much reluctance.

Now for the saints. Although the fact of his drinking deep has been
denied, St. Augustine appears to have confessed to “a day out”
occasionally, in some such words as these: “Thy servant has been
sometimes crop-sick through excess of wine. Have mercy on me, that it
may be ever far from me.”

Amongst the bishops one instance must suffice. “Pontus de Thiard,” as
appears from an old translation of the works of an eminent Frenchman,
“after having repented of the sins of his youth, came to be bishop
of Chalons-sur-Soane; but, however, he did not renounce the power of
drinking heavily, which seemed then inseparable from the quality of a
good poet. He had a stomach big enough to empty the largest cellar; and
the best wines of Burgundy were too gross for the subtility of the fire
which devoured him. Every night, at going to bed, besides the ordinary
doses of the day, in which he would not suffer the least drop of water,
he used to drink a bottle before he slept. He enjoyed a strong, robust,
and vigorous health, to the age of fourscore.” Dear old Pontus!

Of all other mighty men, Alexander the Great serves to best point the
moral of the evils of intemperance. Wearied of conquering, this hero
gave himself up to debauchery in its worst and wildest forms. He killed
his foster-brother in a fit of drunkenness, and subsequently, at the
bidding of “lovely Thais,” queen of the {14} Athenian _demi-monde_,
set fire to, and burnt to the ground, Persepolis, the wonder of the
world. What an awakening Alec must have had! Not that he was the first,
nor yet the last, man to make a fool, or rogue, of himself, at the
bidding of the (alleged) gentler sex. Cleopatra corrupted a few heroes,
and as for La Pompadour ⸺ but those be other stories. Alexander the
Great, who had lost most of his greatness by that time, died from the
effects of chronic alcoholism; although they didn’t tell me as much as
this at school.

Cambyses was but little removed from a sot. This prince, having been
told by one of his courtiers that the people thought Cambyses indulged
in too many “drunks” for the good of the nation, reached for his best
bow and his sharpest arrow, and, the courtier having retired out of
range, shot the courtier’s son through the heart; after which the
prince enquired of the courtier: “Is this the act of a drunkard?”
which reminds me of a more modern anecdote, of a Piccadilly roysterer.
But some men can shoot straighter, and ride better, and write more
poetically, when under the influence of the rosy god; and had this
courtier been a man of the world he would not have touched on the
subject of ebriation to his prince. For ebriates are but seldom proud
of their weaknesses.

Darius, the first King of Persia, commanded that this epitaph, which is
here translated, should be placed on his tomb: “I could drink much wine
and bear it well.” Philip of Macedon, father of Alexander the Great,
took too much wine on {15} occasion; to corroborate which fact we
have the exclamation of the good lady whose prayer for justice he had
refused to hear—this is a quotation beloved of members of Parliament—“I
appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober.” Dionysius the younger,
tyrant of Sicily, frequently had vine-leaves in his hair for a week
at a time; he drank himself almost blind, and his courtiers, in order
to flatter him, pretended to be blind too, and neither ate nor drank
anything unless it were handed to them by Dionysius himself. Tiberius
was called Biberius, because of his excessive attachment to the bowl;
and, in derision, they changed his surname of Nero to Mero. Bonosus,
according to his own historian, Flavius Vobiscus, was a terrible
soaker, and used to make the ambassadors, who came from foreign parts,
even more drunk than himself, in order that he might discover their
secret instructions.

I cannot glean from the ancient records that any monarch who reigned
over Great Britain was an habitual drunkard, an absolute and confirmed
sot. But many of them were given to conviviality, notably Richard
of the Lion Heart, Bluff King Hal—who had gout badly, and suffered
also from obesity and other things—and the Merry Monarch. A story is
told of the Second Charles, that when dining with the Lord Mayor,
Sir Robert Viner, on one occasion—it was probably a 9th of November
dinner at the Mansion House—the King noticed that most of the guests
were uncomfortably uproarious, and, with his suite, rose to leave the
banqueting chamber. Whereupon the Lord Mayor hastily {16} pursued him,
caught hold of his robe, and exclaimed: “Sire, you shall take t’other
bottle.” The King stopped, and with a graceful smile repeated a line
of the old song, “He that is drunk is great as a king,” and with this
compliment to his host, he returned, and took “t’other bottle.”

The immortal Pepys describes a Lord Mayor’s Feast which was given in
1663. It was served at one o’clock, and a bill of fare was placed,
together with a salt-cellar, in front of every guest; whilst at the end
of each table was a list of “persons proper” there to be seated. Pepys
was placed at the merchant-strangers’ table, “where ten good dishes to
a mess, with plenty of wine of all sorts.” Napkins and knives were,
however, only supplied at the Lord Mayor’s table to him and the Lords
of the Privy Council; and Pepys complains bitterly that he and those
who were seated with him had no napkins nor change of trenchers, and
had to drink out of earthen pitchers. He, however, took his spoon and
fork away with him, as was customary in those days with all guests
invited to entertainments. But as each guest brought his own tools,
nobody was the worse for this custom. The dinner, says Pepys, was
provided by the Mayor and two sheriffs for the time being, and the
whole cost was between £700 and £800.

We are not told what was drunk at the Mansion House on that occasion,
but I have a list before me of the potables served at the Lord Mayor’s
banquet in 1782—more than a century later—which seems deserving of
mention in this little work:— {17}

Port 438 bottles
Lisbon 220 „
Madeira 90 „
Claret 168 „
Champagne 143 „
Burgundy 116 „
Malmsey, or Sack 4 „
Brandy 4 „
Hock 66 „
────
Grand Total 1249 „

There be several remarkable features in the above list. I had imagined
that a taste for claret had not been fully acquired by the British
ratepayer until some years later than this; whilst the virtues of
champagne could not have been fully recognized. Lisbon, I conceive
to have been another sort of port, and this seems to have been
neck-and-cork above all other vintages in popular favour. The taste
for such mawkish stuff as malmsey must have been at vanishing point;
whilst one is led to ask what, with only such a minute allowance of
sack, did these feasters drink with their soup? Was the succulency of
calipash and calipee known in those days; and if so, where was the
harmless necessary milk-punch? But the most remarkable feature of all
in the above catalogue is the meagre allowance of brandy for the crowd.
The parable of the loaves and fishes would not appear more miraculous
than that, in these later days, a multitude could be filled, after
a big dinner, with _four_ bottles of cognac! And this despite the
fact of whisky having almost entirely usurped the place of the other
strong-water. {18}

One hundred years ago, to be “drunk as a lord” was considered the
height of human happiness. And at this period the Church had not
severed its old connection with alcohol. In fact intemperance was
encouraged by our pastors and masters; and in certain districts of
England the churchwardens, at Whitsuntide, made collections of malt
from the parishioners, and this was brewed into strong ale, and sold in
the churches, the money so obtained being expended on the repairs of
the sacred edifices; and it was a frequent and a saddening spectacle
to see men who had drunk not wisely reeling about the aisles. Until
as late as 1827—in which year the license was withdrawn—a church and
a tavern were covered by the same roof, in the parish of Deepdale, a
village between Derby and Nottingham; and a door which could be opened
at will led from the altar to the tap-room.

A Romish priest wrote in praise of the bowl as follows:—

Si bene commemini, causae sunt quinque bibendi:
Hospitis adventus; praesens sitis; atque futura;
Aut vini bonitas; aut quaelibet altera causa.

Which comforting and jovial sentiments were thus adapted for the use of
colleges and private bars, by Dean Aldrich, D.D., the great master of
logic at Oxford:—

There are, if I do rightly think,
Five reasons why a man should drink:
Good wine, a friend, or being dry,
Or lest you should be by and by⸺
Or any other reason why. {19}

But after all no nation ever did themselves so well, in the matter of
wines, as the inhabitants of bad old ancient Rome.

“It was to excess of drinking,” wrote Whyte Melville, in _The
Gladiators_, “that the gluttons of that period looked as the especial
relief of every entertainment; since the hope of each seemed to be
that when thoroughly flooded, and so to speak washed out with wine,
he might begin eating again. The Roman was no drunkard, like the
barbarian, for the sake of that wild excitement of the brain which is
purchased by intoxication. No, he ate to repletion that he might drink
in gratification. He drank to excess that he might eat again.”

Further on the same writer remarks: “Whilst marvelling at the quantity
of wine consumed by the Romans in their entertainments, we must
remember that it was the pure and unadulterated juice of the grape,
that it was in general freely mixed with water, and that they imbibed
but a very small portion of alcohol, which is the destructive quality
of all stimulants.”

As to the Roman vintages being “in general freely mixed with water,”
I have grave doubts. I have an idea that Maecenas would have made
it particularly warm for that slave who might have dared to water
his old Falernian; and, take them altogether, an amusement-loving,
and playgoing public, for whom the legitimate drama took the form of
certain brave men and fair women being torn and eaten by wild beasts,
would hardly have been content with such drink for babes as “claret
cold.” {20}

Ancient poets were not less backward than modern votaries of the muses;
and it is related of the poet Philoxenus that he was frequently heard
to express the wish that he had a neck as long as a crane’s, that he
might the longer have the pleasure of swallowing wine, and of enjoying
its delicious taste. I have heard the same wish expressed, during much
more recent years.

One more old song, translated from a French _chanson à boire_, and I
take my leave of the awful habits of the ancients (I trust) for ever.
It is called

THE TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.

Diogenes, surly and proud,
Who snarl’d at the Macedon youth,
Delighted in wine that was good,
Because in good wine there is truth;
But growing as poor as a Job,
Unable to purchase a flask,
He chose for his mansion a tub,
And lived by the scent of the cask.

[Neither the air, nor the chorus, of this song is given in the old MS.
But I would suggest the old air of “Wednesbury Cocking,” with a little
“tol-de-rol” at the finish of each verse.]

Heraclitus ne’er could deny
To tipple and cherish his heart,
And when he was maudlin he’d cry,
Because he had empty’d his quart;
Tho’ some are so foolish to think
He wept at men’s folly and vice,
’Twas only his fashion to drink
Till the liquor flow’d out of his eyes. {21}

Democritus always was glad
Of a bumper to cheer up his soul,
And would laugh like a man that was mad
When over a good flowing bowl.
As long as his cellar was stor’d,
The liquor he’d merrily quaff,
And when he was drunk as a lord
At those who were sober he’d laugh.

Aristotle, the master of arts,
Had been but a dunce without wine,
And what we ascribe to his parts
Is due to the juice of the vine.
His belly most writers agree
Was as big as a watering trough,
He therefore leap’d into the sea,
Because he’d have liquor enough.

Old Plato, the learned divine,
He fondly to wisdom was prone,
But had it not been for good wine,
His merits had never been known;
By wine we are generous made,
It furnishes fancy with wings,
Without it we ne’er should have had
Philosophers,
poets, or kings.

{22}

CHAPTER III

DRINKS ANCIENT AND MODERN

The Whitaker of the period — France without wine — Babylonian boozers
— Beer discovered by the Egyptians — A glass of bitter for Cleopatra —
Brainless Persians — German sots — Turning the tables — Intemperance
in the North — Chinese intoxicants — Nature of Sack — Mead and morat —
Vinous metheglin — Favourite tipple of the Ancient Britons — Braggonet
— Birch-wine — “The invariable” of Falstaff — A recipe by Sir Walter
Raleigh — Saragossa wine — Usquebaugh — Clary — Apricock wine.

Pliny—whose works contain almost as much general information as
Whitaker’s Almanack—tells us that the western nations got drunk
with certain liquors made with fruits; and that those liquors have
different names in Gaul and Spain, though they produce the same effect.
Ammianus Marcellinus reports that “the Gauls having no wine in their
country”—only fancy what a country France must have been to live in
without champagne and claret, not to mention burgundy and cider—“though
they are very fond of it, contrive a great many sorts of liquors which
produce the same effect as wine.” The Scythians, too, had no wine,
but got “for’ard” {23} just the same. One of their philosophers, upon
being asked if they had nobody who played the flute in Scythia, replied
that “they had not so much as any wine there.” Which seems to hint to
flute-playing being a thirsty trade, even in those days.

The Babylonians were, according to Herodotus, habitual over-estimators
of their swallowing capacity, and got merry after inhaling the fumes
of certain herbs which they burned; which sounds like anything but
a comfortable debauch, and must have choked some of them. Strabo
tells all who care to read him that the Indians drank the juice of
sugar-canes, which we now call rum; whilst according to Pliny and
Athenaeus the Egyptians fuddled themselves with a drink made from
barley; evidently undeveloped beer. And it is quite on the cards that
Cleopatra occasionally drew, with her own fair hands, for her beloved
Antony, a glass of “bitter,” with a head on it.

But the quaintest and most awe-inspiring of all drinks seems to have
been that affected by the Persians—now decent, sober people enough;
this was a liquor made from boiled poppy-seeds, and called

_Kokemaar_.

They drank it scalding hot, in the presence of many spectators, who may
or may not have been charged for admission.

“Before it operates,” wrote a chronicler of the times, “they quarrel
with one another, and give abusive language, without coming to blows;
afterwards when the drug begins to have its {24} effect, then they also
begin to make peace. One compliments in a very high degree, another
tells stories, but all are extremely ridiculous both in their words and
actions.” And after mentioning other liquors which they use, he adds,
“It is difficult to find in Persia a man that is not addicted to one
of these liquors, without which they think they cannot live but very
unpleasantly.” Anything nastier than hot laudanum as a restorative I
cannot imagine.

It sounds curious to read that France and Spain were censured by that
universal provider of knowledge, Pliny, for their drunkenness with beer
and ale, “wines not being in that age so frequent.” What was the world
like before the invention of port wine, I wonder? For in Pliny’s time
Italy exceeded all parts of the world for her luscious and curious
vintages, being responsible for 195 different sorts of wines.

Their Names and Kinds innumerable are,
Nor for their Catalogue we need not care;
Which who would know as soon may count the Sands
The _Western_ Winds raise on the _Libyan_ Strands.

At a much later date, in the seventeenth century, Italy still held her
own in the matter of the juice of the grape; and then, as now, their
Chianti and Lachrymae Christi were justly celebrated. Strange to say at
the same period the Germans, we read, “are much given to drunkenness,
as one of their own countrymen writes of them; they drink so immodestly
and immoderately at their Banquets that they cannot pour their beer
{25} in fast enough with the ordinary Quaffing Cups, but drink in
large Tankards whole draughts, none to be left under severe penalties;
admiring him that will drink most, and hating him that will not pledge
them.”

I once, in my salad days, assisted in the attempt to make a German
“foxed.” There were some half a dozen of us, nice boys all, and we
entertained this Teuton right royally. At the banquet table the
champagne was decanted, and it was so arranged that our guest should
imbibe at least twice as much as anybody else. Then we took him around
the great city. At four the next morning the German sat facing me in
the smoking-room of a little social club. Everybody else had gone home,
more or less limp, or had come to anchor in some police-station. And
I did not feel very well myself. And as the clock chimed four, and
the grey dawn stole in through the venetians in streaks, that German
uprose in all his majesty—he was six feet five inches and broad in
proportion—smote me hard on the back, and enquired, in cheerful tones:
“Now then! Vhere can ve go to haf some fun?” We never “took on” any
more of the children of the Fatherland.

The Russians, Swedes, Danes, and other Northerners—also during the
seventeenth century—we read, “exceed all the rest, having made the
drinking of Brandy, Aqua Vitae, Hydromel, Beer, Mum, Meth, and other
liquors in great quantities, so familiar to them that they usually
drink our countrymen to death.”

“The Mahometans,” the same writer tells us, {26} “which possess
a great part of the world, on a superstitious account forbear the
drinking of much wine; because that a young and beautiful woman being
accosted by two angels, that had intoxicated themselves with it”—an
intoxicated angel surely takes the cake?—“taking the advantage of their
ebriety, made her escape, and was for her beauty and wit prefer’d in
Heaven, and the angels severely punished for their folly; for which
reason they are commanded not to drink wine. Yet many of them, doubting
of the divinity of that relation, do transgress that command, and
liberally drink of the blood of the grape, which the Christians prepare
out of their own vineyards; palliating their crime, in that they did
not plant the tree, nor make the wine.” For the philosophy of the
Mahomedan is like the ways of the Heathen Chinee, “peculiar.”

“The Chineses,” we are further told, “are the least addicted to
ebriety, delighting themselves in Coffee, Tea, and such like drinks,
free from those stupifying qualities; yet are they not without their
carouses; and those of the intoxicating drinks prepared of Rice,
Coco’s, Sugar, Dates, etc., equalling in strength and spirit any
liquors in the world.”

With the “Chineses” must be of course included the gallant little
Japaneses, with which nation English chroniclers had but a slight
acquaintance three hundred years ago.

Without enquiring too closely into the nature of Red Falernian,
Coan, Massic, or any of the Roman vintages at the time of dear old
Horatius Flaccus, let us take a glance over the wine-lists {27} of
our own country, from the Saxon period. And the first thing which will
naturally strike the observer is the heavy, loaded nature of their
dinner drinks. A little later on, Sack did duty for the “inferior
sherry” of the Victorian era, although a Sack-and-Angostura was not a
frequent demand amongst the young bloods of the period. On the festive
boards of the Saxons appeared, besides ale of the strongest and cider
of the roughest, home-made wines, mead, morat, metheglin, and more or
less odoriferous pigments. In case any enterprising ratepayer should
elect to give his guests

_Mead_,

at his next house-warming, here is the ancient recipe.

Take of spring-water what quantity you please, and make it more than
blood-warm, and dissolve honey in it till ’tis strong enough to bear
an egg, the breadth of a shilling; then boil it gently near an hour,
taking of the scum as it rises; then put to about nine or ten gallons
seven or eight large blades of mace, three nutmegs quartered, twenty
cloves, three or four sticks of cinnamon, two or three roots of
ginger, and a quarter of an ounce of Jamaica pepper; put these spices
into the kettle to the honey and water, a whole lemon, with a sprig
of sweet-briar and a sprig of rosemary; tie the briar and rosemary
together, and when they have boiled a little while take them out and
throw them away; but let your liquor stand on the spice in a clean
earthen pot till the next day; then strain it into a vessel that is
fit for it; put the spice in a bag, and hang it in the vessel, stop
it, and at three months {28} draw it into bottles. Be sure that ’tis
fine when ’tis bottled; after ’tis bottled six weeks ’tis fit to drink.

Fancy drinking Mead with your soup!

Morat was made of honey flavoured with mulberry juice; and
Pigment—which might be drunk at the Royal Academy banquets—was a sweet
and rich liquor evolved from highly-spiced wine flavoured with honey.

_Metheglin_

was also called Hydromel and Oinomel. “The best Receipt whereof,”
writes an authority, “that I have observed to be made by them is thus:—

They take rasberries which grow in those parts (_i.e._ Swedeland,
Muscovia, Russia, and as far as the Caspian Sea) and put them into
fair water for two or three nights (I suppose they bruise them first)
that the water may extract their taste and colour. Into this water
they put of the purest honey, in proportion about one pound of honey
to three or four of water. Then to give it a fermentation they put a
tost into it dipp’d in the dregs or grounds of beer, which when it
hath set the metheglin at work they take out again, to prevent any
ill savour it may give; if they desire to ferment it long they set
it in a warm place; which when they please to hinder or stop, they
remove it into a cool place; after it hath done fermenting they draw
it off the lee for present use; to add to its excellency they hang
in it a little bagg, wherein is cinnamon, grains of paradise, and a
few cloves. This may do very well for present drinking. But if you
would make your metheglin of the same ingredients, and to be kept
(time {29} meliorating any sort of drinks) you may preserve your
juice of rasberries at the proper season. And when you make your
metheglin, decoct your honey and water together, and when it is cold
then add your juice of rasberries which was before prepared to keep,
and purifie your metheglin by the means before prescrib’d, or ferment
it, either by a tost dipp’d in yest, or by putting a spoonful of
yest unto it, to which you may add the little bagg of spices before
mention’d. Then let it stand about a month to be thorowly purified,
and then bottle it, and preserve it for use, and it may in time become
a curious drink.”

I should think so.

This is what Howell (Clerk to the Privy Council in 1640) wrote about
metheglin:—

The juice of Bees, not Bacchus, here behold,
Which British Bards were wont to quaff of old;
The berries of the grape with Furies swell,
But in the honeycomb the Graces dwell.

“Neither Sir John Barleycorn or Bacchus had anything to do with it, but
it is the pure juice of the bee, the laborious bee, and the king of
insects; the Druids and old British Bards were wont to take a carouse
hereof before they entered into their speculations. But this drink
always carried a kind of state with it, for it must be attended with a
brown toast; nor will it admit but of one good draught, and that in the
morning; if more it will keep a humming in the head, and so speak too
much of the house it comes from, I mean the hive.”

M’yes. I question the advisability of any sort {30} of carouse before
entering into speculations; more especially if Tattersall’s Ring be the
scene of your speculations, and you intend getting back your losses.

There is no doubt that metheglin was the favourite drink of the Ancient
Britons.

_Mead and Braggon, or Braggonet_,

do not differ materially from metheglin. Here is the recipe:—

Mix the whites of six eggs with twelve gallons of spring-water; add
twenty pounds of the best virgin honey and the peeling of three
lemons; boil it an hour, and then put into it some rosemary, cloves,
mace, and ginger; when quite cold add a spoonful or two of yeast, tun
it, and when it has done working stop it up close. In a few months
bottle it off, and deposit in a cool cellar.

If this liquor is properly kept, the taste of the honey will go off;
and it will resemble Tokay both in strength and flavour. And the chief
objection to this as to other ancient potations, appears to be the
intolerable quantity of water, whether “spring” or “fair.”

We do not make Birch wine nowadays, although the Birch itself
frequently makes small boys whine, after conviction of orchard-robbing,
or train-wrecking. But it was a favourite tipple with our ancestors,
who during the month of March were wont to cut the ends off the
birch-boughs, and let the sap drip into bottles suspended from the
boughs. For twopence or threepence a gallon the villagers would catch
this sap for {31} their wealthier neighbours, regardless of the
feelings, and the cartridges, of the owners of the trees. To every
gallon of liquor was added a pound of refined sugar, the mixture being
boiled for half an hour or so, then set to cool, with a little yeast
added thereto, to make it ferment. The result was then put in barrels,
together with a small proportion of powdered mace and cinnamon. A month
afterwards it was bottled off, and when drunk was said to be “a most
delicate, brisk wine, of a flavour like unto Rhenish.”

“The Vertues of the Liquor or Blood of the Birch-tree,” says the
historian, “have not long been discovered, we being beholding to the
Learned Van Helmont for it; who in his _Treatise of the Disease of the
Stone_ hath very much applauded its Vertues against the effects of
the Disease, calling the natural Liquor that flows from the wounded
Branches of the Tree, the meer Balsom of the Disease. Ale brewed
therewith, as well as the Wine that is made of it, wonderfully operates
on the Disease. It is also reputed to be a powerful Curer of the
Ptisick.”

All the same you will hardly get the _alumni_ of Eton and Harrow to
love their birch.

“What was

_Sack_?”

is a question which has often been asked. It was a common name for
a drink in the time of Shakespeare, and Falstaff had a terrible
reputation as a sackster. The exact nature of the wine is uncertain,
but the name is supposed to be derived {32} from the Spanish _seco_,
and the French _sec_, “dry.” Canary (a sort of white Madeira) was
often the wine meant; and in old churchwarden’s accounts the word sack
frequently occurs, as used as a communion wine, _i.e._ Madeira and port
mixed. That sack was imported from Spain is certain, and it was first
of all sold, in England, in apothecaries’ shops, as a cordial medicine.
The Excise authorities of the time, if there were any, were in all
probability not quite as busy as at the present day.

The name Canary was formerly applied to dry, white wines, which were
frequently seasoned with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, roasted apples, and
eggs.

_Sack Posset_

[Sir Walter Raleigh’s Recipe.]

Boil together half a pint of sherry and half a pint of ale, and add
gradually a quart of boiling cream or milk. Sweeten the mixture well,
and flavour with grated nutmeg. Put into a heated dish, cover, and
stand by the fire for two or three hours.

And if you can see the double ox-fences in Northamptonshire next
morning, there is not much the matter with your liver.

Here is the method of manufacturing

_English Sack_,

which must be a poor, ill-favoured sort of drink. It was also known as
Saragossa wine.

To every quart of water put a sprig of rue, and to every gallon a
handful of fennel-roots, boil these {33} half an hour, then strain it
out, and to every gallon of this liquor—ugh—put three pounds of honey;
boil it two hours, and scum it well, and when ’tis cold pour it off
and tun it into a vessel, or such cask as is fit for it; keep it a
year in the vessel, and then bottle it. ’Tis a very good sack.

And the butler who would place this on my table would get a good sack,
too. Mustard-and-water is cheaper and swifter.

Canary and Rhenish were also drunk freely during the Elizabethan
period—the English Sack recipe belongs to the Charles I. period—and
long before that usquebaugh, or whisky in all its original sin, was in
demand, although the Highlanders were no dabs at distillation until
the sixteenth century. Usquebaugh, by the way, is derived from the old
Gaelic _Uisge-beatha_, “Water of Life,” and under this name both Irish
and Scotch whisky were originally known.

But this simple water of life was not tasty enough for some palates,
therefore vile men invented a special blend for the benefit of the
wealthy, and those who had not much work to do next morning.

_To make Usquebaugh._

To three gallons of brandy put four ounces of aniseeds bruised; the
next day distil it in a cold still pasted up; then scrape four ounces
of licorice, and pound it in a mortar, dry it in an iron pan, do not
burn it, put it in the bottle to your distill’d water, and let it
stand ten days. Then take out the licorice, and to every six quarts
of the spirits {34} put in cloves, mace, nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger,
of each a quarter of an ounce, dates stoned and sliced four ounces;
raisins stoned half a pound. Let these infuse ten days, then strain it
out, and tincture it with saffron, and bottle it and cork it well.

It seems just the sort for Jubilee rejoicings and vestry meetings; but
do not give it to the constable on fixed point duty.

In my pitiable ignorance, I once thought that Clary was the old English
name for Claret. Not a bit of it. This is how the artistic used to make

_Clary Wine_.

Take twenty-four pounds of Malaga raisins, pick and chop them very
small, put them in a tub, and to each pound a quart of water; let them
steep ten or eleven days—this sounds like a school treat—stirring it
twice every day; you must keep it covered close all the while; then
strain it off, and put it into a vessel, and about half a peck of the
tops of clary (what was clary?) when ’tis in blossom; stop it close
for six weeks, and then bottle it off; in two or three months ’tis fit
to drink.

Clary naturally leads to

_Apricock Wine_,

which we of the nineteenth century miscall apricot. The derivation
of the word is Latin. Then the Arabs got hold of it, and it became
Al-precoc. Then the thriving Spaniards got hold of the word, which
became Alborcoque; and so to England. But to the wine. {35}

Take three pounds of sugar, and three quarts of water, let them boil
together, and scum it well; then put in six pounds of apricocks, pared
and stoned, and let them boil till they are tender; then take them
up, and when the liquor is cold bottle it up. You may, if you please,
after you have taken out the apricocks, let the liquor have one boil
with a sprig of flower’d clary in it.

Also, you may if you please—and you probably _will_ please—add a little
old brandy to the decoction.

{36}

CHAPTER IV

SOME OLD RECIPES

“The Chineses,” says a very old work on liquid nourishment, “make
excellent Drink of Rice, which is very pleasant of taste, and is
preferred by them before wine.”

But, like the Germans, the Chineses will eat and drink pretty nearly
anything. And this is the cheering mixture which the Chineses sampled
in the new German colony of Kiant-schan, according to the _Frankfurter
Zeitung_:—

“Sitting under the poplars one can imagine oneself in the courtyard
of an old German feudal castle. The hamper is opened, and the cold
mountain stream flowing before the temple serves as an ice cellar.
Once more the male population of the village puts in an appearance,
standing {37} round the table in amazement at all the unheard-of
things happening. The greatest success attends the uncorking of the
Apollinaris bottles. The bottle is pointed at the onlookers, and the
cork having been loosened it flies into their faces with a loud report.
At first they are greatly alarmed, then they enjoy the joke hugely, and
at last they all squat on the ground in a circle, and send a deputy to
the table of the foreigners, bearing a teacup. The petition is granted,
and in the teacup an exquisite brew is prepared. The drainings of all
the beer bottles are collected, to which is added a little claret
and a liberal proportion of Apollinaris, and then, in order to lend
greater consistency to the beverage, some sausage skins are mixed with
it. The teacup circulates amongst the Chinese, and each sips it with
reverential awe. Some of them make fearful grimaces, but not one has
the courage of his opinion, and it is evident that, on the whole, the
drink is voted a good one, although, perhaps, its flavour is somewhat
rare.”

Next, please. Oh, here is another, about some neighbours of the
Chineses.

“In the Isle Formosa, not far from China, the Natives make a Drink as
strong and intoxicative as Sack, out of Rice, which they soak in warm
water, and then beat it to a paste in a Mortar; then they chew some
Rice-meal in their mouths, which they spit to a pot till they have got
about a quart of liquor, which they put to the paste instead of Leaven
or Ferment. And after all be kneaded together till it be Dough, they
put it into a great earthen pot, which they {38} fill up with water,
and so let it remain for two months; by which means they make one of
the most pleasant Liquors a man need drink; the older the better and
sweeter, although you keep it five and twenty or thirty years.”

Weel—I hae ma doots.

Until reading “_The English Housewife_, containing the inward and
outward Vertues which ought to be in a complete Woman, published by
Nicholas Okes at the sign of the golden Unicorne, in 1631,” I had no
skill in making

_White Bastard_

or “aparelling” Muskadine. They used a lot of eggs in the vintry in
those days, and these were the instructions for making white bastard.

Draw out of a pipe of bastard ten gallans, and put to it five gallans
of new milke, and skim it as before, and all to beat it with a parill
of eight whites of egges, and a handfull of Baysalt and a pint of
conduit-water, and it will be white and fine in the morning. But if
you will make very fine bastard—which I, personally, have no ambition
to do—take a white-wine hog’s-head, and put out the lees, and wash
it cleane, and fill it halfe full and halfe a quarter, and put to it
foure gallans of new milke, and beate it well with the whites of sixe
egges, and fill it up with white-wine and sacke, and it will be white
and fine.

Bastard had not much rest in the seventeenth century. The housewife
who might wish “to helpe bastard being eager” had to follow these
directions:—

Take two gallons of the best stoned honey, and {39} two gallons of
white wine, and boyle them in a faire panne, skimme it cleane, and
straine it through a faire cloth that there be no moats in it; then
put to it one ounce of collianders (coriander seeds?) and one ounce of
aniseeds, foure or five orange pils (pips?) dry and beaten to powder,
let them lye three dayes; then draw your bastard into a cleane pipe,
then put in your honey with the rest, and beate it well; then let it
lye a weeke and touch it not, after draw it at pleasure.

In the present enlightened century such a recipe does not read like
helping the possible consumer to be “eager.”

Nor does the following method of treating Malmsey sound promising,
except for making its consumer particularly “for’ard”:—

If you have a good but of Malmsey, and a but or two of sacke that will
not be drunke; for the sacke prepare some empty but or pipe, and draw
it more than halfe full of sacke; then fill it up with Malmsey, and
when your but is full within a little, put into it three gallons of
Spanish cute, the best that you can get—where did they get it?—then
beate it well; then take your taster, and see that it bee deepe
coloured; then fill it up with sacke, and give it aparell, and beate
it well. The aparell is thus: Take the yelkes of tenne egges and beate
them in a cleane bason with a handful of Bay salt, and a quarte of
conduit-water, and beate them together with a little peece of birch,
and beate it till it be as short as mosse; then draw five or sixe
gallons out of your but, then beate it againe, and then fill it up,
and the next day it will be ready to be drawne. This aparell will
serve both for muscadine, bastard, and for sacke. {40}

We are not told in history if the butt of Malmsey in which the Duke of
Clarence shuffled off his mortal and sinful coil had been previously
subjected to this “aparell” and castigation. In the interests of mercy,
let us hope not.

The fluid once known as

_Mum_

never claimed any sort of relationship with sparkling wine, but was
a species of unsophisticated ale, brewed from wheat, or oats, with a
little bean-meal occasionally introduced; in fact, the sort of stuff
we use in the present century to fatten bacon pigs upon. And “mum” has
_not_ been the word with British brewers for some time past.

Champagne has been made in England for a considerable period; but
since the closing of the “night-houses” in Panton Street the trade
therein has not been very brisk. During the present century champagne
in this country—and I grieve to add in France as well—has been chiefly
fabricated from apples, and other fruits; but here is a much older way
of making

_English Champagne_.

Take to three gallons of water nine pounds of Lisbon sugar; boil the
water and sugar half an hour, scum it clean, then have one gallon of
currants pick’d, but not bruis’d, pour the liquor boiling hot over
them, and when cold work it with half a pint of balm two days; then
pour it through a flannel or sieve, then put it into a barrel fit
for it with half an ounce of ising-glass well bruis’d. When it has
done working stop it close for a month, then bottle {41} it, and in
every bottle put a very small lump of double-refin’d sugar. This is
excellent wine, and has a beautiful colour.

“Life without Ebulum,” writes a friend, an instructor of youth in the
ingenuous arts, in forwarding me the recipe, “is a void to most people
who have not cultivated the eringo root in their back gardens.” I have
never tasted ebulum, preferring my ale neat and unadorned, but this is
how to prepare

_Ebulum_.

To a hogshead of strong ale take a heap’d bushel of elderberries,
and half a pound of juniper berries beaten; put in all the berries
when you put in the hops, and let them boil together till the berries
break in pieces; then work it up as you do ale. When it has done
working, add to it half a pound of ginger, half an ounce of cloves, as
much mace, an ounce of nutmegs, and as much cinnamon grosly beaten,
half a pound of citron, as much eringo root, and likewise of candied
orange-peel. Let the sweetmeats be cut in pieces very thin, and put
with the spice into a bag, and hang it in the vessel when you stop it
up. So let it stand till ’tis fine, then bottle it up, and drink it
with lumps of double-refin’d sugar in the glass.

One of the quaintest beverages of which I ever heard, or read, is

_Cock Ale_.

In order to make this, the _Compleat Housewyfe_ instructs us to take
ten gallons of ale, and a large {42} cock, the older the better.
Parboil the cock, flea (flay?) him, and stamp him in a stone mortar
till his bones are broken (you must craw and gut him when you flea
him), then put the cock into two quarts of sack, and put to it three
pounds of raisins of the sun stoned, some blades of mace, and a few
cloves; put all these into a canvas bag, and a little before you find
the ale has done working, put the ale and bag together into a vessel;
in a week or nine days bottle it up, fill the bottles but just above
the neck, and give it the same time to ripen as other ale.

I have frequently read of the giving of “body” to ale and stout, by
means of the introduction of horseflesh; and an old song used to tell
us that upon one of the paupers in a certain workhouse happening,
inadvertently, to fall head-foremost into the copper,

dreadful to tell, he was boiled in the soup,

which, on that account, in all probability so strengthened the
constitutions of the other paupers as to render them impatient of
workhouse discipline. The man who disappeared mysteriously—this is Mr.
Samuel Weller’s story—and who unwittingly furnished “body” for the
sausages supplied to the neighbourhood, was, after all, benefiting his
fellow-men. But to put the rooster into the ale-cask smacks somewhat of
barbarism; and thank goodness we do not work off our surplus poultry in
that fashion nowadays. But these barbarians were not ashamed; for lo!
facing me is “another way” for the manufacture of rooster-beer.

Take an old red, or other cock, and boyle him {43} indifferent well;
then flea his skin clean off, and beat him flesh and bones in a stone
mortar all to mash, then slice into him half a pound of dates, two
nutmegs quartered, two or three blaids of mace, four cloves; and put
to all this two quarts of sack that is very good; stop all this up
very close that no air may get to it for the space of sixteen hours;
then tun eight gallons of strong ale into your barrel so timely as
it may have done working at the sixteen hours’ end; and then put
thereinto your infusion and stop it close for five days, then bottle
it in stone bottles; be sure your corks are very good, and tye them
with pack-thread; and about a fortnight or three weeks after you may
begin to drink of it; you must also put into your infusion two pound
of raisins of the sun stoned.

Holy Moses! What a drink!

“It is necessary,” wrote a chronicler of the day, “that our English
Housewife be skilfull in the election, preservation, and curing of all
sorts of wines, because they be usuall charges under her hands, and by
the least neglect must turne the Husband to much losse.”

This was written, I may interpolate, before the bicycle craze had set
in, and before the era of ladies’ clubs. Fancy asking the New Woman to
elect, preserve, and cure all sorts of wines!

“Therefore,” continues the same writer, “to speak first of the
election of sweete Wines she must be careful that her Malmseys be full
Wines, pleasant, well hewed, and fine; that Bastard be fat, and if it
be tawny it skils not, for the tawny Bastards be always the sweetest.
Muskadine must be great, pleasant, and strong, with a swete {44} sent,
and Amber colour. Sacke, if it be Seres (Xerez?), which it should be,
you shall know it by the marke of a corke burned on one side of the
bung, and they be ever full gadge, and so are no other Sackes; and the
longer they lye the better they be.”

_Muskadine_

was, apparently, made from bastard and malmsey, with the addition of
ginger and new milk (with the cream removed).

Here is a potion bearing the harmless, Band-of-Hopish name of

_Lemon Wine_,

which would not, however, be tolerated at a Salvation Army banquet. The
first part of the recipe will be familiar to many of my young friends.

Take six large lemons, pare off the rind, and cut the lemons and
squeeze out the juice, and in the juice steep the rind, and put it
to a quart of brandy—so far, brother, the court is with you—and let
it stand in an earthen pot close stop’t three days, and then squeeze
six more, and mix with two quarts of spring-water, and as much sugar
as will sweeten the whole, and boil the water and lemons and sugar
together, and let it stand till ’tis cool. Then add a quart of white
wine and the other lemon and brandy, and mix them together, and run it
through a flannel bag into some vessel. Let it stand three months and
bottle it off. Cork your bottles very well, and keep it cool; it will
be fit to drink in a month or six weeks. {45}

Cheer-oh! This potion reads well, and I know a punch which bears some
resemblance thereto. But why call it lemon wine? Do not the brandy and
the white wine deserve some recognition in the nomenclature?

What is understood by the name

_Barley Wine_

nowadays is a particularly strong brew of ale. With the ancients,
however, it was a drink which might have been with safety handed round
at breaking-up parties in a young ladies’ school.

Take half a pound of French barley, and boil it in three waters, and
save three pints of the last water, and mix it with a quart of white
wine, half a pint of borage-water, as much clary-water, and a little
red rose-water, the juice of five or six lemons, three quarters of a
pound of fine sugar, and the thin yellow rind of a lemon; brew all
these quick together, run it through a strainer, and bottle it up.
’Tis pleasant in hot weather, and very good in fevers.

In the matter of possets—of which more anon—the following reads like a
seductive winter’s beverage, especially if the imbiber have a cold in
the head. Fear not the bile, but read the directions for making

_King William’s Posset_.

Take a quart of cream, and mix with it a pint of ale, then beat the
yolks of ten eggs and the whites of four; when they are well beaten,
put them to {46} your cream and ale. Sweeten to your taste and slice
some nutmeg in it; set it over the fire, and keep it stirring all the
while, and when ’tis thick, and before it boils, take it off, and pour
it into the bason you serve it in to the table.

Here is another, even more seductive.

_To make the Pope’s Posset._

Blanch and beat three-quarters of a pound of almonds so fine that they
will spread between your fingers like butter, put in water as you beat
them to keep them from oiling. Then take a pint of sack or sherry, and
sweeten it very well in double-refin’d sugar, make it boiling hot,
and at the same time put half a pint of water to your almonds, and
make them boil; then take both off the fire, and mix them very well
together with a spoon. Serve it in a china dish.

_Frontiniac Wine_

was simplicity itself.

Take six gallons of water and twelve pounds of white sugar, and
six pounds of raisins of the sun cut small; boil them together one
hour; then take of the flowers of elder, when they are falling and
will shake off, the quantity of half a peck; put them in the liquor
when ’tis almost cold, and next day put in six spoonfuls of syrup of
lemons, and four spoonfuls of ale yeast; and two days after put it
into a vessel that is fit for it, and when it has stood two months
bottle it off.

In the olden times, just before Oliver Cromwell was a going concern,
there were two sorts of what was then called {47}

_Renish Wine_,

that is to say, Elstertune and Barabant.

“The Elstertune,” says my informant, “are best, you shall know it
by the Fat, for it is double bard and double pinned”—I have not the
faintest idea what he means, but those are his words; “the Barabant is
nothing so good, and there is not so much good to be done with them
as with the other. If the Wines be good and pleasant, a man may rid
away a Hogshead or two of White wine, and this is the most vantage a
man can have by them; and if it be slender and hard, then take three
or four gallons of stone-honey and clarify it cleane; then put into
the honey four or five gallons of the same wine, and then let it seeth
a great while, and put into it twopence in cloves bruised, let them
seeth together, for it will take away the sent of honey; and when it
is sodden take it off, and set it by till it be thorow cold; then take
foure gallons of milke and order it as before, and then put all into
your wine, and all to beate it; and (if you can) role it, for that is
the best way; then stop it close and let it lie, and that will make it
pleasant.”

Possibly, but it seems a deal of trouble to take over a wine.

And now let us adjourn to a more familiar subject, for discussion in
the next chapter.

{48}

CHAPTER V

GLORIOUS BEER

As much poetry has been written in praise of John Barleycorn as in
praise of wine, woman, battles, heroes, Cupid’s darts, and patent
medicines. And one dear old song, which seems to ring in my ears as I
write, proclaimed that in the opinion of the author the nectar which
the gods imbibed from golden goblets on the top of Mount Olympus was
in reality cool, refreshing pale ale, quaffed out of pewter tankards.
Whether this was so matters not, but as to the antiquity of beer as
a beverage there can be no question; and however much the demand for
other liquors may have slackened during the rolling on of time, John
Barleycorn is still growing in public estimation. Breweries keep on
{49} springing up all over the country, and those who purchase shares
in them receive, for the most part, substantial dividends. “Beer and
the Bible” have won more elections than any other combination; the
organization of the brewers has hitherto proved powerful enough to
withstand all the slings and arrows of the Prohibition party, whilst
there has been an enormous increase in the value of houses licensed to
sell fermented refreshment; and the name of Bass will “live on,” like
Claudian, “through the centuries.”

There be more than one description of beer put before the public. I
forget at this moment who was responsible for the “swipes” of my school
days, which tasted like red ink—and I have sampled both—but I have
always believed that the manufacturer—I do not believe him to have been
a brewer at all—had a special spite against the rising generation,
which he wished to die a lingering death. The “ninepenny” quaffed
beneath the holy shade of Henry was good, sound, wholesome tipple; but
I fancy an inferior brand was poured forth to us at “half time” in
the football field. Since those days I have tasted pretty nearly all
sorts and conditions of beer, from the “Number One” Bass drawn from
the wood in pewter pots, in a little hostelry just off the Waterloo
Road—the very best according to my taste—to the awful stuff tasted,
and only tasted, one Sunday in a charmingly rural-looking little inn,
with a thatched roof—a licensed house which apparently laid itself out
to entrap the daring and enterprising “_bona fide_ traveller,” and
whose malt liquor was apparently composed for {50} the most part of
vinegar and dirty water, in which had been soaked quassia chips, salt,
bloater-heads, and some of the thatch from the roof.

Beer was the current name in England for every description of malt
liquor before the introduction of “the wicked weed called hops” from
the Netherlands in 1524. According to the _Alvismal_, a didactic
Scandinavian poem of the tenth century, this malt liquor was called
ale amongst men, and beer by the gods; and it was probably from this
Scandinavian poem that the author of the anything-but-didactic poem
quoted above got his ideas as to the real nature of the beverage
partaken of on Olympus. In the Eastern counties of England, and over
the greater part of the kingdom, ale signifies strong, and beer small,
malt liquor, but in the West these names mean exactly the reverse—which
must be confusing in the extreme to the intelligent foreigner on
his travels in search of facts and—refreshment. As now used, ale is
distinguished from beer—I am alluding to the more civilized parts of
our country—chiefly by its strength, and by the quantity of sugar
remaining in it undecomposed. Strong ale is made from the best pale
malt, and the fermentation is allowed to proceed slowly, and the
ferment to be exhausted and separated. This, together with the large
quantity of sugar still left undecomposed, enables the liquor to keep
long, without requiring a large amount of hops.

The last few lines may give the reader the impression that the writer
served his time in Burton-on-Trent; but this is not the case. I {51}
have conveyed the bulk of my technical knowledge of brewing from
standard works on the subject.

It will be gathered from some previous remarks that all is not beer
that’s bitter; and although it would seem impossible to find a
cleaner, healthier, or more strengthening drink than the “pure beer”
of commerce, brewed from good English or Scotch barley, Kentish hops,
and fair spring-water, how about the wash sold in some licensed houses
which is “fetched up” with foot-sugar, bittered with quassia, and mixed
with salt and any nasty flavourer which is handy?

The old stories about the carcass of a horse placed in the London
stout, to give it “body,” and the mysterious disappearance of an
Italian organ-grinder, together with his monkey and infernal machine,
just outside a high-class brewery, are probably apocryphal. And
although the ancients undoubtedly put a red cock—the older the
better—into ale, on occasion, the nineteenth century Briton, for the
most part, if the rooster be too tough to serve as a boiled _bonne
bouche_ with parsley-and-butter, usually makes Cock-a-Leekie of him.
And thereby hangs a tale.

When my firm was running a small chicken-ranche we once reared an
unfortunate fowl, who had curvature of the spine, almost from the
fracture of his shell. He was a weakling, and his brethren and
sistren, after the manner of birds, beasts, and fishes, who “go for”
the anæmic and infirm, persecuted him exceedingly, and peeked most
of his feathers off. Being a {52} merciful, and withal a thrifty,
poultry-farmer, I looked out an old parrot’s cage from the tool-shed,
and in this cage installed the weakly cockerel. He was forthwith
christened “Poor Richard,” and given little Benjamin’s share of the
corn and wine, and cayenne pepper and—other things. And although his
head was still slewed round to starboard, he thrived under his liberal
nourishment and freedom from the assaults of his relatives.

Time flew on. I had been the “Northern Circuit,” in the pursuit of my
then profession of reporter of the sport of kings. I returned home late
on a Saturday night, and next day we had friends to dinner. So much
North Country language, and so much travelling about had quite put our
feathered and afflicted pensioner out of my head; and even the fact of
our having the favourite broth of His Majesty King James the First for
dinner did not suggest anything to my busy brain. But afterwards, when
we were alone—she ought not to have done it—my life-partner confided
to me that I had helped to eat “Poor Richard”! And I felt like a very
cannibal; and mourned the bird as a brother.

But to return. In Queen Elizabeth’s reign it was, I used to believe, a
capital offence to put hops into beer. But these are the directions for

_Brewing of Strong Ale_,

issued by one Gervase Markham, an authority on the subject, and a
contemporary of Shakespeare; and in these directions “hops” are
distinctly mentioned as one of the component parts of the brew. {53}

Now for the brewing of strong Ale, because it is drinke of no such
long lasting as Beere is, therefore you shall brew lesse quantity at
a time thereof, as two bushels of Northerne measure (which is foure
bushels or halfe a quarter in the South) at a brewing, and not above,
which will make foureteene gallons of the best Ale. Now for the
mashing and ordering of it in the mash-fat, it will not differ any
thing from that of Beere; as for hops, although some use not to put
in any, yet the best Brewers thereof will allow to foureteene gallons
of Ale a good espen full of hops, and no more, yet before you put in
your hops, as soone as you take it from the graines, you shall put it
into a vessell, and change it, or blinke it in this manner: Put into
the Wort a handfull of Oke-bowes and a pewter dish, and let them lye
therein till the Wort looke a little paler than it did at the first,
and then presently take out the dish and the leafe, and then boile it
a full houre with the hops, as aforesayd, and then clense it, and set
it in vessels to cook; when it is milk-warme, having set your Barme
to rise with some sweete Wort; then put all into the guilfat, and as
soone as it riseth, with a dishe or bowle beate it in, and so keepe it
with continuall beating a day and a night, and after run it. From this
Ale you may also draw halfe so much very good middle Ale, and a third
part very good small Ale.

Another way

_To make Strong Beer_

was published at a later date than the above, and to my thinking is not
a better way.

To a barrel of beer take two bushels of malt and half a bushel of
wheat just crackt in the mill, and some of the flour lifted out of
it; when your {54} water is scalding hot, put it in your mashing-fat;
there let it stand till you can see your face in it; then put your
malt upon it, then put your wheat upon that, and do not stir it; let
it stand two hours and a half; then let it run into a tub that has two
pounds of hops in it, and a handful of rosemary flowers, and when ’tis
all run put it in your copper and boil it two hours; then strain it
off, setting it a-cooling very thin, and set it a-working very cool;
clear it very well before you put it a-working, put a little yeast
to it; when the yeast begins to fall, put it into your vessel, and
when it has done working in the vessel, put in a pint of whole wheat
and six eggs; then stop it up, let it stand a year, and then bottle
it. Then mash again, stir the malt very well in, and let it stand
two hours, and let that run, and mash again, and stir it as before;
be sure you cover your mashing-fat well up, mix the first and second
running together; it will make good household beer.

I rather fancy the blending of a lot of eggs (presumably new-laid) with
the mash, would “break” some of the smaller brewers. It could hardly be
done at the price.

The Germans make

_Beer Soup._

Whether this is made from British or lager beer is not stated in the
recipe before me, which hardly reads suited to the ordinary English
palate.

I will now give a few modern recipes for tasty beer-compounds. {55}

_Ale Cup (Cold)._

Squeeze the juice of a lemon into a round of hot toast; lay on it a
thin piece of the rind, a tablespoonful of powdered sugar, a little
grated nutmeg or powdered all-spice, and a sprig of balm. Pour over
these one wine-glass of brandy, two of sherry, and three pints of mild
ale. Do not allow the balm to remain in many minutes.

_Ale Flip (Hot)._

Put into a saucepan three pints of ale, a tablespoonful of sugar,
a blade of mace, a clove, and a small piece of butter, and bring
the liquor to a boil. Beat the white of one egg and the yolks of
two thoroughly, mixing with them a tablespoonful of cold ale. Mix
all together, and then pour the whole rapidly from one large jug to
another, from a good height—mind your fingers and the furniture—for
some minutes, to froth it thoroughly. Do not allow it to get cool.

_Ale Posset (Hot)._

Boil a pint of new milk, and pour it over a slice of toasted bread.
Stir in the beaten yolk of an egg and a small piece of butter, and
sugar _ad lib._ Mix these with a pint of hot ale, and boil for a few
minutes. When the scum rises the mixture is ready for use.

_Mulled Ale (Very Hot)._

Put half a pint of ale, a clove, a little whole ginger, a piece of
butter the size of a marble, and a teaspoonful of sugar into a
saucepan, and bring {56} it to boiling-point. Beat two eggs with a
tablespoonful of cold ale, and pour the boiling ale into them, and
then into a large jug. Pass the whole from one jug to another, as
in the case of Ale Flip, return to saucepan, and heat it again till
almost, _not quite_, at boiling-point.

With regard to

_Wassail, or Swig (Cold)_,

which used to be a very popular beverage at the universities—at one
time it was peculiar to Jesus College, Oxford—is of very ancient date
indeed.

“Sir quod he,” is part of a conversation culled from an old MS.,
“Watsayll, for never days of your lyf ne dronk ye of such a cuppe,”
which sounds as if the Watsayll was of a seductive and harmful nature.
Nevertheless here is the recipe, taken from “Oxford Nightcaps.”

Put into a bowl half a pound of Lisbon sugar (if you do not possess
that brand, I have no doubt “best lump,” pulverized, will do as well),
and pour on it one pint of warm beer; grate a nutmeg and some ginger
into it; add four glasses of sherry and five additional pints of
beer; stir it well and sweeten to taste; let it stand covered up two
or three hours, then put three or four slices of bread cut thin and
toasted brown into it, and it is fit for use. Sometimes two or three
slices of lemon are introduced, together with a few lumps of sugar
rubbed on the peel of a lemon. Bottle this mixture, and in a few days
it may be drunk in a state of effervescence.

On the festival of St. David, an immense silver-gilt bowl, the gift of
Sir Watkin W. Wynne to {57} the college in 1732 is filled with this
“swig,” and passed round, at Jesus College. And I should prefer to
call the beverage “swig” instead of “wassail,” which should properly
be a _hot_ drink, if we are to believe the illustrated papers at
Christmas-time. And there is no toast in the orthodox Wassail, but,
instead, roasted apples. What does Puck say in _A Midsummer Night’s
Dream_?

Sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab,
And when she drinks against her lips I bob,
And on her wither’d dewlaps pour the ale.

_Brown Betty_

Here is another old recipe:—

Dissolve a quarter of a pound of brown sugar in one pint of water,
slice a lemon into it, let it stand a quarter of an hour, then add
a small quantity of pulverised cloves and cinnamon, half a pint of
brandy, and one quart of good strong ale; stir it well together, put a
couple of slices of toasted bread in it, grate some nutmeg and ginger
over the toast, and it is fit for use. Ice it well, and it will prove
a good summer, warm it and it will become a pleasant winter, beverage.
It is drunk chiefly at dinner.

Rather heavily loaded for a dinner drink, I should say.

Another recipe for

_Ale Flip_

will serve, here. {58}

Beat well together in a jug, four eggs with a quarter of a pound of
sifted sugar; then add by degrees, stirring all the time, two quarts
of old Burton ale, and half a pint of gin; pour backwards and forwards
from one jug to another, and when well frothed serve in tumblers.
Grate a little nutmeg atop of each portion. This is one of the best
“nightcaps” I know—especially after you may have been badger-hunting,
or burgling, or serenading anybody on Christmas Eve.

_Rumfustian._

Beat up in a jug, the yolks of two eggs with a tablespoonful of sifted
sugar; then take half a pint of old Burton ale, one wine-glass of gin,
one wine-glass of sherry, a little spice and lemon rind. Let the ale,
wine, and gin, mixed together come to the boil, then pour in the egg
mixture, whisking rapidly; serve hot, with a little nutmeg grated atop.

Such compound drinks, into which ale enters, as Shandy-gaff require no
mention here. Suffice it to mention that this gaff has for many years
been the favourite beverage of those who go up the river—there is but
one river in England—in boats, whether schoolboys, or of riper years.
In Stock Exchange circles champagne is occasionally substituted for
ginger-beer, but this is a combination in which I have no implicit
belief; although champagne and Guinness’s stout make an excellent
mixture. Stout and bitter, otherwise known as

_Mother-in-law_,

and old-and-mild, for which the pet name is {59}

_Uncle_,

are also in much request amongst the groundlings; whilst during the
warm weather I know of no more popular swallow, for moderate drinkers,
who do not require their throats to be scratched, than a small bottle
of lemonade to which is added just one “pull” of pale-ale. This is
called, for the sake of brevity, a

_Small Lem and a Dash_,

or the Poor Man’s Champagne; and is a refreshing and innocuous drink
which might commend itself to total abstainers.

In the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge there is probably as much
malt liquor drunk per head as in any other part of the world.

_Brasenose Ale_

has obtained a reputation which the beverage doubtless fully merits.
Since the foundation of this college a custom has prevailed of
introducing into the refectory on Shrove Tuesday, immediately after
dinner, what is denominated Brasenose Ale, but what is known in
many other parts of England as Lamb’s Wool. Verses in praise of
the Ale are—or at all events were—annually written by one of the
undergraduates, and a copy of them is sent to every resident member of
the College.

The following stanzas are taken from one of these contributions:— {60}

Shall all our singing now be o’er,
Since Christmas carols fail?
No! Let us shout one stanza more
In praise of Brasenose Ale!

A fig for Horace and his juice,
Falernian and Massic;
Far better drink can we produce,
Though ’tis not quite so classic.

Not all the liquors Rome e’er had
Can beat our matchless Beer;
Apicius’ self had gone stark mad
To taste such noble cheer.

After all, the potion is simplicity itself:—

Three quarts of ale, sweetened with sifted sugar, and served up in a
bowl with six roasted apples floating in it.

{61}

CHAPTER VI

ALL ALE

In a speech made some years ago Sir Michael Hicks-Beach observed that
nearly one million sterling’s worth of tobacco was wasted annually by
throwing away cigarette-ends and the stumps of cigars. But what would
you, Sir Michael? Are the lieges to cremate their lips and singe their
moustaches by smoking on to the (literally) bitter end? Whether or no,
it is tolerably certain that there is an enormous daily waste in the
matter of intoxicating drinks—without counting the wanton, although
conscientious, destruction made by teetotal magnates. According to
statistics—I shall not madden my readers with many of these—more than
£138,000,000 {62} are spent annually in Great Britain on spirituous
liquors. Half of this sum, it may be fairly stated, is spent in the
provinces. It may also be taken as read that 5 per cent of beer and
stout is wasted, in the way of froth, spillings, and leavings, and 3
per cent of spirits. This brings us face to face with the calculation
that the value of our daily waste in drinks is nearly £6500. Carbonic
acid gas is undoubtedly answerable for a lot of this waste. In _The Old
Guard_, a musical piece produced at the Avenue Theatre some years ago,
Mr. Arthur Roberts in his instructions to Miss Phyllis Broughton—who
made a very comely stage barmaid—particularly enjoined her, when
drawing ale, to use her left hand to bring the handle down.

“The right hand,” he observed—of course it was all “gag”—“is for the
froth.” And then he shewed her how to make half a pint of liquor fill a
pint measure. Of course there be some professional imbibers who would
object strongly and refuse to accept the froth programme; but on the
other hand it pays the retailer, in the long-run. I am not going to
re-tell the old story of the Quaker; but will only mention that in the
early seventies the landlord of a favourite tavern in the Strand—a
house of call for histrions, which has since then been transmogrified
and adorned with much bevelled glass and carved walnut—once confided
to me that he made every bit of £300 per annum out of his froth. His
barmaids were all of angelic appearance, with most beautiful heads
of hair (the girls wore plenty of it in those days) and a wealth
of pretty prattle. And the {63} customers being susceptible, and
liberal-minded, the rest was easy.

Egyptian manuscripts written at least 3000 years before the Christian
era shew conclusively that even at that primitive period the
manufacture of an intoxicating liquor from barley or other grain was
extensively carried out in Egypt. Probably the wretched Israelites got
far more birch and bastinado than beer given them whilst engaged in
brickmaking; but it is quite on the cards that Cleopatra, when fatigued
with practising the spot stroke on her billiard-table, often commanded
one of her slaves to draw her a pint of bitter with a head on it; and
who knows but that her beloved Antony cooled his coppers with small ale?

Pliny—who would be a useful sort of man to have in a daily newspaper
office nowadays—records that in his time a fermented drink made
from “corn and water” was in regular use in all the districts of
Europe with which he was acquainted. But in Britain little was known
about beer before the Roman conquest, as the favourite beverages of
our ancestors were mead and cider. But the Romans, although they
never quite succeeded in subduing the stubborn dispositions of the
“barbarians,” managed to teach them a bit of husbandry, and to shew
them something about brewing. There were no means of making wine in
those days, and—save in Wales—there were no grapes to make it with; but
the Latins were not long in teaching the Britons—who were never slow
to learn anything which might lead to revelry—that a very good {64}
substitute for wine might be expressed from grain and water. Hops were
undoubtedly known in England before the conquest, but do not appear
to have been regularly used in brewing before the beginning of the
sixteenth century. It is probable, therefore, that they were employed
as medicine—and there is no better tonic than your hop. The Germans
would seem to have brewed with the “wicked weed” before the Englanders
did, according to the omniscient Pliny.

The horny-handed son of toil, who can put away his four or five gallons
daily during harvest-time, without falling off the waggon, may not
know it, but it is only the female hop which is used by the brewer
of to-day. The characteristics of the he-hop are not known to the
writer, or whether he plays any part in aiding to relieve the thirst
of the lieges; but the female is said to exercise “a purifying, a
preservative, and an aromatic influence over the wort.”

It used to be a popular fallacy that the beer made at Burton-on-Trent
was brewed from Trent water, instead of, as was and is the case, from
spring-water, which is eminently suited to the purpose. The chief
industry at Burton was, originally, cotton-spinning, but fifty years
ago this industry was discontinued owing to the triumphal march of
John Barleycorn. Why spin cotton when the manufacture of beer is not
only a much healthier occupation but is far more lucrative? So Burton
stuck to its beer-making, a trade which was originally established
{65} there—in a very small way—in the sixteenth century. There
appears to have been a demand for Burton ale in London, during the
reign of Charles I.; although details are missing as to whether the
demand extended to the royal palaces. It is certain, however, that
more than one hundred years ago Burton-on-Trent did a considerable
export trade with the Baltic. In 1791 there were nine breweries here,
and in 1851 sixteen. But at the beginning of the present century,
until the last-named year, when the great Exhibition attracted all
the world and his wife to England, the breweries at Burton were not
all in a flourishing condition; and I have more than once heard my
grandfather—who spoke from personal knowledge—tell the story of how the
late Mr. Michael Thomas Bass most magnanimously offered to “prop up”
another large firm, with the remark, “There’s room enough for us both
here!”

At present there are thirty breweries in Burton-on-Trent, and employed
in these are some 8000 men and boys. After the opening of the Midland
Railway in 1839 the brewing trade here began to improve, but it was
mainly due to the energy and practical knowledge of Mr.

_Bass_

aforementioned that Burton-on-Trent in general, and the great firm
of Bass are in their present flourishing condition. In the words of
Shakespeare, “He was a man; take him for all in all we shall not look
upon his like again.” Beginning as traveller to the firm, he was
not long ere {66} he became its chief director. He was untiring in
business, a man possessing the broadest views of men and things, a
bit crotchety on occasion, but possessed of “that most excellent gift
of charity,” in boundless supplies. Amongst his other benefactions
was the building and endowment of St. Paul’s, Burton, and the gift of
recreation grounds, a free library, and swimming-baths to the adjacent
town of Derby. He also built and endowed another church on his own
estate, at Rangemore; and his hand was never out of his cash-pocket
when he could aid in a good work. He represented Derby, in the Liberal
interest, from 1848 to 1883, and was a tower of strength to that party,
albeit possessed of nothing like bigoted opinions. On the contrary, it
was his custom through life, like Hal o’ the Wynd in _The Fair Maid of
Perth_, to “fight for his own hand.” And as an instance of his energy
and grit, it may be mentioned that after voting in the House of Commons
for Mr. Gladstone’s Irish Church Disestablishment Bill—the division on
which did not take place till 2 A.M.—he travelled by the “newspaper
train” at 5 A.M. from Euston to Rugeley in order to hunt with Mr. Hugo
Meynell Ingram’s hounds, later in the morning, changing his clothes on
the way down. The meet was at Brereton Hayes, close to Cunnock Chase,
and I well remember greeting him that morning, and receiving for a
reply: “Thank you, I’m pretty well for an old ’un.” He was over seventy
(I think) at the time. That was three decades ago; and since then the
trade of Bass has increased enormously. {67} For the annual holiday
of the staff I should be afraid to state from memory how many special
trains are required to convey the great hive of workers to Brighton,
and other far-distant watering-places, and back to Burton again. In
short, it would be hard to find a spot in the inhabited world in which
the name of Bass is not known and respected.

I mentioned further back Scotch and English barleys as being employed
for malting purposes; but as a matter of fact the produce of many
countries is used, in a blend, the whole being divided into two
classes, heavy and light. And in making choice of barleys it is
necessary that they should be thoroughly and equally ripened, well
“got” or harvested, and as far as possible presented to the brewer
in the perfect husk or envelope with which nature has furnished the
kernel. Ancient and modern modes of thrashing and dressing to a greater
or less extent damage both the husk and the kernel, and thus at the
very threshold introduce one of the causes of disease. Whenever the
grain is broken or bruised it is liable to be attacked when moist by a
variety of moulds which lead to more or less serious disaster.

Of the different varieties of beer, “pale ale” or “bitter” is a
highly-hopped beer made from the very finest selected malt and hops;
whilst “mild ale,” or as it is called in Scotland “sweet ale,” is of
greater gravity or strength, and is comparatively lightly hopped. “Old
ale” is, naturally, the best stuff that can be brewed, in a state of
maturity; and it is a peculiarity of ale {68} that, securely bottled,
it will keep its strength far longer than any other fermented drink.
In December 1889 some bottles of beer were found walled up in a cellar
at Burton-on-Trent; and the records of the firm, as well as the shape
of the bottles, shewed that the beer had been brewed nearly a hundred
years before. It was as bright as a sunbeam, and quite drinkable,
but had lost its bitterness, and assumed the character of sherry.
But old ale, like old brandy, is of little value to the toper, in
that it takes a very minute quantity to accomplish in him the desired
effect—oblivion. “Audit” ales and “college” ditto require very delicate
handling of the jug; and I have tasted ancient beer in Allsopp’s
cellars in Burton, a wine-glassful of which would probably have put
a coal-whipper on his back. It was the colour of mahogany and oh! so
seductive.

Porter, as most people know, is a black beer, brewed in much the same
manner as the other stuff, with roasted malt to give it colour; whilst
stout is simply a superior kind of porter. As for the lager beer of the
Fatherland it is fermented at a very low temperature, the fermentation
being longer delayed. Some years ago great stress was laid on the
German system of mashing called the “thick mash,” which consisted of
boiling or cooking a portion of the mash, and running it back and
remixing it with the portion left in the tun; but it is now found
possible to brew the finest lager beer with a slight modification of
our own mashing method.

The sons of Britannia for a considerable period held aloof from this
lager, which was {69} pronounced by some to be mere “hogwash,” and by
others to consist principally of the juice of fir-cones and onions
mixed with snow-water. The fir-cone flavour is, I believe, accounted
for by the “pitching” of the barrels in which the beer is stored;
but I don’t know where the oniony flavour comes from. The prejudice
against this beer has long since departed from our midst; in fact it
has become quite a favourite summer drink. It is generally considered
less intoxicating than its English cousin. In fact the German students
are in the habit of putting huge quantities thereof out of sight, on
the occasion of passing examinations, and public rejoicings; and these
“beer-drinkings” are, apparently, fully sanctioned by the authorities.

It has been written that it is to Dean Nowell, “classed by Fuller
among the worthies of England,” that we are indebted for the discovery
of bottled beer. According to Fuller, “this worthy, who was an
enthusiastic fisherman, was one day angling in the Thames; but at the
very time when he was trying to catch perch to carry to the frying-pan,
that benighted bigot Bishop Bonner was trying to catch him to tie
him to the stake for purposes of cremation, to the glory of the old
religion. The reverend gentleman heard that he was ‘wanted,’ left his
fishing, and fled as far from the Thames as he could, leaving untasted
in a safe place a bottle of beer which he had filled in the morning.
Bonner’s day did not last long, and Dean Nowell was soon able to return
to his old haunts. Fishing as usual, he went to look after his bottle
of beer, and {70} found that it had turned into a species of gun—it
exploded its contents, when touched.” Thus Nature, which is ever kind,
turned the martyrdom and misery of Bloody Mary’s reign to good—it
brought about bottled beer. The Dean unbosomed himself of his great
discovery to his clerical friends, and the clergy let it out gradually
to the laity.

Gervase Markham, the aforementioned contemporary of Shakespeare, gives
the following directions to “the English Housewife” of 1631, for

_Brewing of Bottle-Ale_.

Touching the brewing of Bottle-ale, it differeth nothing at all
from the brewing of strong Ale, onely it must be drawne in a larger
proportion, as at least twenty gallons of halfe a quarter; and when it
comes to be changed, you shall blinke it (as was before shewed) more
by much than was the strong Ale, for it must bee pretty and sharpe,
which giveth the life and quicknesse to the Ale: and when you tunne
it, you shall put it into round bottles with narrow mouthes, and then
stopping them close with corke, set them in a cold sellar up to the
wast in sand, and be sure that the corkes be fast tied in with strong
packe-thrid, for feare of rising out, or taking vent, which is the
utter spoyle of the Ale.

Now for the small drinke arising from this Bottle-ale, or any other
beere or ale whatsoever, if you keep it after it is blinckt and boyled
in a close vessell, and then put it to barme every morning as you have
occasion to use it, the drinke will drinke a great deale the fresher,
and be much more lively in taste. {71}

I confess that the above directions are somewhat vague to my untutored
mind, which is quite a blank upon the subject of “blinckt and boyled”
ale. Nor do I imagine for one moment that the “English Housewife” of
the year 1899 will cumber herself with brewing or bottling, any sort of
malt-liquor, as long as there be bonnets to be chosen, bicycles to be
ridden, or golf to be played.

Wholesome as may be the beer in itself, its surroundings are not always
hygienic. The system of pumping up the glorious fluid from the cellar
through leaden pipes neither improves the flavour nor renders it more
valuable as a morning “livener.” And there is a story—which I believe
to be strictly true—told of a night cabman in London who used to call
at the nearest tavern to his stand, the first thing in the morning,
and swallow the first glass of beer drawn for the day. His end was
lead-poisoning.

But there! John Barleycorn has probably done far more good than harm in
his day; so let us toast the “Egyptian drink” in itself, the while we
sing, in the words of the old song:—

Dang his eyes,
If ever he tries
To rob a poor man
of his beer!

{72}

CHAPTER VII

A SPIRITUOUS DISCOURSE

“What is a pound?” was a favourite query of the great Sir Robert Peel.
“What is brandy?” is a question asked now and then; and the answer
thereto should be an ambiguous one. Brandy is supposed, by good easy
people who trouble not to enquire too closely into the composition of
their daily food, to be a liquid obtained by distilling the fermented
juice of the grape. The red wines are preferable, although in the
seventeenth century the best French brandy was made entirely from white
ones. The original distillation is clear and colourless, but when
placed in casks the liquid dissolves out the colouring matter of the
wood, brown sugar and other pigments being also added. {73}

But if you want the best French brandy, distilled from the luscious
grape, see that you get it; and let your vision be in thorough working
order. With the exception of the good, conscientious spirit-distillers,
all French houses import potato-spirit in large quantities from
Germany, and re-ship it to the home of the brave and free as superior
cognac. This alone would seem sufficient excuse for another invasion
of France; although these evil-minded distillers seek to justify their
actions by blaming the _phylloxera_, a little insect which has laboured
more assiduously in the cause of temperance—by destroying the main
source of intemperance—than Sir Wilfrid Lawson himself. “The ravages
of the _phylloxera_,” say the distillers, in effect, “compel us to
employ other _matériel_, in order to fulfil our cognac contracts with
the merchants of the perfidious isle.” It is related of a theatrical
“property-man” that, upon being rebuked by the tragedian for making a
snowstorm out of brown, instead of white, paper, he replied curtly: “It
was the only paper I had; and if you can’t snow white you must snow
brown.” This excuse is on a par with that urged on behalf of the German
potato-spirit.

_Phylloxera vastatrix_ (why not _devastatrix_?) has cost France, it
is said, a pecuniary loss far exceeding that of the Franco-Prussian
war. The little monster was discovered in North America in 1854, and
whether the discoverer or one of his friends brought the vine-killer
on a holiday-trip to Europe, or whether it worked its own passage
will never be known. But certain it is that the {74} little monster
made its first appearance on this side in the year 1863. Striking an
attitude, with the exclamation, “Hallo! here’s a vine, let’s have the
first suck,” the _phylloxera_ commenced a long starring engagement (to
borrow another metaphor from the theatres), which in another fifteen
years’ time had developed into an enormous success, as far as the
_vastatrix_ was concerned. Naturally, it is the she-phylly who does
the harm. From August to October Madam lays her little eggs on the
vine-leaves, beneath the surface. The _ova_ develop late in autumn into
males and females, who migrate to the stem of the vine. There each
bold, bad female lays an egg, under the bark. This egg lies dormant,
after the manner of pesky little insect-nuisances, through the winter,
and develops in April or May into a wingless, voracious, merciless
little “vine-louse,” with power to add to its number. “The rest,” as
the mechanical engineers tell us, just before our brains go, “is easy.”
The vine-louse attacks the roots, without waiting, the silly idiot,
for the grapes to ripen, the vine dies, and the potato reigns in its
stead. Without burning the plant, or drowning it, it is impossible to
eradicate the _phylloxera_, without spending three times as much cash,
in chemicals, as the vine is worth. This is the true story of France’s
great trouble.

Beetroot-spirit is also largely used in making cognac, the coarse
spirit being flavoured with œnanthic æther, cognac-oil (made from
palm-oil) and—other things. Also of late years the French have
discovered that almost as good wine can be made from raisins as from
the uncooked {75} article, provided they use enough raisins; three
pounds being required to make a gallon of liquor. A good deal can also
be done, in the way of imitation wine, by chemicals; it being quite
possible to make sherry which will fetch at least four shillings per
bottle, for the ridiculous sum of fourpence for the same quantity. And
it is also a fact that a large quantity of alleged claret which (mainly
through the endeavours of the late Mr. W. E. Gladstone) we are able
to import on the cheap from the other side of the water, is made from
currants and raisins steeped in water and mixed with cheap Spanish wine.

And what is to be said of British brandy? A country which can
manufacture superior Dorset butter from Thames mud, and real
turtle-soup from snails and conger-eels, is not likely to get “left”
in a matter of distilling. A great deal of brandy is, therefore, made
in the tight little island from ordinary grain alcohol, by adding
Argol—I’ll tell ye what this is presently—bruised French plums, French
wine-vinegar, a little—a very little—good cognac, and redistilling. I
believe that it is also possible to extract a good midnight sort of
brandy—specially recommended for roysterers—from coal-tar and paraffin.

The Americans make brandy from peaches and other stone-fruits, good
wholesome liquor, but their French cognac is not to be recommended. For
it is nothing more nor less than the common whisky which America has
exported to France, sent back again, after the necessary treatment.
Fact. {76}

Argol, mentioned just now, is a crude variety of cream of tartar which
forms a crust within wine-vats and bottles. Originally it exists in the
juice of the grape, and is soluble therein; but during the fermentation
of the juice, and as it passes into wine, much alcohol is developed,
which remaining in the fermenting liquor, causes the precipitation of
Argol. Thus the “crust” of port wine is Argol, the principal uses (and
abuses) of which are in the preparation of (besides cognac) cream of
tartar and tartaric acid. And malicious people say that you have only
to scratch French brandy to find the Tartar.

A few years ago a German chemist discovered that a very drinkable
brandy can be made from sawdust—whether deal sawdust or any description
of dust does not appear; and under the heading, “A New Danger to
Teetotalism,” an American journal published the following effusion:—

“We are a friend of the temperance movement, and want it to succeed;
but what chance can it have when a man can take a rip-saw and go out
and get drunk with a fence-rail? What is the use of a prohibitory
liquor law if a man is able to make brandy-smashes out of the shingles
on his roof, or if he can get delirium tremens by drinking the legs of
his kitchen chairs? You may shut up an inebriate out of a gin shop and
keep him away from taverns, but if he can become uproarious on boiled
sawdust and desiccated window-sills, any effort must necessarily be a
failure.”

I can believe in the ability of most German chemists to do most
things; and possibly {77} sawdust is used in the Fatherland for the
manufacture of lager beer, Rhine Wine, and—but ’tis a saw subject.

The pure brandy at Cognac is divided into two principal
classes—“champagne” brandy, from grapes grown on the plains, and
“bois” brandy, the product of wooded districts—I am _not_ alluding
now to sawdust—and the last-named variety is subdivided into many
different names. It takes eight and a half gallons of wine to furnish
one gallon of spirits; and the ravages of the vine-louse have made a
terrible difference in the supply. In fact, the amount produced in 1897
was about one-tenth of the amount produced twenty years previously.
But thanks to beet-root, potatoes, and—other things, the distiller
manages to “get” there just the same. But the man who wrote in 1889,
prophesying the speedy disappearance of pure _eau de vie_ from the
market, was probably not far wrong. “It would seem on the whole,”
he wrote, “that unless the phylloxera be stamped out, pure brandy
will soon be a thing of the past.” But they do not tell you this in
saloon-bars, and places where they drink.

It was stated by Mr. Dewar last year (1898) that there were 89,000,000
gallons of whisky lying idle in bond because sufficient suitable
water to dilute it to the orthodox strength could not be found. This
statement is calculated to give a moderate drinker the gapes; whilst
Sir Wilfrid Lawson and others must have longed for permission to set
fire to every bonded warehouse in the Kingdom. But the same great
authority {78} on the wines of bonnie Scotland made another statement
at the same time which is eminently calculated to remove all fears
lest whisky, like brandy, be on the down line. “The serpent Alcohol,”
remarks a writer in the _Daily Telegraph_, in discussing Mr. Dewar’s
speech, “may have been scotched”—was this meant for a joke?—“but it is
far from having been killed.” According to the Ex-Sheriff’s statistics
the distillation of Irish whisky, despite its diminishing popularity,
has increased during the last fourteen years by about thirty per cent;
while in Scotland during the same period the increase has been at the
rate of nearly eighty per cent. Ireland, that is to say, which produced
eleven million gallons in 1884, now produces fourteen million and a
half gallons; while the Scotch output, which was eighteen million
gallons in the former year, had risen in 1898 to the enormous figure
of thirty-three millions and a half. Hech sirs! these be braw figures
indeed.

Yet let not the British be held up to reprobation as hard drinkers, as
long as France is a going concern. Statistics prove that in Scotland,
the land o’ the barley bree, the consumption of spirits during the year
1892–93 averaged a little more than twelve and a half pints per month,
which is little more than the proportion of spirits required by the
Parisians, without wine, absinthe, and—other things. The boulevardiers
are called “temperate,” although they drink as much spirits as do the
Scots, and thirty times as much wine, not to mention cider and beer.

Distilling in Britain dates from the eleventh {79} century, but in the
beginning it was worked solely in the monasteries by the jovial monks.
What a good time those monks of old would seem to have had! According
to the popular prints they were usually engaged either in fishing,
eating oysters, drinking out of flagons, catching beetles, confessing
pretty women, or being shaved; and we know that their abiding-places
were built, for the most part, on the banks of a river which absolutely
swarmed with salmon or trout, in the midst of a district teeming with
game. Any how the monks made spirits, or “strong waters” as they were
called in those days, first.

Pure malt whisky is, and has been, made almost exclusively in Scotland.
In Ireland they use about one-third of malt to two-thirds of oats
and maize. In England they make whisky of pretty nearly everything,
including German spirit, petroleum, and old boots; whilst in gallant
little Wales—well the only acknowledged Welsh whisky I have tasted was
excellent in quality, and apparently made from pure malt. Distilling,
as a trade, commenced in England during the Tudor period, and from
the reputation bluff King Hal bore for feathering his nest, it is
probable that the industry was fully taxed. In 1579 Scotch distilleries
were taxed for the first time. In Ireland as far back as the eleventh
century the natives made _uisge beatha_—now called potheen—without
interference from landlord or gauger, and continued at it until the
sixteenth century, when licenses were enforced in the cases of _all
but the gentry_, and to run an illicit still was {80} punishable
with death and dismemberment. But they ran ’em just the same; for in
those days an Irishman was never really happy unless he were drinking,
fighting, or being sentenced to death. But whether it was English,
Scotch, Welsh, or Irish whisky, or French brandy, or Dutch gin,
smuggling and illicit distilling were rampant through the centuries,
and the Inland Revenue officer was no more respected or worshipped than
at the present day. Still there has not been much blood shed over those
differences of opinion; except in Western Pennsylvania at the close of
the last century—a period when the greater part of the universe was
fighting about something—when it took 15,000 soldiers from Washington
to quell a riot amongst a populace discontented with the Excise
regulations.

Blending and diluting whiskies are for the most part done in the bonded
warehouses. “All commercial spirit,” says an authority on the subject,
“however pure, contains a small proportion of impurities” (which
sounds Irish) “or by-products of distillation known as fusel-oil.”
It will relieve the minds of some to know that fusel-oil is merely a
by-product of distillation, and not the “low-flash” stuff which causes
the accidents with the cheap lamps. It used to be thought that during
the “maturing,” or “ageing,” of whisky the constituents of fusel-oil
underwent decomposition; but my good friend Doctor James Bell, C.B.,
the chief Government analyst at Somerset House (he retired some three
years ago), utterly refuted this theory by analysis.

Whisky is, like brandy, naturally white, and {81} takes its trade
colour, and, to a certain extent, flavour, from the sherry-casks in
which it is matured. It is also coloured by the direct addition of
caramel (burnt sugar), or a maturing wine.

In America, Rye or Bourbon whisky is made from wheat or maize grown
in the Bourbon country, Kentucky, and some of it would kill at forty
yards. The chief distillery states on the other side of the Atlantic
are Illinois, Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, New York, and Pennsylvania.
At the Cape, and throughout South Africa, there is decent whisky
procurable, as also a pernicious compound known as “Square-face” or
“Cape smoke,” and in much favour with the dusky races of the country.
On the Congo, palm-wine—similar to the fermented toddy of the East
Indies—was for centuries the only livener, but with the march of
civilization have come the whiskies of Great Britain, more or less
adulterated; and whereas in the past death by the sword, or the club,
was the only known punishment for the subjects of the native tyrants
who are so fond of thinning out the population, a well-fuselled whisky
is now freely employed for the same purpose.

Although whisky is now freely partaken of all over Great Britain, it
was comparatively speaking despised in England until the first half
of the present century had slipped by. This fact is apparent from
a perusal of contemporary literature. And in no country has “malt”
had such a rise in public estimation as in the great continent of
Hindustan, where “John Exshaw” and “John {82} Collins”—the last named
a seductive compound of gin, limes, Curaçoa, and soda-water—have
been almost knocked out by John Barleycorn and Jean Pomme-de-terre.
Until the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, brandy was almost the
sole potation of the heroes who helped to hold the big wonderland,
the old-fashioned _brandi-pani_ gradually giving place to the brandy
diluted with _Belati pani_, or “Europe water.” Thirty years ago a “peg”
meant a brandy-and-soda; but whisky has now usurped the proud position
once occupied by the products of John Exshaw, Justerini and Brooks,
and others.

{83}

CHAPTER VIII

OTHER SPIRITS

We now come to Rum, “superior old Jamaica pine-apple,” otherwise known
as “sailors’ tea”—the spirit in question having from time immemorial
been held in high esteem by mariners both afloat and ashore. Rum is
probably one of the easiest beverages to make, being, simply, fermented
and distilled cane-sugar. Occasionally pine-apples and guavas are
thrown into the still, but in making this spirit on a large scale no
attempts are made to add to its flavour and thereby deduct from the
profits to be made on the commodity. It is coloured with caramel, and
the longer you keep it the better and, therefore, the more valuable, it
becomes. In the city {84} of Carlisle in the year 1865 some rum known
to be 140 years old was sold for £3 : 3s. per bottle.

This is not the brand served out to our army and navy; although the
“tots” issued periodically to Tommy Atkins and Ben Bowline consist of
good, sound liquor, wholesome enough, save for gouty subjects—and a
sailor with the gout would be of about as much use to his Queen and
country as a watch without works—and writing from past experience I
can aver that every drop of liquor, whether ale or rum, supplied in
a regimental canteen had to be previously passed by a committee of
“taste.” In many ships, nowadays, no rum or other intoxicant is served
out; and as no equivalent is given, it might appear as though the
owners made a good thing out of the temperate habits of their crews.
But I do not believe in total abstinence as an aid to work; and I have
never seen a sailor the worse—on board ship—for his “tot.” On the other
hand, in the old days of “Green’s” troop-ships, the old sailing-vessels
which made the voyage to India round the Cape of Good Hope, it was by
no means infrequent for a soldier to be “overcome” by the cane-spirit,
of which he occasionally got rather more than his orthodox allowance.

How was this managed? The thrifty seafarers were in the habit of
selling their grog allowance to the “swaddies”; and as soon as the
ship’s captain found this out, he issued stringent regulations which
it might have been expected would put a stop to this practice. When
all hands were piped to grog a ship’s officer was {85} stationed by
the tub, to see that each sailor drank his allowance. Still there was
intoxication amongst the troops, and it was discovered that many of the
sailors’ pannikins had false bottoms, and that in this way the rum was
concealed. After that the ship’s officer was enjoined to see that each
sailor partook of his tot; but even this precaution failed; for the rum
would be ejected from the men’s mouths into a bucket in the fo’c’sle,
and then sold—a disgusting practice which merited severe punishment,
and frequently obtained it.

We English do not make nearly as much use of rum in cookery as do
our lively neighbours. One of the most approved of _entremets_ is an
_omelette au rhum_, a truly grateful dish, if the omelette be properly
made, although rum be spelt with an “h.” But it is a mistake to use
rum-sauce with plum-pudding, as do the French; for brandy is a far
better digestive of the cloying materials of which the pudding is
composed. As mentioned in _Cakes and Ale_, rum-and-milk is said, by
the chief English authority on dietetics, to be the most powerful
restorative known to man. This may, or may not, be true; I am prepared
to back a judicious dose of “the Boy”—_not_ limited to a “split pint,”
either. But of all horrible mixtures, defend me from rum-and-ale,
which used to be a potion much in favour with the dangerous classes of
our metropolis, in the days when I went “slumming” in search of plain
unvarnished facts. A steaming tumbler of rum and hot water, with a
piece of butter melted therein, was, in my younger days, in vogue as
an infallible {86} specific to eject a cold from the head. Nowadays, I
prefer the cold.

Gin is supposed by students, who do not make practical test of their
learning, to be distilled from malt, or from unmalted barley, or from
some other grain, and afterwards rectified and flavoured. And just as
it was (according to Mr. Samuel Weller) the seasoning which did it in
the case of the cheap pies, so is it the rectifying, and the flavouring
which do it, in the matter of gin. Occasionally “rectifying” is hardly
the right word to use. That there is such a thing as wholesome,
tolerably-pure gin is more than probable; but there is also a very
undesirable fluid sold to the poorer classes, and esteemed by their
vitiated palates, known under different pet names, of which “blue ruin”
and “white satin” are two. This brand of gin is flavoured more or less
with oil of turpentine and common salt. No wonder thirst stalks abroad
next morning!

“In one well-known hostelry,” observes a writer in a daily newspaper,
“situated not a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, you can, if
you be so minded, ask for and obtain a farthing’s worth of gin. It is
served in tiny liqueur-glasses, and the custom dates from the time
when the purchasing power of the coin in question was far greater
than it is now, and when consequently, a farthing’s worth of gin was
considered to be a sufficient quantity for any respectable citizen.
Another public-house, in Bishopsgate Street, is also compelled, by the
terms of its license, to supply a farthing’s worth of either ‘gin,
rum, or shrub,’ to any customer requiring {87} it; while not far away
is a hostelry which is permitted to carry on the dual businesses
of liquor-dispensing or pawnbroking. Yet another City public-house
possesses a sort of annexe where medicines are retailed. Handy, this,
for the unhappy sufferer from swelled head.”

I suppose as the above has appeared in a newspaper, it is strictly
true. But how sad! Although my knowledge of London is “peculiar” I
cannot say I am acquainted with the licensed house in which drawing
drinks and taking in pledges are combined; but I have seen farthing’s
worths of “Old Tom” dispensed in more than one hostelry, to slatternly
women, before my own breakfast hour, and I have shuddered at the sight.
But why stop short at selling medicines in the annexe of a dram shop? I
should have thought an undertaker, in another compartment, might do a
fairish trade.

These are some of the ingredients put into gin, to give it “body,” and
make it “bite”—gin without teeth being notoriously inferior tipple and
altogether unfit for the consumption of the good ladies who are, sad to
say, by far the best customers of the gin retailer:—roach-alum (this
sounds fishy), salt of tartar, oil of juniper, cassia, nutmeg, lemon,
fennel, and carraway and coriander seeds, cardamoms, capsicums, and
sulphuric acid. All these, mind ye, besides the afore-mentioned oil of
turpentine, and the afore-mentioned potato-spirit, which last would
seem to enter into most drinks of the day.

The word “Gin” is really an abbreviation of “Geneva,” under which name
the spirit was at {88} one time known. Not that it is principally
manufactured in picturesque Switzerland, where the watches come from;
but “Geneva” is a corruption of the old French word _genevre_, the
juniper. I used to read, in childhood’s days, that

Juniper berries and barley make gin,

but those ingredients—or the berries, at all events—would seem to be
only regularly used in Holland, nowadays.

“Dirty” gin, of which we used to hear so much, was, I believe, as pure
as any other geneva, and not less clean. Plymouth gin is said to be the
healthiest form of the article, but ’tis an acquired taste, and “Old
Tom” is certainly more toothsome. In entering as fully into details
as I have above I have no wish to discourage the consumption of gin
proper, especially when blended with ginger-beer (an excellent summer
beverage), or doing duty in a cock-tail, a sling, a punch, or a John
Collins. But I am not a “gin man” myself. And to my mind a “nip” less
calculated to promote appetite than any other is a “gin-and-bitters.”

“Kosher” rum, _i.e._ rum treated according to instructions laid down
in the Mosaic Law, is in high favour with the Jews; and in some of the
taverns which abut on the Israelitish quarters which are about Aldgate
there are recognized “rum-rooms.” There used to be, and probably is at
the present day, a considerable amount of card—playing (_spieling_)
or throwing of dice for wagers, carried on in these apartments; and I
once knew a son of Judah who was heavily fined {89} by the stipendiary
magistrate, for gambling on licensed premises. To the day of his death
this Jew protested his innocence of the crime.

He told me the whole story, interlarded with tears and gesticulations.

The _rozzers_ (detectives) raided the rum-room one afternoon, and
created considerable commotion. Some of the imbibers managed to make
their escape, but my informant was not so fortunate. He was seized by
one minion of the law, and shortly afterwards another officer cried:

“See where he has hidden the dice in his tumbler of Old Jamaica!”

“And, may I die,” added the poor Yid, “if the _gonoph_ (rascal) hadn’t
placed ’em there himself—don’t yer beliefe me?”

Of course I did.

Here is another way of employing rum; but you will not be able to shine
at solo-whist afterwards.

_Rum Booze._

The yolks of eight eggs well beaten up, with some sifted sugar, and
a grated nutmeg; extract the juice from rind of a lemon by rubbing
loaf sugar thereon; put the sugar, a piece of cinnamon, and a bottle
of white wine into a clean saucepan, and when the wine boils take it
off the fire. Pour one glass of cold sherry into it, put it into a
spouted jug (I don’t mean hypothecated, but a jug with a spout to it)
and pour it gradually amongst the egg mixture, keeping the whole well
stirred with a spoon as the wine is poured in. Sweeten to taste, and
pour the mixture from one vessel to another until a fine white froth
is obtained. {90}

The recipe continues. “Half a pint of rum is sometimes added, but it
is then very intoxicating.”

But _sans_ rum whence the Rum Booze? Port Wine is sometimes substituted
for white wine, but is not considered so palatable. This liquor should
be drunk when quite hot. If the wine be poured boiling hot among the
eggs, the mixture will become curdled.

_Without_ the rum the mixture is one form of Egg Flip.

When treating of gin I should have mentioned that at one well-known
City hostelry, “The Olde Cheshyre Cheese” in Wine Office Court, Fleet
Street, gin is never known by any other name than “rack.” Why, I know
not. But in the same old tavern should you require Scotch Whisky you
must call for “Scotch,” without mentioning the word whisky; and if
Irish, “Cork” is the password.

{91}

CHAPTER IX

CUPS WHICH CHEER

Claret combinations — Not too much noyeau — A treat for schoolboys
— The properties of borage — “Away with melancholy” — _Salmon’s
Household Companion_ — Balm for vapours — Crimean cup — An elaborate
and far-reaching compound — Orgeat — A race-day cup — “Should auld
acquaintance be forgot?” — Sparkling Isabella — Rochester’s delight —
Freemason’s relish — Porter cup — Dainty drink for a tennis-party.

It is probable that there are almost as many recipes for claret cup as
there are letters in Holy Writ, or acres in Yorkshire. This is the late
Mr.

_Donald’s Cup._

One bottle claret.
1 wine-glass pale brandy.
½ do. yellow chartreuse.
½ do. curaçoa.
½ do. maraschino.
2 bottles Seltzer water.
1 lemon cut in thin slices.
A few sprigs of borage.
Ice and
sugar to taste. {92}

To my taste there is rather too much liqueur in the above. Here is a
simple recipe for

_Badminton_.

Peel half a small cucumber and put it into a silver cup together with
four ounces of sifted sugar, the juice of one lemon, a little nutmeg,
half a glass of curaçoa, and a bottle of claret; when the sugar is
thoroughly dissolved, pour in a bottle of soda-water, add ice, and
drink. The cucumber should not be left in too long, and a sprig or two
of borage will improve the flavour.

_Balaclava Cup._

Throw into a large bowl the thinly pared rind of half a lemon, add two
tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, the juice of two lemons, and half a
small cucumber, _unpeeled_, in slices. Mix well, and add two bottles
of soda-water, two bottles of claret, and one of champagne; mix well,
ice, and flavour with borage.

_Another Claret Cup._

Put into a large bowl three bottles of claret, a large wine-glass of
curaçoa, a pint of dry sherry, half a pint of old brandy, a large
wine-glass of raspberry syrup, three oranges and one lemon cut into
slices. Add four bottles of aërated water, sweeten to taste, ice and
flavour with borage. This is a good cup for a garden-party, or a tent
at Ascot; and remember always that the better the ingredients the
better the cup. More especially let your brandy be of the right brand.

_Yet Another._

Pour into a large jug one bottle of claret, two wine-glasses of dry
sherry, and a dash of maraschino. {93} Add a few sliced nectarines,
or peaches, and sweeten to taste. Let it stand till the sugar is
melted, and then add a sprig of borage. Just before using add one
bottle of Seltzer water, and a large piece of ice.

Soda-water, Stretton water, or any other natural spring-water may be
substituted for Seltzer.

_One More_,

and a very simple one. Put into a bowl the rind of one lemon pared
very thin, add sugar to taste, and pour over it a wine-glass of
sherry; then add a bottle of claret, more sugar, a sprig of verbena
for flavour, one bottle of aërated water, and a little grated nutmeg;
strain and ice.

_My Ideal Claret Cup._

Two wine-glasses old brandy, one wine-glass curaçoa, and a little thin
lemon-peel, sweeten to taste, and pour over the mixture two bottles
of light claret. Just before using add a pint bottle of sparkling
moselle, and two bottles of fizzing water. Flavour with borage, and
put a large block of ice in the bowl.

Nobody who has not tried it can understand how much the addition of a
little sparkling Moselle improves a claret cup.

_“For’ard On” Cup._

Put into a large bowl three bottles of claret, a _large_ wine-glass
of curaçoa, one pint of sherry, half a pint of old brandy, two
wine-glasses of raspberry syrup, three oranges and one lemon cut into
slices; add a few sprigs of borage, a little cucumber-rind, {94} two
bottles of Seltzer water and three bottles of soda-water. Mix well,
and sweeten to taste. Let the mixture stand for an hour, then strain,
and put a large block of ice in it. Serve in small tumblers; and if
champagne be substituted for claret, and noyeau for raspberry syrup,
a most excellent champagne cup will be the result. Beware, however,
of too free a hand with the noyeau. This liqueur contains hydrocyanic
(otherwise Prussic) acid, and should only be used cautiously, unless
evil be wished to your guests.

_Cider Cup, or Cold Tankard._

This is a favourite beverage for schoolboys and university students.
I cannot say that I have encountered it since the early sixties, but
’tis a refreshing drink for the river-side and the cricket-field.

Extract the juice from the peel of one lemon by rubbing loaf-sugar on
it; cut two lemons into thin slices; the rind of one lemon cut thin, a
quarter of a pound of loaf-sugar, and half a pint of brandy (I don’t
think they allowed as much brandy as this at my old school). Pour the
whole into a large jug, mix it well together, and pour one quart of
cold spring-water upon it. Grate a nutmeg into it, add one pint of
white wine, and a bottle of cider, sweeten to taste with capillaire
or sugar, put a handful of balm and the same quantity of borage in
flower, stalk downwards. Then put the jug containing this liquor into
a tub of ice, and when it has remained there one hour it will be fit
for use. The balm and borage should be fresh gathered. And here a few
words as to the virtues of these.

In _Evelyn’s Acetaria_ it is written:—“The {95} sprigs of borage in
wine are of known virtue, to revive the hypochondriac, and cheer the
hard student.”

_Salmon’s Household Companion_, 1710, told us: “Borage is one of the
four cordial flowers; it comforts the heart, cheers melancholy, and
revives the fainting spirits.”

“Borage,” wrote Sir John Hill, M.D., “has the credit of being a great
cordial; throwing it into cold wine is better than all the medicinal
preparations.”

“The leaves, flowers, and seeds of borage,” says the _English
Physician_, “all or any of them, are good to expel pensiveness and
melancholy.”

“Balm is very good to help digestion and open obstructions of the
brain, and hath so much purging quality in it, as to expel those
melancholy vapours from the spirits and blood which are in the heart
and arteries, although it cannot do so in other parts of the body”
(_Ibid_).

After all this information, let not the garden of the melancholy
vapourer be searched in vain for balm and borage.

_Perry Cup_

is made in the same manner as the above, with the natural substitution
of perry for cider.

_Crimean Cup._

This is an elaborate affair.

One quart of syrup of orgeat (to make this _vide_ next recipe), one
pint and a half of old brandy, two wine-glasses of maraschino, one
pint of old rum, {96} two large and one small bottles of champagne,
three bottles of Seltzer water, half a pound of sifted sugar, and
the juice of five lemons. Peel the lemons and put the thin rind in a
mortar with the sugar. Pound them well, and scrape the result with a
silver spoon into a large bowl. Squeeze in the juice of the lemons,
add the Seltzer water, and stir till the sugar is quite dissolved.
Then add the orgeat, and whip the mixture well with a whisk, so as
to whiten it. Add the maraschino, rum, and brandy, and strain the
whole into another bowl. Just before the cup is required, put in the
champagne and stir vigorously with a punch ladle. The champagne should
have been previously well iced, as no apparent iceberg is allowable in
this mixture.

Do not make too free with this mixture, if you are about to ride the
favourite for an important race, or you will be seeing five winning
posts, like the late “Jem” Snowden.

_Orgeat._

You do not often hear this compound called for nowadays, but here is
the programme for its manufacture:—

Blanch and pound three quarters of a pound of sweet almonds, and
thirty bitter almonds, in one tablespoonful of water. Stir in by
degrees two pints of water and three pints of milk. Strain the mixture
through a cloth. Dissolve half a pound of loaf-sugar in one pint of
water. Boil and skim well, and then mix with the almond water. Add two
tablespoonfuls of orange-flower water and half a pint of old brandy.
Be careful to boil the _eau sucré_ well, as this concoction must not
be too watery. {97}

A Crimean Cup for a much smaller party can be made, without the
addition of orgeat, as follows:—

Put the peel of half a lemon or orange into a bowl, add a
tablespoonful of sifted sugar, one small glassful of maraschino, half
that quantity of curaçoa, and a wine-glassful of old brandy. Mix
well together, and add two bottles of aërated water, one bottle of
champagne, and a block of ice.

_Race-day Cup._

Dissolve a quarter of a pound of sugar in a quarter of a pint of
water, add the juice of two lemons, one wine-glassful of brandy,
half a wine-glassful of cherry brandy, a dash of maraschino, and a
bottle of champagne. Add also a small piece of cucumber-peel, two
sprigs of borage, two thin slices of lemon, four strawberries, four
brandy-cherries, and two bottles of Seltzer water; stir well, and ice
for an hour after covering up the bowl. Before serving put in a block
of ice, and serve in tumblers.

_Loving Cup._

Better a little flavoured brandy-and-water where love is than a Crimean
Cup or a Halo Punch amidst bickerings and vexation of spirit.

Rub the rind of two oranges on loaf-sugar and put the sugar into a
bowl; add half a pint of brandy, the juice of one lemon, one-third
of a pint of orange juice, and one pint of water. Add more sugar if
required, and ice well.

I don’t know if the above is the way the Loving Cup at the Mansion
House is made; {98} but probably one recipe is as good as another,
when all you have to do is to sip the liquid and pass it on.

The ancients knew not “cups”; simply because they knew not the virtues
of Wenham Lake ice, or its imitations; whilst the “strong-waters” and
alleged wines of the past did not blend particularly well, and there
was no soda-water. Fearful and wonderful beverages were their compound
drinks, however, many of which have already been analysed in these
pages. But the recipe for

_Rochester_

Cup, which is taken from a comparatively modern book, smacks of the
antique. At all events my own wine-merchant professes to be “out of”
sparkling Catawba and sparkling Isabella. But here is the programme.

Put into a bowl two bottles of sparkling Catawba, two bottles of
sparkling Isabella, and one bottle of Sauterne; mix well, then add
two wine-glasses of maraschino and two wine-glasses of curaçoa; ice
well, and add some strawberries, or a few drops of extract of peach or
vanilla.

A very excellent

_Champagne Cup_

can be made from the recipe headed “Donald’s Cup” at the commencement
of this chapter, substituting “the Boy” for the red wine of Bordeaux.
And here is a simple little refresher, suitable for a breaking-up party
at a young ladies’ school. {99}

_Chablis Cup._

Dissolve four or five lumps of sugar in a quarter of a pint of boiling
water, and put it into a bowl with a very thin slice of lemon rind;
let it stand for half an hour, then add a bottle of Chablis, a sprig
of verbena, a wine-glassful of sherry, and half a pint of water. Mix
well, and let the mixture stand for a while, then strain, add a bottle
of Seltzer water, a few strawberries or raspberries, and a block of
ice. Serve in small glasses.

Should you wish to make

_Red Cup_

use one pint of port wine instead of white; and sometimes two glasses
of red-currant jelly are added. In other respects, follow the
directions already laid down for making Cider Cup; a little warm water
being necessary to dissolve the jelly.

_Freemason._

This sounds a “for’ard” sort of potion:—Put into a bowl one pint of
Scotch ale, one pint of mild ale, half a pint of brandy, one pint of
sherry, and half a pound of sifted sugar. Mix well together, grate a
little nutmeg over the top, and add a block of ice.

Mind, I, personally, do not believe in the blending of malt liquor
with wine or spirits; and the above reads like a bile-provoker of the
most persistent type. But compared With the next recipe—which some of
my readers may think should come, for choice, under the heading of
“Strange Swallows”—it is harmless indeed. {100}

_Porter Cup._

Put into a tankard or covered jug one bottle of stout, one bottle of
mild ale, and one wine-glassful of old brandy, with sugar _ad lib._;
then add a little powdered ginger, half a nutmeg grated; cover it
over, ice for half an hour; before serving, stir in a teaspoonful of
carbonate of soda, add a few strips of cucumber-rind, and put in, last
of all, a block of ice.

One more cup, and I have done with this part of my subject. This is a
ladylike concoction, as its name would seem to imply.

_Tennis Cup._

Put into a bowl four tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, the rind of one
lemon and juice of two, one wine-glassful of brandy, one wine-glassful
of ginger syrup, and a small piece of cucumber-rind; add two bottles
of soda-water, one sprig of borage, and two sprigs of verbena. Ice
well; and serve in small glasses.

{101}

CHAPTER X

PUNCH

When e’en a bowl of punch we make,
Four striking opposites we take:
The strong, the small, the sharp, the sweet,
Together mix’d, most kindly meet,
And when they happily unite
The bowl is pregnant with delight.

In _Cakes and Ale_, grave doubts are expressed as to whether the
usually-accepted derivation of punch is the correct one. Why Asia
should be raked to find a name for a purely European concoction, is
beyond my powers of argument; and, as observed in another place, in the
concoction of this seductive brew it is by no means necessary to limit
oneself to _five_ ingredients.

It may be news to the adopters of the _panch_ (five) theory to read
that punch was at one time {102} called “pale-punts,” why or wherefore
deponent sayeth not; here is the extract from a work published A.D.
1691:—

“Pale-punts, here vulgarly known by the name of Punch; a drink
compounded of brandy or _aqua vitæ_, juice of lemons, oranges, sugar,
or such like; very usual amongst those that frequent the sea, where a
bowl of punch is an usual beverage.”

But it was “usual” only in the days of sailing-ships and long voyages;
and with fast steamers and whole evenings devoted to the beauties
of poker, or selling pools, a more usual modern maritime drink is a
modicum of whisky diluted with aërated water.

“The liquor called Punch,” writes another professional authority, “has
become so truly English, it is often supposed to be indigenous to this
country, though its name at least is Oriental. The Persian _punj_, or
Sanscrit _pancha_, i.e. five (vide _Fryer’s Travels_), is the etymon
of its title, and denotes the number of ingredients of which it is
composed. Addison’s ‘fox-hunter,’ who testified so much surprise when
he found that of the materials of which this ‘truly English’ beverage
was made only the water belonged to England, would have been still more
astonished had his informant also told him that it derived even its
name from the East.”

But did natives of the East drink it? Tell me that.

“Various opinions are entertained respecting this compound drink. Some
authors praise it as a cooling and refreshing beverage, when drunk
{103} in moderation; others condemn the use of it as prejudicial
to the brain and nervous system. Dr. Cheyne, a celebrated Scotch
physician, author of an essay on ‘Long Life and Health,’ and who by a
system of diet and regimen reduced himself from the enormous weight of
thirty-two stone to nearly one-third, which enabled him to live to the
age of seventy-two, insists that there is but one wholesome ingredient
in it, and that is the water. Dr. Willich, on the contrary, asserts
that if a proper quantity of acid be used in making punch, it is an
excellent antiseptic, and well calculated to supply the place of wine
in resisting putrefaction, especially if drank cold with plenty of
sugar; it also promotes perspiration; but if drank hot and immoderately
it creates acidity in the stomach, weakens the nerves, and gives rise
to complaints of the breast. He further states that after a heavy meal
it is improper, as it may check digestion, and injure the stomach.

“Rennie states that he once heard a facetious physician at a public
hospital prescribe for a poor fellow sinking under the atrophy of
starvation a bowl of punch. Mr. Wadd gives us a prescription:—

“ ‘Rum, aqua dulci miscetur acetum, et fiet ex tali fœdere nobile
Punch.’

“He also states that toddy, or punch without acid, when made for a day
or two before it is used, is a good and cheap substitute for wine as a
tonic, in convalescence from typhus fever, etc.”

It is here worthy of note that what is meant by “punch” in Ireland is,
and has been for at least two centuries, whisky, sugar, lemon, and
{104} the less water the better. A very old way of concocting it is to
melt the sugar within the tumbler (which should be covered, _pro tem._)
with the smallest quantity of water sufficient for the purpose, the
thin lemon-rind having been previously added. Then comes the whisky;
“and,” according to the old formula, “the laste dhrop o’ wather” added
atop of the “crathur” will spoil the punch. But in all English works in
which punch has been mentioned—previous to the early seventies, at all
events—by the active ingredients of punch should be understood either
rum, brandy, or gin.

“_English Punch_,”

says a writer of our own time, “is, as regards the spirit, mostly of
two kinds—brandy and rum, mixed in proportions which must be left
to taste. The rum generally predominates. The acid is nearly always
lemon juice. The spice is nearly always lemon-peel, but sometimes
tea-leaf”—now marry come up!—“sometimes nutmeg; and as for the sugar
and the water they explain themselves.”

The Scotch make toddy in very much the same way as the Irish concoct
their punch. But

_Glasgow Punch_,

according to John Gibson Lockhart, was compounded with the coldest
spring-water—a commodity which would seem to be growing somewhat scarce
in Caledonia—for the purpose of punch-making, at all events. {105}

The sugar being melted with a little cold water, the artist squeezed
about a dozen lemons through a wooden strainer, and then poured in
water enough almost to fill the bowl. In this state the liquor goes by
the name of sherbet, and a few of the connoisseurs in his immediate
neighbourhood were requested to give their opinion of it—for in the
mixing of the sherbet lies, according to the Glasgow creed at least,
one half of the whole battle. This being approved by an audible smack
from the lips of the umpires, the rum was added to the beverage, I
suppose in something about the proportion of one to seven⸺.

Hech sirs! Or, does it mean seven of rum to one of the spring?

Last of all the maker cut a few limes, and running each section
rapidly round the rim of his bowl, squeezed in enough of this more
delicate acid to flavour the whole composition. In this consists the
true _tour-de-maître_ of the punch-maker.

_Oxford Punch_

_Classical Sherbet_

is a very ancient beverage, and from the sustaining powers of the
calves’-foot jelly (under what heading, amongst punch ingredients, does
this come, by the way?) inserted therein might fairly pose as meat and
drink.

Extract the juice from the rind of three lemons, by rubbing loaf-sugar
on them. The peeling of two Seville oranges and two lemons, cut
extremely {106} thin. The juice of four Seville oranges and ten
lemons. Six glasses of calves’-feet jelly in a liquid state. The above
to be put into a jug and stirred well together. Pour two quarts of
boiling water on the mixture, cover the jug closely, and place it near
the fire for a quarter of an hour. Then strain the liquid through a
sieve into a punch bowl or jug, sweeten it with a bottle of capillaire
(the recipe for this follows), and add half a pint of white wine, a
pint of French brandy, a pint of Jamaica rum, and a bottle of orange
shrub; the mixture to be stirred as the spirits are poured in. If not
sufficiently sweet, add loaf-sugar, or a little more capillaire. To be
served either hot or cold.

In making the punch limes are sometimes used instead of lemons, but are
not so wholesome; in fact Arbuthnot, in his work on aliments, says:
“The West India dry gripes are occasioned by lime-juice in punch.” And
nobody wants them.

Ignorant servants sometimes put oxalic acid into punch, to give it a
flavour; but unless the throats of the drinkers be lined with brass,
this acid is of no real service. And the host who would entrust the
making of any sort of punch to a subordinate, must be either very
ignorant, or very careless of the comfort of his guests—and possibly
both. Cups, punches, and salads should always be concocted by somebody
who will make personal trial of their merits.

To make

_Capillaire_,

put two ounces of freshly-gathered maidenhair fern into a jug, with
sufficient boiling water to cover it. {107} Let it stand in front of
the fire to infuse for some hours; then strain and put it into a clear
syrup made by boiling together three pounds of sugar and three pints
of water; add two tablespoonfuls of orange-flower water, and stir the
mixture over the fire for a few minutes. Strain through a jelly-bag,
and bottle when cold.

A more potent punch can be made from the same recipe as the Oxford
Punch, by leaving out the calves’-feet jelly, and substituting green
tea for water. And this sort is invariably drunk hot. Mix three
wine-glasses of noyeau with the original recipe and it is entitled to
the name of

_Noyeau Punch_.

Omit the rum, brandy, and shrub, and substitute two bottles of gin, and
it becomes

_Gin Punch_.

If I could only afford to keep a secretary, a clever stenographer
and type-writer, I might be able to supply the world with gratuitous
recipes for cooling cups, dainty drinks, and peerless punches, and
earn, maybe, the thanks of both Houses of Parliament, and a granite
bust on the Thames Embankment or in Shaftesbury Avenue. It is entirely
due to lack of funds that I am issuing books on the subject of meat and
drink; and I will now proceed to enlighten the thousands of alleged
_bons-vivants_, who ask questions as to the concoction of

_Milk Punch_.

There are many recipes for this seductive drink, each one better than
its predecessor. {108}

1. Warm two quarts or water and one of new milk, then mix them well
together, and sweeten with a sufficient quantity of loaf-sugar. Rub a
few lumps of sugar on the peel of a lemon, put them into a jug with
the above, and half a pint of lemon juice, stirring the mixture well
as it is poured in. Then add one quart of old brandy. Strain and
bottle off, and in cold weather it will keep a fortnight.

2. Dissolve two pounds and a half of sugar in one gallon of cold
spring-water; add thereto a quarter of a pint of orange-flower water,
with the juice of twenty limes and eight oranges. Stir well together;
pour one quart of boiling milk into it, and then add three bottles of
old brandy, and a like quantity of orange brandy shrub. Strain and
bottle off.

3. Cut the peeling of six Seville oranges and six lemons very thin.
Pound in a stone mortar. Add one pint of brandy and let the mixture
stand six hours, covered. Then squeeze in the juice of six Seville
oranges and eight lemons. Stir well, and add three more pints of
brandy, three pints of rum, and three quarts of water. Make two
quarts of milk boiling hot, and grate a nutmeg into it; mix this
gradually with the other ingredients, and add a sufficient quantity
of loaf-sugar to sweeten it—about two pounds. Stir till the sugar is
dissolved; let the mixture stand twelve hours, then strain through
a jelly-bag until quite clear. Bottle off, and it will keep in any
climate for any length of time.

4. Three bottles of rum.
One bottle of sherry.
Three pounds of loaf-sugar.
The rind of six lemons and the juice of twelve.
One quart of boiling skim milk.

Mix together, and let the mixture stand eight days, {109} stirring
it each day. Strain and bottle, and let it stand three months. Then
re-bottle, and let the bottles lie on their sides in the cellar for
two years, to mature. The flavour will be much better than if drunk
after the first period of three months.

5. For a solitary drink.

Put into a small tumbler a teaspoonful of sugar, half a wine-glassful
of old brandy, half a wine-glassful of old rum, and fill up with
boiling milk.

6. Put into a bottle of rum or brandy the thinly-pared rinds of three
Seville oranges, and three lemons. Cork tightly for two days. Rub off
on two pounds loaf-sugar the rinds of six lemons, squeeze the juice of
the fruit over the two pounds sugar, add one quart of boiling water,
and one of boiling milk. Mix well till the sugar is dissolved, and
grate a little nutmeg over the mixture. Pour in the rum or brandy,
stir, and strain till clear: bottle off.

7. Cut off the thin yellow rind of four lemons and one Seville orange,
taking care not to include even a fragment of the _white_ rind, and
place in a basin. Pour in a bottle of old rum, and let it stand,
covered over, for twelve hours. Then strain, and mix with it one pint
of lemon juice, and two pints of cold water, in which one pound of
sugar-candy has been dissolved; add the whites of two eggs, beaten to
a froth, three pints more of rum, one pint of madeira, one pint of
strong green tea, and a wine-glassful of maraschino. Mix thoroughly,
and pour over all one pint of boiling milk. Let the punch stand a
little while, then strain through a jelly-bag, and either use at once
(as you will naturally feel inclined) or bottle off for festivals.

It is assumed, by the compiler of this little volume, that the _best_
materials only will be used by the concocters of these compound drinks.
{110}

8, and last. The best recipe for milk punch extant. Over the yellow
rinds of four lemons and one Seville orange pour one pint of rum. Let
it stand, covered over, for twelve hours. Strain and mix in two pints
more of rum, one pint of brandy, one pint of sherry, half a pint of
lemon juice, the expressed juice of a peeled pine-apple, one pint of
green tea, one pound of sugar dissolved in one quart of boiling water,
the whites of two eggs beaten up, one quart of boiling milk. Mix well,
let it cool, strain through a jelly-bag, and drink, or bottle off.

_Restorative Punch._

[This is another Oxford recipe, and used to be the favourite potion of
the embryo Gladstones and Roseberies, before proceeding to discuss the
affairs of the nation at the “Union.” There is “no offence in’t.”]

Extract the juice from the peeling of one Seville orange and one
lemon; the juice of six Seville oranges and six lemons, six glasses
of calves’-feet jelly in a liquid state, and about half a pound of
loaf-sugar; put the whole into a jug, pour on it one quart of boiling
water, and then add one pint of old brandy. Stir well together, and
use.

_Almond Punch._

Extract the juice from the peeling of one Seville orange and one
lemon by rubbing loaf-sugar on them; the juice of six lemons and one
Seville orange, one bottle of capillaire, and a quarter of a pound of
loaf-sugar. Put the whole into a jug, and when well mixed pour upon
it three pints of boiling {111} water. Cover the jug close, and keep
it near the fire for a quarter of an hour. Then add three ounces of
sweet, and half an ounce of bitter, almonds, blanched and pounded fine
in a mortar, and gradually mixed with a bottle of old brandy. Stir
well, and it may be used immediately.

_Egg Punch._

[Also once a favourite beverage at the universities.]

One quart of cold water, the juice of six lemons and six oranges, four
glasses of calves’-feet jelly in a liquid state; stir the whole well
together; let it remain covered over for half an hour, then strain
through a hair sieve, and add one bottle of capillaire, two glasses
of sherry, half a pint of brandy, and one bottle of orange shrub. Put
some pulverized sugar and ten fresh hens’ eggs into a bowl, beat them
well together, and gradually unite the two mixtures by keeping the
eggs well stirred as it is poured in; then whip it with a whisk until
a fine froth rises, and if sweet enough it is fit for immediate use.

This punch should be drunk as soon as made, for it will not keep sweet.

Omit the wine and spirits, and freeze the remainder, and a delicious
mould of ice may be obtained.

The above can be converted into

_Shrub Punch_,

of a superior quality, by the simple omission of the eggs.

Details are wanting as to the composition of the {112}

_Rack Punch_

of which Jos. Sedley partook so freely at Vauxhall, and which put a
temporary stop to the carryings-on of the fascinating Miss Sharp with
the susceptible Anglo-Indian. Thackeray does not tell us if this was
an abbreviation of Arrack Punch. My own idea is that brandy and rum—of
inferior quality—entered into it; although, as mentioned in a previous
chapter, “rack” is the “Cheshyre Cheese” synonym for gin. But I should
be inclined to back arrack. At all events this is one of the component
parts of a

_Vauxhall Punch_

of which the recipe is in my possession.

A large tumbler, one wine-glass of old brandy, one ditto of old rum,
one ditto of arrack, the juice of half a lemon, and a tablespoonful
of sugar. Mix, strain into two small tumblers, and fill up each with
boiling water.

_Uncle Toby._

Here is another encouragement to the bile industry:—

Rub the rind of one lemon on two lumps of sugar, put the sugar in
a large tumbler with the juice of the lemon, and dissolve in one
wine-glass of boiling water; then add one wine-glass of brandy, one
ditto of rum, and two dittoes of hot stout; mix well, strain, and add
more sugar if necessary. {113}

_Victoria Punch._

Throw into a bowl one lemon cut in slices, free from pips, two ounces
of sifted sugar, two wine-glasses of boiling water, one wine-glass of
hot milk, one wine-glass of old rum, and one ditto of ancient brandy;
keep stirring whilst adding the ingredients; strain and serve.

_Yorkshire Punch._

I have not yet met this in the North Riding; but it is never too late
to copy a good recipe.

Rub the rinds of three lemons on a quarter of a pound of lump-sugar,
and place the sugar in a bowl with the thin rind of one lemon and
of one orange, the juice of four oranges and of ten lemons, six
wine-glasses of calves’-feet jelly, and two quarts of boiling water.
Mix thoroughly, strain, and add a pint of rum, a pint of brandy, and a
bottle of orange shrub. Sweeten to taste.

_Champagne Punch._

Pare two lemons very thin, and steep the peel in one pint of rum.
Add a wine-glass of sherry, half a pint of brandy, the juice of
four lemons, a little capillaire, as much boiling water as you may
fancy—play light with the kettle, lads—sweeten to taste, and last
thing of all pour in a bottle of champagne.

The above will act as a restorative after a hard day’s hunting. Later
in the evening the true sportsman may feel ready and willing to tackle
a glass or two of the celebrated {114}

_Halo Punch_,

whose praises continue to be sung throughout the land.

With a quarter of a pound of sugar rub off the outer rind of one lemon
and two Seville oranges. Put rind and sugar into a large punch bowl
with the juice and pulp; mix the sugar well with the juice and one
teacupful of boiling water (just enough to melt it) and stir till cold.

Add half a pint of pine-apple syrup, one pint of strong green tea, a
wine-glass of maraschino, a liqueur-glass of noyeau, half a pint of
“Liquid Sunshine” rum, one pint of old brandy, and a bottle and a half
of “the Boy.” Sweeten to taste, strain, and serve.

Do not, oh! do not boil the above before serving, as did some Cleveland
friends of mine, on the night of a certain Ebor Handicap. The result of
this was a considerable amount of chaos.

The above was the favourite tipple of the Prince Regent at the
beginning of the present century.

{115}

CHAPTER XI

STRANGE SWALLOWS

“Wormwood!” — The little green fairy — All right when you know it,
but⸺ — The hour of absinthe — Awful effects — Marie Corelli — St. John
the Divine — Arrack and bhang not to be encouraged — Plain water — The
original intoxicant — Sacred beverage of the mild Hindu — Chi Chi —
Kafta, an Arabian delight — Friends as whisky agents — Effervescent
Glenlivet — The peat-reek — American bar-keeper and his best customer
— “Like swallerin’ a circ’lar saw and pullin’ it up again” —
Castor-oil anecdote — “Haste to the wedding!”

We will now proceed to consider certain weird potations, some of
which I have personally tested, others of which not all the wealth of
Golconda, Peru, and Throgmorton Street would induce me to sample of my
own accord, and all of which bring more or less trouble in their wake.

Gall and wormwood have been closely allied from time immemorial;
and it is in accordance with the eternal fitness of things that the
consumption of

_Absinthe_

should be almost entirely confined to France. And what is absinthe?
Merely alcohol, in {116} which have been macerated for a week or
so the pounded leaves and flowering tops of wormwood, together with
angelica root, sweet-flag root, star-anise, and other aromatics. The
liquor is then distilled, and the result is the decoctions sacred to
the “little green fairy,” who has accomplished even more manslaughter
than the Mahdi, the Khalifa, and the Peculiar People, put together. Of
all the liqueurs absinthe is the most pernicious; and with many other
sins it occupies some time in taking possession of its victim. Like Mr.
Chevalier’s hero, you “have to know it fust,” and after that the rest
is easy. Like golf, “scorching,” and gambling, once you “get” absinthe,
it gets you, and never leaves you whilst you last; and there is a
weird, almost tragic, look about the milky liquid, when diluted with
water, as to suggest smoke, and brimstone, and flames, with a demon
rising from their midst. But it is only “the little green fairy”; who
is, however, as deadly and determined as any demon.

The best absinthe is made in the canton of Neuchâtel, Switzerland, and
is not made entirely from Wormwood proper, but from a mixture of plants
related to it—such as Southernwood (“Old Man”), and another which takes
its name from the invulnerable Achilles. But the merry Swiss boy knows
a trick worth two of drinking absinthe; so the French get the most of
it, whilst some goes to America, and some to the foreign quarters of
our great metropolis. The French soldiers learnt to appreciate it, from
drinking it as a febrifuge, during the Algerian campaign, 1832–47,
and it afterwards became, {117} gradually, a popular drink on the
boulevards, where the five o’clock gossip-hour at the _cafés_ came to
be known as “the hour of absinthe.” Its use is now forbidden in the
French army and navy, and no wonder. The evil effects of drinking it
are very apparent: utter derangement of the digestive system, weakened
frame, limp muscles, pappy brain, jumpy heart, horrible dreams and
hallucinations, with paralysis or idiocy to bring down the curtain.

In that seductive, though gruesome book, _Wormwood_, Marie Corelli
gives a most graphic picture of an _absintheur_, once a gay young
banker, who, through trouble of no ordinary kind, gradually came under
the spell of the “green fairy.” I forget how many murders he committed;
but his awful experiences and hallucinations will never leave anybody
who has read the book. He is haunted for some days by a leopard who
accompanies him on his walks abroad, and who lies down at the foot of
his bed at night-time—the “jim-jams,” in fact, in their worst form.

“There are two terrible verses,” says a writer on the subject, “in the
Revelations of St. John.

“And the third angel sounded his trumpet, and there fell a great
star from the heavens, burning like a lamp, and it fell upon a third
part of the rivers and upon the fountains of waters. And the name of
the star is called Wormwood; and the third part of the waters became
Wormwood, and many men died of the waters because they were made
bitter.”

Which seems a very appropriate quotation; {118} yet will men drink of
the waters, for although absinthe makes the heart grow blacker, and the
pulse more feeble, men—and, occasionally women—will continue, as long
as there is a world, to do the thing they ought not to do. With which
moralising let us pass to the next objectionable drink,

_Arrack._

This is an East Indian name, derived from the Arabic, for all sorts of
distilled spirits, but chiefly for the “toddy,” or palm-liquor obtained
from the cocoa-palm, as also from rice, and the coarse brown sugar
known to the natives as “jaggery.” “Toddy,” when fresh, is a delicious
drink, and bears no sort of relationship to whisky-toddy. An almost
nude male swarms up a cocoa-palm—assisted by a rope which encircles his
ankles and the trunk of the tree—early in the morning, and fetches down
the vessel which has been fastened up atop, overnight, to catch the sap
which has dripped from the incisions made in the tree. That sap, in its
raw state, is delicious—especially with a dash of rum in it, but it
ferments rapidly, and usually turns sour in three or four days. Then
the natives distil, and make “arrack” of it—a liquor which is sold in
the bazaars and drunk on the occasion of a _burra din_, or festival.
Nor is its use confined to natives. The British soldier drinks it,
_faute de mieux_; and occasionally the British officer.

Poor B⸺, who was in my old regiment, had fuddled himself into such a
state of stupidity, that all liquor was forbidden him by the doctor’s
{119} orders. I, who shared his bungalow, took particular care
that these orders were carried out, and threatened his _bearer_ and
_khitmugar_ with fearful penalties should they convey any surreptitious
alcohol to the _sahib_. Still he managed to get it; and it took me a
week to find out _how_. His _syce_ (groom) used to smuggle arrack from
the bazaar, and hide it under the horse’s bedding in the stable; and
whenever I was away from the house, poor B⸺ used to creep over to the
stable, and “soak” there!

An imitation arrack may be made by dissolving 10 grains of benzoic acid
in a pint of rum; but arrack is just the sort of fluid which ought not
to be imitated. Give me the honest, manly, simple, beautiful Bass!

_Bhang_,

another dreadful East Indian drink, and a deadly intoxicant, is
distilled from hemp; and if it had only been round the neck of the
inventor before he invented it, society would have benefited.

_Saké_,

the favourite beverage of the Japs, who got it from the Chinese,
and improved upon it, is not a desirable swallow. It is a rapid
intoxicant, but the over-estimator rapidly recovers the perpendicular.
_Saké_ was handed round as a liqueur, at the much-advertised banquet
of the “Thirteen Club”; but it is said that the liqueur was in no
subsequent request. Not even one of those {120} daring and adventurous
mirror-smashers and salt-spillers express the desire to take-on _saké_
“in a moog.”

_Vodka_

is the “livener” of the Russian peasantry, and is distilled from—what?

_Plain Water_,

whether fortunately or otherwise, comes under the heading of “Strange
Swallows.” It is still consumed in prisons, and other places where
sinners and paupers are dieted at the expense of the ratepayer. And
hard as are the ways of the transgressor, his daily “quencher” is even
harder. “Plain water,” wrote a celebrated Mongolian of his day, “has
a malignant influence, and ought on no account to be drunk.” More
especially if it be Thames water. I once saw a drop of this, very
much magnified, displayed on a stretched cloth, in a side-show at the
Crystal Palace. In that drop of water I counted three boa-constrictors,
a few horrors which resembled giant lobsters, and a pair of turtles
engaged, apparently, in a duel to the death. Three ladies in the front
row of the stalls, at that exhibition, were carried out, swooning.

Whether cold water ought to be drunk, or not, I am bound, as a
tolerably truthful chronicler, to remark that very few folk who can
obtain any other sort of tipple do drink it.

It has been claimed by the Brahmins that {121}

_The Original Intoxicant_

was evolved from the climbing bindweed of Hindustan, one of the
convolvulus family. From this was made a liquor called _Soma_, which
is still the sacred beverage of the Hindus. It is the Persian _Haoma_,
and, I should imagine, “absolutely beastly” to the Christian taste.
Everybody knows the Christian bindweed—the stuff you get in your garden
when you set potatoes, or early peas.

Pulque, which is the sap of the aloe, is the favourite drink of
the Mexicans. In Kamtchatka the natives drink (or used to drink)
birch-wine, which has been already described in these pages. The
Russians, also, are very fond of birch-wine; and their’s effervesces,
like champagne.

In Patagonia they drink

_Chi Chi_,

a cider made from wild apples. Pits are dug, and lined with the hides
of horses, to prevent any liquor escaping, the apples are thrown in,
and left to decay, and ferment, “on their own.” The Patagonians have
an annual “big drink” of this dreadful mess, besides many smaller
boosing-bouts. And upon these occasions the Patagonian ladies are in
the habit of hiding all the knives and lethal weapons they can find,
and retiring, with their children, into the woods, until their lords
and masters and other relatives have drunk themselves mad, and then
slept themselves sober again. {122}

In the Caucasus district there be strange drinks made from mares’ milk,
sparkling—such as _Koumiss_, or otherwise. But these beverages do not
have a large sale in other districts.

_Kafta_,

which hardly comes under the heading of “swallows,” is in much request
amongst the Arabs, especially in the neighbourhood of Yemen. These
people boil the leaves and stems of the _kat_—a shrub about ten feet
high, which is planted in the same ground as the coffee—and chew them.
All visitors are presented with twigs of this _kat_ plant to chew; and
the drawing-room carpet suffers terribly.

“Very pleasant sensations” are, it is said, caused by this custom,
and the effect is so invigorating that the Arab soldier who goes in
steadily for _Kafta_ can do “sentry go” all night without feeling
in the least drowsy. Whether the soldiers of the Khalifa did much
chewing on the night before the battle of Omdurman deponent sayeth
not. Frequently the _kat_ leaves are boiled in milk sweetened with
honey, and the result is the same. The infusion is intoxicating, but
the effect is not of long endurance; and at a synod of the most learned
Mahomedans it was pronounced lawful for the faithful to chew, or drink
_Kafta_, “as, whilst it did not impair the health nor hinder the
observance of religious duties, it increased hilarity and good humour.”
Sly rogues, these followers of the Prophet!

If a man wants to retain his old friends and {123} to make fresh
ones let not that man take to selling wines or spirits on commission.
Some years ago I gave an old schoolfellow an order for a case of
Scotch whisky, which he declared upon oath to be absolutely the best
procurable. Home came the whisky, and the first cork was drawn. Pop!
The stuff was literally effervescent, like champagne, or Russian
birch-wine. “My dear,” I observed to the partner of my joys and cares,
“we had better not drink much of this.”

At the next Sandown Park race-meeting I met the whisky agent, who, I
forgot to mention before, was a bit of a stammerer.

“And wh-wh-wh-what,” he asked, “d’you think of that wh-wh-wh-wh-whisky?”

Stammering is occasionally to be caught.

“I think,” was my reply, “it’s the d-d-d-dashedest m-m-m-muck I ever
t-t-t-t-tasted.”

“Wh-wh-what’s the m-m-m-matter with it?”

“It f-f-f-fizzes like g-g-g-ginger p-p-p-pop.”

“My d-d-dear sir,” he protested, “that is no dr-dr-drawback. That’s the
p-p-p-peat-r-r-reek.”

Peat-reek or no, that whisky was not used for household purposes-not
even for the Christmas pudding; but was kept for the special benefit
of such police-constables, Inland Revenue officers, process-servers,
tax-gatherers, book agents, and retailers of certain winners, as might
call around, with a thirst in them.

Strange whisky reminds me of the American story of the proprietor of
a spirit-store in Arizona, who found the ordinary brand of “Rye” was
not sufficiently attractive to his customers. So he fitted together a
blend of his own, consisting of {124} essence of ginger, capsicums,
croton oil, snuff, carbolic acid, pain-killer, turpentine, and a little
very young and very potent spirit distilled from old junk. He placed a
bottle of this on the counter, and the first customer who came along
helped himself to a tumblerful, and, taking it “straight,” swallowed it
at a gulp.

As soon as he had got his second wind, he gasped out: “That’s the best
doggoned whisky I’ve sampled in this yer camp. Sonny, guess you’ve
fixed me up to rights. It’s like swallerin’ a circ’lar saw and pullin’
it up again. So long.”

And with the tears pouring down his cheeks, and holding on to
his diaphragm with both hands, he staggered into the open. The
saloon-keeper watched him from the doorway, until he had passed the
second block, and rounded the corner; and returned to his counter and
his bottles, with the pious exclamation: “The Lord be praised.! He
hasn’t died in our parish!”

No chapter on strange drinks would be complete without the following
story, which, I confess at the outset, is one of the most venerable of
“chestnuts.” It appeared in the _Sporting Times_ four-and-twenty years
ago, and I will not affirm that it was strictly original even then. It
has since been translated into every known language; but it is just
possible that some of the rising generation may not have heard it.

A well-dressed gentleman entered a chemist’s shop one morning,
evidently in a violent hurry.

“Can you make me up a dose of castor-oil?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the dispenser, with a bow. {125}

Whilst he was going through the usual motions—no prescription can be
properly made up until the chemist has overhauled every bottle on
the top shelf, opened most of the empty drawers, and upset a tray of
tooth-brushes—the customer was fidgeting about the shop, and fanning
himself with a scented pocket-handkerchief.

“It’s infernally hot,” he said presently, “and I don’t think I ever
felt so thirsty in my life. Can I have a bottle of lemonade?”

“Certainly, sir.”

More sorting of bottles. Presently “pop” goes a cork, and the sparkling
lemonade is poured into a mammoth tumbler. The customer drains it at
once.

“Ah-h-h!” he crowed, wiping his mouth. “I feel a bit better now.”

A pause. Presently he asked:—

“Have you made that up yet?”

“What, sir?” asked the chemist.

“Why that stuff—the castor-oil I ordered.”

“You’ve had it, sir.”

“Had it? Wotty mean?”

“I gave it you in the lemonade, sir.”

“Great Scotland Yard!” exclaimed the customer. “I didn’t want it for
myself—I’m going to be married in half an hour!”

{126}

CHAPTER XII

“THE BOY”

“See how it sparkles, this drink divine,”

sings Giroflé, in Lecocq’s opera; and although the sparkling liquor
therein is described in the text as “punch”—which does _not_ sparkle
much as a rule—I have no doubt whatever that what Lecocq, or his
librettist meant, was the grateful liquid which is described in
different circles of society as “fiz,” “Simpkin” (the nearest approach
a Mahomedan table-servant can make to “champagne”), “a bottle,” “golden
pop,” and “the Boy.”

Here let me interpolate the commonly-received {127} interpretation
of the last-named title. At a shooting party, a stout urchin of some
fifteen summers was specially told off to carry the liquid refreshment
for the shooters, which took the form of Perrier Jouët in magnums. And
so frequent were the calls of “Boy!” that morning, that the youth threw
up his situation before noon.

D’you believe it? Not a word of it? Same here. At least I never
attended a “shoot” at which the gunners steadied their nerves by the
aid of choice vintages—before luncheon, at all events; and I don’t mean
to begin now. Champagne was probably called “the Boy” because of its
free, happy, joyous, loose-and-careless characteristics. The sparkle
represents youth, and the froth irresponsibility; whilst the whole⸺ but
never mind about the whole, just now.

The Champagne district, as some people know, lies on the chalk hills
which surround the valley of the Marne. The townlets of Epernay, Ay,
and Château Thierry owe their prosperity to these seductive wines,
and Rheims has attained world-wide celebrity, as much from being the
centre of the champagne industry as from being the seat of the premier
ecclesiastic of France, the Archbishop of Paris. So far, guide-book.

The champagne-vines are short and stunted, the grapes being small,
but most prolific of juice. A third, and even a fourth, crushing will
yield a very delicious wine, to an uneducated palate; and this is the
inferior liquor which is sold to tourists in Rheims at the equivalent
of one shilling and fivepence per large bottle. It is a sweet—what
{128} connoisseurs call a “lady’s” wine, which an expert would not
taste a second time; and its aftermath, its effect on the imbiber the
following day, is somewhat distressing. Somehow, notwithstanding the
import duties, champagne—I am alluding now to the superior brands—is
almost as cheap in London as in the best hotels in Rheims; but the
experiment of drinking it in the land of its birth is not as risky
as on alien shores. At least so say the natives of the district, who
maintain that although work in the cellars is not the pleasantest in
the world—the strong smell, which is even intoxicating, giving the
workmen a distaste for the sparkling wine—it is quite possible for an
outsider to drink a quantity of champagne of undoubted quality without
feeling any bad after-effects.

“You may, in fact,” it was told me on the spot, “drink four bottles of
Pommery ’84, and feel all the better for it next day.”

Possibly; but how about the inferior stuff which we used to sample,
occasionally, in our salad days, when our green judgment led us to pass
our early mornings in riotous junketings in the now staid and peaceful
region of the Haymarket, S.W.? Much later than those days I have
sampled alleged champagne—“extra _sec_,” it was called, though “extra
sick” would have been more appropriate—on a race-course, in order to
fitly celebrate some famous victory. But in my riper years, the victory
(when it occurs) is honoured in more staid and seemly fashion. I was
never nearer death by poison than one Friday morning in the ancient
city of York, {129} after indulging somewhat freely in the “sparkling”
proffered me on the previous day in a booth on Knavesmire. Do what I
would—and I walked ten miles, went for a scull on the river Ouse, and
then swallowed hot mustard-and-water—the distressing sensations, the
great wave of depression which seemed to have swamped the heart, would
not quit the body, until—and the idea came as a bolt from the blue—I
had summoned up sufficient strength of mind to enter the coffee-room of
the principal hotel, and demand a pint of Pommery. It was _not_ a hair
of the dog which had bitten me; the mangy brute from the attention of
whose fangs I was suffering was no sort of relation to the highly-bred
terrier who rooted out the anguish from my soul. And that small pint
was so successful that another went the same way. And by that time I
had been inspired with nerve enough to face a charging tiger, unarmed.

Many learned people, including one section of the medical profession,
incline to the belief that consumption of champagne offers direct
encouragement to gout. But there is no such idea amongst those employed
in the cellars of Moet et Chandon, Geisler, Mum, Pommery, and other
large firms. Not that these workmen are allowed to drink as much of
their own foaming productions as they have a mind to. As a matter of
fact the wine supplied to the _ouvriers_ is the thin red stuff of the
district, resembling inferior Burgundy, and not of a very elevating
nature. It is not particularly attractive, this life of labour, for
nine or ten hours a day, in a damp, cold {130} cellar some fifty yards
below the level of the street pavements, with occasionally bottles
bursting to right and left of you. These cellars are cut out of the
calcareous rock, and were, many of them, inherited from the Romans;
and champagne is such a sensitive, exacting sort of wine that it must
be stored in the very bowels of the earth, where all is peace and
quietude, and where neither motion nor vibration can reach the maturing
vintages.

At least that is what they tell visitors; although the only time I have
visited champagne cellars could hardly be called a peaceful experience,
owing to the almost continuous bombardment of bursting bottles. And
it is said that as a rule at least 10 per cent of the stored wine is
wasted in this way; whilst in seasons of early and unusual heat the
percentage may rise to as much as 20, and even 25.

Sparkling champagne—and we are not concerned with the still wine—is the
result of a peculiar treatment during fermentation. During the winter
months the wine is racked-off, and fined with isinglass; and in the
early spring it is bottled and tightly corked. In order to collect the
sediment in the necks of the bottles these are placed at first in a
sloping condition, with the corks downward, for a term. In the second
year this sediment requires to be disgorged, or _dégagé_-ed. This feat
can only be learnt by long practice, and even then there be workmen
who cannot be safely trusted to shift the sediment, without shifting a
too-large proportion of the wine itself. {131}

May I confess to the belief that I should never make a good, reliable,
valuable disgorger?

Of course there is art, or knack, in it. The _degager_ takes a
bottle, cuts the string of the cork, expels the sediment—occasionally
without spilling more than a drop or two—and passes the bottle to his
neighbour, who fills it up with a liqueur, composed of sugar-candy
dissolved in cognac, and flavoured, and with some bright, clarified
wine. The bottle is then recorked, by machinery, wired, labelled, and
sent about its business.

The fermentation being incomplete at the first bottling of the wine,
the carbonic acid gas generated in a confined space—this part comes
unadorned, out of a book—exerts pressure on itself, and it thus remains
as a liquid in the wine. When this pressure is removed it expands into
gas, and thus communicates the sparkling property to champagne. Hence
the bombardments.

How do I know all this? I once paid a visit to the cellars of Pommery
et C^{ie.}; and my dearest friend asked subsequently what sort of
writ of ejectment had to be drawn up to rid them of my presence
and thirst. But all joking apart the time was well spent, and the
industry is deserving of all the encouragement which it receives. The
head cellarman is, literally a host in himself, an old gentleman of
aristocratic mien, and portly—or, rather, champagne-ly—presence; and
one of the _formulae_ to be gone through before quitting the premises
is to drink a glass of the very best with that charming old gentleman,
who I hope still flourishes amid his bottles and his {132} disgorgers.
And when it is added that there are usually upwards of 15,000,000
bottles in the cellars at one time, the old heresy as to the district
being unable to supply sufficient wine save for Russian consumption is
at once exploded.

In fact some twenty-five millions of gallons of champagne are produced,
annually, in the district. Of course not all of it is of the finest
growth, and some of it a connoisseur would reject with scorn. In order
to smash another old fallacy it is, perhaps, hardly necessary to
add that champagne is _not_ made from gooseberries—at all events in
countries where grapes grow. And the reason for this is that gooseberry
juice is far scarcer, and therefore more expensive than grape juice.
Some few dozens may be made in England, but to make sufficient
gooseberry champagne to be profitable would require more berries than
are grown in the country. It would, in fact, require hundreds of tons
of the fruit to pay the manufacturer.

Lest my readers should be wearied of the subject of French wines, I
shall not particularize as to the burgundies, but confine myself to
the clarets of the country which are by far the more popular wines in
England—even when they are artificially manufactured, in Spain, and
elsewhere.

“The wines that be made in Bordeaux,” wrote Gervase Markham, in the
middle of the seventeenth century, “are called Gascoyne wines, and you
shall know them by their hazel hoopes, and the most be full gadge, and
sound wines.”

Evidently adulteration’s artful aid was but little employed in those
days. {133}

“See that in your choice of Gascoine wines,” continues Gervase, in his
minute direction to the overwrought “housewife,” “that your Clarret
wines be faire coloured, and bright as a Rubie, not deepe as an
Ametist; for though it may shew strength, yet it wants neatnesse. If
your Clarret wine be faint, and have lost his color, then take a fresh
hogshead with his fresh lees which was very good wine, and draw your
wine into the same, then stop it close and tight, and lay it a foretake
for two or three daies that the lees may run through it, then lay it up
till it be fine, and if the colour be not perfit, draw it into a red
wine hogshead . . . and if your Clarret wine have lost his colour, take
a pennyworth of Damsens⸺” ha! what is this?

“Or else blacke Bullesses, as you see cause, and stew them with some
red wine of the deepest colour, and make thereof a pound or more of
sirrup, and put it into a cleane glasse, and after into the hogshead of
Clarret wine; and the same you may likewise doe unto red wine if you
please.”

Ahem! Evidently they did know something about adulteration in the
seventeenth century.

It is a common idea that only a very few clarets are entitled to the
prefix “Château.” The truth is very different. The district on the
south bank of the Gironde simply teems with châteaux, of a kind. For
miles you cannot go a few hundred yards in any direction without
seeing or passing two or three; each with its vineyards and cellars
and special labels, and more or less unblemished reputation. There is
Château {134} Latour, and there is (or may be) the Château Smith. Did
I choose to buy a cottage in that district, grow my own grapes, and
make my own wines, I should be fully entitled to label them “Château
Gubbins,” and incur no penalty by so doing.

But please do not pick the ripe grapes, although you may be sorely
tempted by the sight of dozens of bunches separated from the vines
by their sheer weight, and lying in the furrows. Plenty of people do
commit this sort of theft, for there be hundreds of the rough element
who visit the Médoc country. The “Hooligans” and _gamins_ of Bordeaux
drift here at picking-time just as the poor of London drift into the
county of Kent during the hopping season. They are not loved, but
they have to be endured. Somebody must pick the grapes, and after
all a few depredations will not ruin the grower any more than do the
strawberry-pickers in the south of England “break” the growers, by
adopting their usual plan: “three in the mouth, one in the basket.”

The claret-cellars are not nearly as far beneath the earth as are
those in the region about Rheims. Nor are they as amusing. There is no
“pop, pop” down here, no danger of wounds and lacerations from flying
splinters of glass. The principal objects of interest are the cobwebs
which are piled up all over the place like dusky curtains. It is not
well to sample too many glasses which may be offered you of the wine
of the country. For the samples are taken from the new, immature wine,
and are suggestive of {135} pains and disturbances below the belt.
The head cellarman, portly and urbane like his brother of Rheims,
will watch your face closely as you taste his novelties, and will
invariably ask your opinion of it. But the wise visitor will not be
too opinionative on the subject. I have noticed that the man who says
the least is accounted the most knowing, whether he be inspecting the
contents of a cellar, or of a stable. And believe me, there is as much
rubbish talked about wine as about horses. Still, in sampling new
champagne you may praise indiscriminately, without being accounted an
absolute dunce; whilst with claret it is altogether different. The
wine varies exceedingly with the vintage; and none but an expert and
accomplished palate may dare to say what is good, what is bad, and what
is mediocre.

Is it necessary to state that claret was not drunk, on ordinary
occasions, by the Ancient Britons? I trow not. And I fancy the wines
of the noble old Romans partook more of the nature of burgundies
than clarets. In England the wines of Médoc have never been fully
appreciated until during the latter half of the present century, when
the taste for port began to die out, with the good port itself. And
as I writhe, occasionally, in the throes of gout, I bethink me of the
merciless law delivered unto Moses, which provides that the sins of the
fathers shall be visited upon their descendants, even unto the third
and fourth generation. For the good old three-and-four-bottle men of
eighty years ago, and farther back than that, certainly laid {136}
the foundations for much of the trouble at this end of the century.
Still there be doctors who actually recommend port wine as a gout-fuge.
And it is certainly safer to drink a little good port—matured in the
wood, and innocent of beeswing—an you be a podagric subject, than some
of the clarets which, thanks to the enterprise of the late Mr. W. E.
Gladstone, are within the reach of the slenderest purse.

Do not smoke whilst drinking claret, or port, either. Nothing destroys
the flavour of red wine so effectually as the flavour of a cigar.

One of the greatest “sells” ever experienced by an expectant party
of claret judges—of whom I posed as one—was after this fashion. Our
host had inherited a pipe of Château Lafitte ’64, which had been duly
bottled off. We had enjoyed a nice plain little dinner—a bit of crimped
cod, a steak, and a bird—in order the better to taste the luscious
wine. After dinner bottle number one made its appearance; and as they
sipped, and prepared to sing hymns of praise, the jaws of the guests
fell. And a great cry uprose: “Pricked !”

{137}

CHAPTER: XIII

THE OLD WINES AND THE NEW

On the decline and fall of port wine volumes might be written. At
the same time I am not the man who is going to write them. According
to early recollections, the conversation of my elders was limited to
hunting, racing, and the wines of Oporto. The man who had “ ’20,” or
“Comet,” port in his cellars was a man to be cultivated, and dined
with; whilst “ ’34” and “ ’47” men were next in demand. And this was
after the era of the three-and-four-bottle heroes, of whose deeds I
have heard my father speak, almost with bated breath; how, after the
retirement of the ladies, to discuss tea and scandal by themselves,
the dining-room door would be locked by the host himself, who would
{138} pocket the key thereof. Many of the guests slept where they
fell, “repugnant to command,” like the sword of Pyrrhus, whilst others
would be fastened in the interior of their chariots at a later hour.
Even in the late fifties, the estimable divine with whom I was studying
the beauties of the classics, would on the frequent occasion of a
dinner-party provide one bottle of port per head, for his guests, in
addition to hock, champagne, and sherry; and the writer, then a boy of
fifteen, was included amongst the “heads.”

But as the stone age succeeded the ice age, as the iron age succeeded
the stone age, and as the gold age, and the railway age, and the
rotten company age succeeded the iron age, so have the whisky age, and
the “small bottle” age, and the gin-and-bitters age almost wiped out
the age when man drank, talked, and thought port. Our ancestors were
immoderate in their potations but, as far as wine went, these were
but rarely indulged in until after sundown, although the Briton would
frequently wash his breakfast down with ale of the strongest. And
it is difficult to believe that the evil habit of “nipping,” at all
hours of the day, which now prevails in some circles—a habit which is
mainly due to the break-neck pace at which life is pursued—is either
more conducive to health or intellectuality, or morality than the
after-dinner debauch of a century ago.

The “hot and heady” wine is (or, rather, was) produced chiefly in a
mountainous district of Portugal called Cima de Douro. The wine is
largely mixed with spirit even during {139} fermentation, the proper
colour being given by a mixture known as _jeropiga_, which is a
preparation of elder-berries, molasses, raisin juice, and spirit.

The wine which is made within the Metropolitan Police District, for
the special benefit of landladies, infirmaries, and she-choristers,
is also treated with a similar mixture, with the addition of a little
logwood-extract; but in fashionable quarters the mixture is not known
as _jeropiga_, a name which would probably affect the sale.

Port wine was known in England before the year 1700, but was not in
much demand. From the year mentioned till 1826 the export trade was a
monopoly in the hands of English merchants. The effect of this monopoly
was to increase the price in England, and to gradually deteriorate the
quality. Exports from Oporto have decreased in a marked way for the
last forty years or so; and although there is still some demand, and
some decent wine left, the “hot and heady” concoction whether dry or
fruity, a lady’s wine, or a military ditto, is gradually leaving us.

The pity of it! And simultaneously with its departure comes the
pronouncement of the medical profession that port (with the exception
of the “old crusted” brand) does _not_ encourage gout to abide within
the human frame. I may fairly claim to have been a “port man” all my
life, and never, when serving Her Majesty, overlooked my orthodox
allowance of the “black strap” purchased with the Prince Regent’s
allowance. Nevertheless I am not going to recommend this description of
wine as an ideal breakfast drink; although very early in {140} life I
once made trial of it at nine o’clock one morning.

This was in the good town of Reading, in company with a schoolmate or
two. We were on our way home for the holidays, and had been entrusted,
for the first part of the journey, to the care of the French master.
Him we had evaded for the time being—he was much interested in the
manufacture of sweet biscuits—and marching boldly into the best inn’s
best room, we demanded bread and cheese and a bottle of the most
expensive port on the wine-list. Schoolboy-like our fancy turned to
quaintness in the matter of meals; and I am bound to add that the state
of our health was not one whit improved by this weird breakfast. As for
the French master, no sooner had he run us to earth, than⸺ but that
part of the story is too painful to tell.

One of the oldest winter beverages known to civilization is

_Bishop_,

a composition of port wine and spices of which it has been written:—

Three cups of this a prudent man may take;
The first of these for constitution’s sake,
The second to the girl he loves the best,
The third and last to lull him to his rest.

And an effectual luller is this Bishop.

Make several incisions in the rind of a lemon, stick cloves in the
incisions, and roast the lemon at a slow fire. Put small but equal
quantities of {141} cinnamon, cloves, mace, and all-spice into
a saucepan, with half a pint of water; let it boil until reduced
one-half. Boil one bottle of port wine; burn a portion of the spirit
out of it by applying a lighted paper to the saucepan. Put the roasted
lemon and spice into the wine, stir it well, and let it stand near the
fire ten minutes. Rub a few lumps of sugar on the rind of a lemon, put
the sugar into a bowl with the juice of half a lemon (not roasted),
pour the wine into it, grate some nutmeg into it, sweeten to taste,
and serve with the lemon and spices floating on the surface.

To sum up, the decline and fall of port in British estimation may be
said to be due, mainly, to the following causes: inferiority of most
of the modern vintages, the introduction of whisky, the present taste
for lighter wines, such as the cheaper clarets and burgundies, with
the wines of Germany and Italy, and a sort of “boom” in wines from
Australia and California. These last-named, however, are but seldom
seen at the tables of the wealthy; and thus far the demand for the
productions of gallant little Wales have not been in any great request,
although the demand is said to be equal to the supply.

Sherry, the “sack” which was said to cheer the heart of Sir John
Falstaff and other of Shakespeare’s heroes, is, like port, a light
of other days. Like the wine of Portugal, also, its exportation has
for many years been in the hands of English settlers. The following
startling statistics have been published about these exports, which
statistics speak for themselves: The output to England in 1891 was
2,135,969 gallons, or _sixty-four per cent_ {142} less than in 1873,
which was the “record” sherry year. And although many efforts have been
made to stem the ebb, the last seven years have shewn a steady decrease
in the exports.

Yet, according to the best authorities, sherry is not only the
purest, but the most wholesome of all wines. Of course, in making
this statement the wine of Spain, the _vino de Jerez_ is implied,
and not the home-made productions for the malefit of those who study
economy without due regard to digestion. Strictly speaking, sherry
means Jerez (pronounced “herreth”) wine. But Manzanilla, a wine which
is made at St. Lucas, and Montilla which comes from a town south of
Cordova, may come under the same category. And with a view of shewing
the wholesomeness of sherry it is stated, by no less an authority than
the _Lancet_, that it is the only wine enjoined in the preparations of
the wines of the British Pharmacopœia, with two exceptions—viz. _vinum
ferri citratis_, and _vinum quininae_, which are made with orange wine.
Therefore it is certain that the sufferer from gout, for whom _vinum
colchici_ is prescribed, may swallow a proportion of the juice of the
grape, and, possibly, a hair of the dog which bit him. This naturally
recalls the old story of the sherry which was sent to a former Lord
Chesterfield as a _panacea_ for his ailment, and the curt reply sent:
“Sir, I have tried your sherry, and prefer the gout.”

There are several types of sherries, according to the different
characters developed. These are known by several distinguishing
terms {143} comprehending the characters and specific qualities of
the wine from one end to the other of a scale ranging from delicate
and light wines to rich, generous, and dark-coloured wines. Between
a straw-coloured _Vino de Pasto_ and the very fine Old East India
Brown—the sherry which two decades ago was in enormous demand at
such old-fashioned hostelries as the “Rainbow” in Fleet Street, ere
the reign of gin-and-bitters—there is a vast difference, both in
colour and flavour. Broadly, however, sherry may be divided into
two classes—_fino_, a light-coloured, delicate light wine of the
Amontillado type, and the _oloroso_, a full-bodied, highly-developed
wine.

The sherry grapes are collected and placed in large panniers on the
backs of mules and conveyed to the press-houses. The press is of very
primitive construction, and is identical with those used in ancient
history. It consists simply of a wooden trough about ten feet square,
provided in the centre with a screw press, which is used after the
treading by foot power is done, to get the last drop of juice out of
the crushed mass. Rather less than a ton of grapes serves for one
pressing, and the idea that this is done with the naked feet of the
Spanish peasantry is a popular error. Sherry is not kneaded like German
bread. Men clad in light clothing and shod with wooden clogs, with
nails on the soles and heels, pointing in a slanting direction, proceed
to tread the grapes in a most methodical manner, proceeding row by row,
each row being of the width of the nailed sole of the clog.

After the grapes have been trodden over for {144} the first time,
_i.e._ partly crushed and bruised, a measured quantity of sulphate of
lime (_Yeso_) is sprinkled over the sticky mass—now I have gone so
far perhaps ’twould be as well to complete the narrative, although it
is not always wise to enquire too closely into the interior economy
of wine presses, or kitchens. This sulphate of lime is a pure native
earth, found in the neighbourhood of Jerez, and is burnt before being
mixed with the grapes. How many sherry drinkers, I wonder, know how
largely mother earth enters into their pet tipple? The idea, certainly,
does not seem a nice one, but this mixing of lime with sherry is a very
ancient custom indeed.

Pliny—where should we modern bookmakers be without dear old
Pliny?—mentions the custom as an ancient African one. And in days of
yore it must be remembered that Africa was not entirely populated by
cannibals and dervishes, but was the home of many who lived wisely and
well.

“There’s lime in the sack!” is a sentence put into the mouth of
Falstaff. In modern days the process has become known as “plastering,”
from the fact that plaster-of-Paris consists principally of sulphate of
lime or burnt gypsum.

“It is interesting,” says the _Lancet_, “to surmise the origin of this
very ancient custom. That it had some intelligent basis admits of no
doubt. Some think that it had its origin in the fact being noticed that
when the grape juice was fermented in alabaster vessels or in marble
tanks the wine was better, it clarified quicker, and {145} developed
character more satisfactorily. Others regard the addition of sulphate
of lime as convenient from a mechanical point of view during the
pressing; it was necessary when the grapes were wetter than usual in
order to bind the residuary mass together. We do not incline to this
view.”

As the _Lancet_ devotes a considerable space to the exposition of the
view to which it does incline I may be excused from quoting it in
full—more especially as there be tables of percentages, and complicated
mathematical calculations in said exposition. But it is proved to the
satisfaction of the _Lancet_ that “lime in the sack” is matter in the
right place. And although to an uneducated mind lime suggests such
terrifying developments of _tarda podagra_ as chalk-stones, possibly
the action of the grapes on the lime renders it innocuous.

It is a curious fact that sherry in keeping develops a slight increase
of alcohol as the time advances. All spirit added to sherry, however,
is obtained from wine itself, corn-spirit in Spain being quite a
superfluity, since wine-spirit can be produced so cheaply and in
unlimited quantity. Moreover the importation of German spirit into
Spain is made practically impossible by a prohibitive duty. Still,
unless rumour lies, some Spanish wines receive the German spirit after
exportation; so Spain “gets there just the same.”

Here is an item of news which should inspire confidence in the sceptic.

“Good brandy—_i.e._ a genuine wine-distilled {146} spirit—is being
produced in Spain in commercial quantities which it is to be hoped will
successfully compete with the stuff erroneously called brandy, not to
say Cognac, but of which not a drop has been derived from the grape.”

In my researches into the manufacture of port and sherry, I have come
across no mention of the phylloxera. I am, therefore, halting between
the beliefs, either that the Spaniards and Portuguese understand vermin
better than do the French, or that the “vine-louse” has her own reasons
for keeping out of Spain and Portugal.

Forty years ago an estimable Irish nobleman was known as “Old
Sherry,” from his partiality to that wine. And thirty years ago I was
once seated at the table of a General of Division, up at Simla. My
right-hand neighbour was a son of this same nobleman, but our host,
apparently, did not know this—or had forgotten the fact. At all events,
during a lull in the conversation, the General (who had a voice like
sharpening a saw) rapped out: “By the way, Captains—you say you’ve been
quartered in Ireland—did you ever meet ‘Old Sherry’ there?”

A subaltern can’t very well throw a dinner-roll at a General or stick
a carving-fork into his leg; but that is what I, personally, felt like
doing.

In mediæval times a sufficient quantity of wine for the needs of the
inhabitants was made in gallant little Wales; and the idea of reviving
the industry occurred to the Marquis of Bute, who has done so much for
the welfare of Cardiff {147} and the neighbourhood. The vineyards are
on the site of the old ones, facing south, and the vines were planted
twenty years ago, and are very hardy. There is no reason why they
should not be propagated to almost any extent, and there is abundant
scope for the extension of the vineyards and a proportionate increase
in the yield of wine.

The vintages of 1885, 1890, and 1891 are marked in Messrs. Hatch,
Mansfield and Co.’s list as “All sold,” and although the vintage
of ’98, owing to the long spell of dry weather, does not promise
particularly well, the Marquis is no more unfortunate in this respect
than most other vine-growers.

_Vintages._

As my readers may not all be connoisseurs in the matter of wines, a few
words on the subject of vintages may be appropriate, at the close of
this chapter.

With regard to champagnes, the good years are ’65, ’68, ’74 (especially
good), ’78, ’80, ’84, ’85, ’87 (somewhat light in body), ’89, ’92, and
’93. All the other vintages since ’65 have turned out more or less
badly; and there have been no good vintages since ’93.

One of the largest and best vintages of claret on record is that of
’75, which ranks with the older ones of ’48, ’58, and ’64. ’77 is fair,
and between that year and ’88 there was no vintage of particular merit.
’93 wine is good, and this year furnished the largest yield since ’75.
’94 wine is exceptionally bad. During the five years {148} from ’82 to
’86 the merits of the wines were completely destroyed by mildew.

The burgundy vintages have been good since ’84. As for ports, the
drinkable wines (since ’34) are those of ’41, ’47 (one of the finest
wines ever known), ’51 (exceptionally good), ’52, ’53 (fine and
fruity), ’54, ’58, ’63, ’68, ’70, ’72, ’75, ’78 (exceptionally fine),
’81, ’84, ’87 (the best since ’78), and ’96 which “shews promise.” The
worst years are ’55, ’56, ’57, ’59, ’64, ’66, ’69, ’71, ’74, ’76, ’77,
’79, ’80, ’82, ’83, ’86, ’88, ’91, ’93 (exceptionally bad), ’94, and
’95.

The above statistics are also from Messrs. Hatch, Mansfield and Co.’s
list.

{149}

CHAPTER XIV

THE LONG AND THE SHORT OF IT

Our grandfathers knew not the Long Drink; the chief reason for this
fact being that aërated water, and consequently large tumblers, had not
been invented. And soda-water—one of the most ineffectual restoratives
I know—was originally employed, under its pet name “sober water,” as a
pick-me-up. The Long Drink came in, I fancy, with Cremorne. At primæval
Vauxhall men still refreshed themselves with glasses of alleged sherry,
and with rummers of brandy-and-water—a flat, stale, and unprofitable
potion, which nobody who is in complete possession of his faculties
thinks of imbibing nowadays.

Let us now run over a few recipes which require large tumblers to hold
the drinks. And we will commence with “cobblers,” those seductive
warm-weather importations from the United States. {150}

_Catawba Cobbler_,

so called because Catawba (which is a Californian wine and but little
known in this island of ours) is seldom used in its concoction.
Champagne is an excellent substitute, whilst a cheaper one is the
Italian wine, sparkling Asti.

Dissolve one teaspoonful of sifted sugar in one tablespoonful of water
in a tumbler; add two glasses of Catawba, or Asti, or champagne, and
fill the tumbler with crushed ice. Shake, ornament with a slice of
orange or pine-apple, and drink through straws.

_Moselle Cobbler._

One glass of sparkling moselle in a large tumbler, a spot of old
brandy, sugar to taste, a slice of lemon, and filled up with crushed
ice.

But there is a sameness in the manufacture of cobblers, in which
almost every known wine, or strong water, may be used, with the other
ingredients, ice, sugar, slices of lemon or orange, and water (not much
water) added.

“The secret of making

“_Hatfield_,”

writes an invaluable authority, “is supposed to be a secret only known
to the manager at The Oval. We used to drink at the Old Winchester
Music Hall an imitation, composed of two bottles of soda-water to one
ginger-beer, a quartern of Old Tom and a half-quartern of noyeau, duly
iced.”

Most “cocktails” come under the heading of {151} “Short Drinks,” and
will be found duly scheduled, farther on. Here, however, is a long ’un.

_Saratoga Cocktail._

Put into a large tumbler twenty drops of pine-apple syrup, twelve
of Angostura bitters, twenty of maraschino, and a wine-glass of old
brandy; nearly fill the glass with pounded ice, and mix well. Add two
or three strawberries and a shred of thin lemon-peel, and top up with
champagne.

_Arctic Regions._

Large tumbler. Quarter of a pint of milk, wine-glass of sherry, and
liqueur-glass of old brandy. Fill up with pounded ice, and sweeten to
taste. Shake well, dust with cinnamon, and suck through a straw.

_Brandy-and-Soda._

Every Saturday morning, of all respectable newsagents, in the pink
paper, price⸺ Pshaw! What am I thinking about? This concoction is
also known in America as “Stone Wall” (Why?), and used to be known
in Her Majesty’s dominions in Asia as a “Peg”—simply because every
dose swallowed was said to represent a peg in the coffin being
manufactured for the swallower. It is unnecessary to give any recipe
for this mixture, the proportion of the ingredients varying with the
inclination, disposition, indisposition, state of health, or pocket,
of the swallower. But above all let your ingredients be of the best.
There is only one thing worse {152} than bad brandy, and that is bad
soda-water. Avoid the cheap stuff with the little glass stoppers, as
you would the tipstaff.

_Brandy Daisy._

Put into a large tumbler the juice of a small lemon, half a
tablespoonful of sifted sugar, and dissolve with one squirt of aërated
water from a syphon. Add a liqueur-glass of yellow chartreuse, nearly
fill the glass with crushed ice, and add one wine-glassful of old
brandy. Stir well and strain.

_Bull’s Milk_

A large tumbler. One teaspoonful of sifted sugar, half a pint of
milk, one-third of a wine-glassful of old rum, one wine-glassful of
old brandy. Add ice, shake, strain into another glass, and dust with
cinnamon and nutmeg.

_Julap, or Julep._

Behold this cordial Julap here,
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds,
With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixt.

Although the mint julep is compounded and used principally in the
continent of America, the original “julap” is a Persian word,
signifying a sweet potion. John Quincey, the author of a dictionary on
Physic, describes julap as “an extemporaneous form of medicine, made of
simple and compound water, sweetened, and serves for a vehicle to other
forms not so convenient to take alone.” {153}

The simple water is usually omitted nowadays. And here is one recipe
for a Mint Julep.

Pound a quantity of ice quite fine, enough to half fill a large
tumbler. Add two teaspoonfuls of sugar. Then add a wine-glass of old
brandy, half a wine-glass of old rum, and two or three sprigs of mint.
Stir well together, and drink through a straw.

Another way to make a

_Mint Julep_.

Put into a large tumbler two and a half tablespoonfuls of water, a
tablespoonful of sugar, and two or three sprigs of mint pressed well
into the sugar-and-water to extract the flavour; add one and a half
wine-glassfuls of brandy, fill up with crushed ice, shake well, draw
the sprigs of mint to the top of the glass with the stems downwards,
and decorate with berries in season and small slices of orange; dust
with a little sugar, and dash with rum. Serve with a straw.

Mint julep, it may be added, is supposed to have been introduced into
England by Captain Marryat, the nautical novelist.

_Pine-apple Julep._

This is a beverage for bookmakers and company-promoters only. All
others should substitute pine-apple syrup from the tin for the slice of
pine-apple.

Large tumbler. Slice of pine-apple. The juice of half an orange, ten
drops of maraschino, ten drops {154} of raspberry syrup, half a
wine-glassful of gin; half fill the tumbler with crushed ice, shake
well, and top up with champagne. Drink through straws.

_Saratoga Brace-up._

Large tumbler, tablespoonful sifted sugar, twelve drops of Angostura
bitters, twelve drops of lemon juice, six drops of lime juice, twelve
drops of anisette, one fresh egg, and a wine-glass of old brandy. Half
fill the glass with crushed ice, shake thoroughly, strain into another
large tumbler, and fill up with Seltzer or Apollinaris water.

_A Burglar’s Brew._

Amongst the kind and generous correspondents who have furnished me with
matter for this work is an Austrian gentleman, who, apparently, holds
some appointment under Government. He writes: “Our local man in blue
(or rather in _green_, in Prussia) and I have just driven twenty miles
a burglar to the police-station. Bobby and I being both new to this
part of the world, did not know the road, but our passenger directed us
quite well, and actually rang the bell himself at the gaol; after which
he most properly wished a very happy new year to the head constable,
with whom he seemed to be quite on sitting terms.

“But the point of this is to tell you of a very decent drink, mixed
by ‘Billy’ ”—presumably the burglar—“himself, on our journey—a most
acceptable ‘gargle,’ with two feet of snow and a beastly east wind.
{155}

“2 pints lager beer, brought to boiling point.
3 glass rhum.
3 glass cognac.
8 lumps sugar.
1 lemon.

“I am afraid the poor fellow won’t get another taste of it for five
years.”

Lager beer and “rhum” does not read particularly delectable. But there
is no accounting for tastes; and possibly the Burglar’s Brew may find
favour amongst some of my young friends.

Reserving the right to re-enter upon the subject of long drinks, I will
now touch upon a short one or two. _Imprimis_,

_Cocktails_,

another brand of beverages which our American cousins have introduced
into the old country. I am bound to add that the beverage in question
has not altogether “frozen on” here, although the American Bar has
become an institution in all fashionable and much-frequented quarters.
In the land of its birth the cocktail is said to be popular at shooting
or fishing parties. But on this side the host who wants his guests to
shoot straight does not ply them freely with fancy drinks.

_Brandy Cocktail._

To save wearisome repetition of words, it should be stated at the
outset that the cocktail is almost invariably mixed in a small tumbler,
in which the necessary crushed ice has been placed first. {156}

One wine-glass of brandy, thirty drops of gum syrup, six drops of
Angostura bitters, and twenty drops of curaçoa. Stir, and shake well.
Place a small shred of lemon-peel atop.

_Champagne Cocktail._

One teaspoonful of sugar, ten drops of Angostura bitters, a slice of
pine-apple, and a small shred of lemon-peel. Fill up with champagne,
mix, and strain.

_Coomassie Cocktail._

Break the yolk of an egg into the tumbler, and mix with it a
teaspoonful of sugar; add six drops of Angostura bitters, a small
wine-glass of sherry, and one-third of a glass of brandy. Shake and
strain; then dust with nutmeg and cinnamon.

_Jersey Cocktail._

Instead of crushed ice, put two nice little blocks in the tumbler, add
one teaspoonful of sugar, one teaspoonful of orange bitters, and half
a wine-glass of old brandy. Top up with bottled cider, and mix with a
spoon. Serve with a strawberry and a sprig of verbena atop.

_Manhattan Cocktail._

Half a wine-glass of Italian vermouth, half a wine-glass of rye
whisky, ten drops of Angostura bitters, and ten drops of curaçoa.
Shake and strain, and place a small shred of lemon-peel atop. {157}

_Bengal Cocktail._

Thirty drops of maraschino, one teaspoonful of pine-apple syrup,
thirty drops of curaçoa, six drops of Angostura bitters, one
wine-glass of old brandy. Mix, etc., and add peel.

_Newport Cocktail._

Two _lumps_ of ice, and a small _slice_ of lemon in the tumbler, add
six drops of Angostura, half a wine-glass of noyeau, and a wine-glass
of brandy. Mix, etc., and add peel.

_Gin Cocktail._

Thirty drops of gum syrup, ten drops of Angostura, one wine-glass of
gin, ten drops of curaçoa. Mix, etc., and add peel.

_A “Swizzle,”_

which is well known in fashionable circles as a morning “livener,”
somewhat resembles the above concoction, but is even more seductive and
enthralling. When I gave the recipe for this in _Cakes and Ale_, it
brought down upon my devoted head the horror and indignation of many
of the good young critics of the superior dailies. Yet the swallow is
harmless enough, absolutely innocuous—save to the melancholy vapours.
And to shew my utter lack of appreciation of friendly warnings I append
the same recipe in all its original beauty:— {158}

Crushed ice (this is a welcome addition), a wine-glassful of Hollands,
a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, three drops of Angostura, a little
sugar, and half a small bottle of Seltzer water. Churn up the mixture
with a swizzle-stick, which can be easily made with the assistance of
a short length of cane (the ordinary school-treat brand), a piece of
cork, a bit of string, and a pocket-knife.

_Martini Cocktail._

Thirty drops of gum syrup, thirty drops of orange bitters, half a
wine-glass of gin, and half a wine-glass of vermouth; fill with
crushed ice, shake, strain, and place a small piece of lemon-peel atop.

_Sherry Cocktail_

is made in the same way as the above, leaving out the gin and
vermouth, and substituting a wine-glass of sherry.

_Sunrise Cocktail_

Thirty drops of vanilla syrup, ten drops of Angostura, two-thirds of
a wine-glass of sherry and one-third of a wine-glass of brandy; mix,
strain, and add peel.

_Jockey-Club Cocktail_

(although it may seem high-treason to connect the Jockey Club with a
cocktail).

Thirty drops of gum syrup, ten drops of Angostura, ten drops of
raspberry syrup, half a wine-glass {159} of gin, and half a
wine-glass of vermouth; shake, strain, and add peel.

_Whisky Cocktail_

is made in the same way as the above, omitting the raspberry syrup,
gin, and vermouth; and this brings us to the end of cocktails.

There is a fancy drink which is known in different parts of the world
under different names, and some of the ingredients in which differ
slightly. In the Mediterranean islands it is known as a

_Knickerbein_,

and this is the way to make it.

Break into a small tumbler the yolk of one egg, add one-third of a
wine-glass of curaçoa, one-third of a wine-glass of maraschino, and
one-third of a wine-glass of brandy; add pounded ice, shake well, and
strain; whisk the white of an egg to a stiff froth, and place it on
the top; dust with pink sugar, and suck through a straw.

In France there is a somewhat similar potion known as

_L’Amour Poussée_,

which also figures under other names in different parts of the great
continent of America, and in the West Indies.

Take a spiral glass (see that you get this) and fill it one-third full
of maraschino; place carefully in it the unbeaten yolk of an egg.
Surround this with {160} syrup of vanilla, and fill up the glass with
old brandy. These ingredients _must not mix_; and in order to prevent
this, pour them over the back of the bowl of a teaspoon into the glass.

_Brandy Scaffa_

sounds Amur’can, and is. Here again the ingredients must not be allowed
to commingle, and the egg-yolk is omitted.

A quarter of a glass of raspberry syrup, into a spiral glass, and
a like amount of maraschino and green chartreuse. Fill up—I always
make this in an old-fashioned champagne-glass, and generally omit the
raspberry syrup—with the best old brandy you can get.

_Corpse Reviver_

is the same sort of drink, with some difference in the ingredients.

A spiral glass, filled with one-third maraschino, one-third brandy,
and one-third curaçoa.

If the corpse came my way and I loved it, I should leave out the
maraschino. In

_Golden Slipper_

the egg-yolk reappears.

Place the yolk of an egg in a spiral wine-glass, half full of yellow
chartreuse. Fill up with Dantzicer goldwasser, and do not let the
ingredients mix. This goldwasser is said to be the oldest liqueur
known in Europe, having been introduced {161} into France by the
Italians in the time of Catharine de Medici. Its origin is undoubtedly
Italian, and the colourless liquor made in Dantzic, with the fragments
of gold leaf floating therein, is a fiery imitation of the real thing.

One more short recipe to finish this chapter.

_Heap of Comfort._

Put into a small tumbler the yolk of one egg, two-thirds of a
wine-glass of sherry, one-third of a wine-glass of brandy, ten drops
of curaçoa, and a teaspoonful of sugar. Add pounded ice, shake well,
and strain into a coloured claret-glass. Dust over with nutmeg.

{162}

CHAPTER XV

STILL HARPING ON THE DRINK

“Sangaree” is generally associated with soft-shell crabs and “yellow
Jack”; nevertheless here are a few recipes for concocting the drink, in
its various forms.

_Ale Sangaree._

Put into a large tumbler a teaspoonful of sifted sugar, and a
tablespoonful of water to dissolve it. Add a small lump of ice, and
fill up with a mixture of bitter and Burton ales. Dust with nutmeg.
This drink may also be served hot, _without_ the ice; need it be added?

_Brandy Sangaree._

Put into a small tumbler one teaspoonful of sugar, half a
wine-glassful of water, one wine-glassful {163} of brandy, and fill
up with crushed ice. Mix with a spoon, dash the top with port wine,
and grated nutmeg.

_Gin Sangaree_

is made in exactly the same way, substituting Old Tom for brandy.

_Port Wine Sangaree._

A small tumbler, a glass and a half of port, and a teaspoonful of
sugar. Add crushed ice, shake well, strain into another glass, and
dust with nutmeg.

_Porteree_

is made like ale sangaree, with the substitution of porter for ale. And
in

_Sherry Sangaree_

the wine of Spain takes the place of the wine of Portugal.

_Slings_

can be made with brandy, gin, or whisky. The Americans mix a
wine-glassful of the spirit with half a wine-glassful of water, a
teaspoonful of sifted sugar, and a lump of ice. In England soda-water
is mixed with the spirit. What we call a gin-sling is known in the
United States as a

_John Collins_,

but in certain regimental messes this “John” used not to be considered
properly attired without {164} the addition of a little curaçoa—the
quantity varying with the effect it was intended to produce upon the
unsuspecting guest. Occasionally, at about sunrise, boiling water was
substituted for soda-water.

_Brandy Smash._

Put into a small tumbler half a tablespoonful of sifted sugar, one
tablespoonful of water and a wine-glassful of old brandy; add crushed
ice, and shake well. Put in a sprig or two of mint, with two slices of
orange on the top, and drink through a straw.

_Champagne Smash._

Small tumbler, tablespoonful of sugar; ice, and fill up with
champagne. Add mint, as in above recipe, and serve with a straw.

_Gin Smash._

Small tumbler, teaspoonful of sugar, half a wine-glassful of water,
and a wine-glassful of gin. Add ice, mint, and a slice or two of
orange. Serve with a straw.

_Whisky Smash_

is made in the same way, substituting whisky (Irish or Scotch) for gin.

_Santa Cruz Smash._

Put into a small tumbler one teaspoonful of sugar, half a
wine-glassful of water, and a wine-glassful of Santa Cruz, or white
rum. Add crushed ice, and mint. Serve with a straw. {165}

_Apple Jack Sour_

is but seldom called for in this tight little island.

In America it is made in a large tumbler, with half a tablespoonful
of sugar, the juice of half a lemon, a squirt of Seltzer water from a
syphon, and a wine-glassful of old cider brandy. Nearly fill the glass
with crushed ice, and ornament with any fruit in season.

_Bourbon Sour._

Small tumbler, one teaspoonful of sugar, the juice and rind of a
quarter of a lemon, one wine-glassful of Bourbon whisky. Add crushed
ice, shake well, and strain.

_Brandy Sour_

is exactly the same potion, with the substitution of brandy for Bourbon
whisky. And

_Whisky Sour_

is the same, made with whisky.

At the Bengal Club, Calcutta, the

_Gin Sour_

has attained to renown.

A large tumbler is used, the juice of six limes is squeezed therein,
care being taken to remove the pips. A wine-glassful of Old Tom is
added, then a liqueur-glassful of raspberry syrup, three quarters of
a liqueur-glassful of orange bitters, a wine-glassful of water, and
three drops of Angostura bitters. Nearly fill the tumbler with crushed
ice, and shake. {166}

_Sherry Sour._

Put into a small tumbler one teaspoonful of sugar, the juice and rind
of a quarter of a lemon, one wine-glassful of sherry, and nearly fill
the tumbler with crushed ice. Shake, strain, and dash with strawberry
syrup.

_Home Ruler_

was a favourite drink at the bars of the House of Commons, during the
reign of the Uncrowned King.

The yolks of two eggs, well beaten, were placed in a large tumbler, a
little sifted sugar was added, and a small tumblerful of hot milk was
gradually stirred into the mixture. Last of all a large wine-glassful
of “John Jameson” was added.

A curious recipe comes from Switzerland, an elaborate method of

_Burning Brandy_,

or any other spirit but gin.

Cut the top off a lemon, and hollow out the interior with the
handle-end of a spoon. Place the empty cone thus formed by the skin
on the top of a large wine-glass. Fill the cone with brandy, rum, or
whisky; take a fork, balance a piece of sugar on the prongs, set the
spirit alight, and hold the sugar over the flame until it has melted
into the cone. Then take a skewer, and pierce a small hole in the base
of the cone. When all the spirit has trickled into the glass, throw
the cone away, and drink the result. {167}

“This process,” says my informant, writing from Davos, “sanctifies good
liquor, and makes inferior ditto distinctly welcome.”

_Prairie Oyster_

serves as a valuable restorative of vital power. The origin of this
popular pick-me-up is said to be as follows:—

“Some years since three men were encamped on Texas Prairie, 500 miles
from the sea-coast, when one of them was sick unto death with fever,
and was frantically crying out for oysters; he was quite sure that
if he could only have an oyster or two he would be cured. After much
thought as to how they were to procure what he wanted, one of them,
having procured some prairie hens’ eggs, not far from the camp, broke
one, and putting the yolk into a glass, sprinkled it with a little salt
and pepper, adding a little vinegar, and gave it to his sick companion,
who declared it was just the thing he wanted; and from that hour he
began to get better, and eventually got quite well.”

_Turkey Oyster_

is the yolk of a turkey’s egg treated after the above fashion, and is
said to be “greatly in vogue with athletes.” But if the athlete be wise
he will not omit to swallow the _white_ of the egg as well.

The name “negus” is suggestive of a children’s party—as well as of the
east coast of {168} Africa; ’tis a comparatively harmless beverage,
said to have been invented by one Colonel Negus.

_Port Wine Negus._

Put a pint of port wine into a jug, and rub a quarter of a pound of
sugar, in lumps, on the rind of a lemon; then squeeze the juice of
the lemon and strain it, adding the sugar and lemon juice to the port
wine, with a little grated nutmeg. Add to this a quart of boiling
water, cover the jug, and when cool the beverage will be fit for use.

_Sherry Negus_

is made with an extra quarter of a pound of sugar; and a wine-glassful
of noyeau or maraschino may be added.

_Egg Nogg_

is a bile-raiser, which is made in a large tumbler, and therefore comes
under the heading of “Long Drinks.”

Beat up an egg with a tablespoonful of sifted sugar; add one
tablespoonful of boiling water, one wine-glassful of brandy, and one
wine-glassful of rum. Fill up the tumbler with boiling milk, mix well,
and dust with nutmeg.

_Sherry Egg Nogg_

One egg beaten up with a tablespoonful of sugar in a large tumbler,
two glasses of sherry; fill up with boiling milk, mix, and dust with
nutmeg.

“In another place,” I gave the recipe for {169}

_A Doctor_,

which is a cold edition of the above, and may also be made with brandy
or whisky. In

_A Surgeon-Major_,

which is a still more valuable—and more expensive—restorative, two
eggs are used, and the tumbler is filled up with the choicest brand of
champagne kept on the premises.

_Blue Blazer_

is a “grateful, comforting” drink in cold weather. And it is advisable
that the nerves of the mixer be in thoroughly good order, and that he
(or she) be steady of hand.

Put into a silver cup, which has been previously heated, a
wine-glassful of Scotch whisky (proof) and one wine-glassful of
boiling water; set on fire, and have ready another cup, also heated,
and pass the blazing liquid from one cup to the other, three or four
times. Serve in a small tumbler with a little sugar and lemon.

If a good dispensing chemist be within easy reach, the searcher after
the hidden truth may try a

_Locomotive._

Beat two eggs with a little honey in a jug, add a pinch of ground
cloves and a liqueur-glass of curaçoa; then add, beating all the time,
one pint of burgundy made boiling hot. Dust with nutmeg. {170}

_Rumfustian._

Beat up in a large tumbler or jug the yolks of two eggs, with a
tablespoonful of sugar; then take half a pint of Burton ale, one
wine-glassful of gin, one wine-glassful of sherry, a little spice, and
the rind of a quarter of a lemon. Let the ale, wine, and gin, mixed
together, come to the boil, then pour into the egg mixture, whisking
rapidly; serve hot, with a dash of nutmeg atop.

_Pope_

is a compound of burgundy and brandy (not too much brandy, please)
with a little sugar added, poured over two Seville oranges, roasted
and cut into quarters. The mixture is then boiled and strained. But,
personally, I am not partial to this pope, which is even nastier when
made with champagne.

_Bull’s Milk._

Put into a large tumbler one teaspoonful of icing-sugar, with half a
pint of milk, one-third of a wine-glassful of rum, and two-thirds of
a wine-glassful of brandy; add crushed ice, shake well, strain into
another glass, and dust with cinnamon and nutmeg.

_Brandy Champirelle_

is another importation from the land of the stars and stripes.

Take a small tumbler and bestow therein one wine-glassful of brandy,
six drops of Angostura bitters, a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, and
some crushed ice. Shake well, and strain. {171}

_Black Stripe._

Mix in a small tumbler one wine-glassful of Santa Cruz, or white rum,
one tablespoonful of golden syrup, and one tablespoonful of water;
fill the tumbler with crushed ice, and shake well. For a winter drink,
substitute boiling water for ice, and grate a little nutmeg atop.

_Bosom Caresser._

Small tumbler, one wine-glassful of sherry, half a wine-glassful of
brandy, the yolk of an egg, two teaspoonfuls of sugar, and two grains
of cayenne pepper. Add ice, shake well, strain, and dust with nutmeg
and cinnamon.

_Colleen Bawn._

Small tumbler, one egg beaten with a teaspoonful of sugar, one-third
of a wine-glassful of yellow chartreuse, and like quantities,
respectively, of benedictine and rye whisky; shake well, strain, and
dust with cinnamon, nutmeg, and pink sugar.

Although the word “Posset” suggests a bad cold in the head it may be
noticed _en route_, with other potions. It is a medicated drink of some
antiquity; for among the numerous English authors who in some way or
other speak of it, the divine William has made one of his characters
say: “We’ll have a posset . . . at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.”

And Sir John Suckling, who died in 1641, says in one of his poems:—

In came the bridesmaids with the posset. {172}

Dr. Johnson describes posset as milk curdled with wine and other acids;
we may therefore infer that the preparation of sherry and curd which we
call

_White Wine Whey_

is the Milk Posset of our ancestors.

Put one pint of milk into a saucepan, and when it boils pour in a gill
of sherry; boil it till the curd becomes hard, then strain it through
a fine sieve. Rub a few lumps of sugar on the rind of a lemon and put
them into the whey; grate a small quantity of nutmeg into it, and
sweeten to taste.

_Pepper Posset._

The better to promote perspiration, whole peppercorns are sometimes
boiled in the whey. A Pepper Posset was known to the learned and
ingenious John Dryden, as will appear from the following lines written
by him:—

A sparing diet did her health assure;
Or sick, a pepper posset was her cure.

_Cider Posset._

Pound the peel of a lemon in a mortar, and pour on it one quart of
fresh-drawn cider; sweeten with lump-sugar, add one gill of brandy and
one quart of new milk. Stir the mixture well, strain it through a hair
sieve, grate a little nutmeg over it, and it is fit for use.

In a former chapter a recipe for {173}

_Sack Posset_

has been given. And here is what Sir Fleetwood Fletcher wrote on the
same subject:—

From fam’d Barbadoes, on the western main,
Fetch sugar, ounces four; fetch sack from Spain
A pint; and from the Eastern Indian coast
Nutmeg, the glory of our northern toast;
O’er flaming coals let them together heat
Till the all-conquering sack dissolve the sweet;
O’er such another fire put eggs just ten,
New-born from tread of cock and rump of hen;
Stir them with steady hand and conscience pricking,
To see th’ untimely end of ten fine chicken:
[Sir Fleetwood! Sir Fleetwood!]

From shining shelf take down the brazen skillet,
A quart of milk from gentle cow will fill it;
When boil’d and cold, put milk and sack to eggs,
Unite them firmly like the triple league,
[What, again?]

And on the fire let them together dwell
Till miss sing twice—you must not kiss and tell:
Each lad and lass take up a silver spoon,
And fall on fiercely like
a starv’d dragoon.

{174}

CHAPTER XVI

“APPLE SASS”

According to some chroniclers the ancient Britons made cider—or
“seider” as the poor ignoramuses wrote it—but it must have been nasty
stuff according to our civilized ideas; for until the Romans came to
visit us the apple was not cultivated in Britain, nor, indeed, any
fruit or vegetable. Our blue forefathers were not particular as to what
they ate or drank; and I should think the fermented juice of wild or
“crab” apples must have corroded the throats of the hardiest.

It is claimed for cider, and perry, that no fermented drinks do less
hurt to the imbiber; although one authority states that the man who
{175} drinks too much of either invariably falls on the back of his
head, which sounds rather dangerous. Whether the drinking of cider in
moderation conduces to long life deponent sayeth not; but no less an
authority than Lord Bacon evidently thought so; and in his _History
of Life and Death_ he tells of eight men dancing a Morris-dance,
whose ages, added together, were 800 years, “tennants of one Mannour”
belonging to the Earl of Essex, and habitual cider-drinkers. But the
lengthening of the days of the imbiber depends, in all probability,
upon the brand of cider. I have tasted some varieties which were
capable, apparently, of shortening life, rather than of prolonging
it; and in parts of Somersetshire, even at the present day, the
locals—case-hardened and poison-proof to a man—swill a horrible
decoction, which would probably kill off an alien, at long range, most
speedily and effectively.

Cider was called “cidre” and “sithere” by fourteenth century writers;
and the word is said to be a corruption of the Greek _sikera_, used
in the Septuagint to translate the Hebrew _shekar_, usually rendered
“strong drink” in the Old Testament.

“The name of _Cider_,” says one of these old writers, “if from
_Sikera_, is but a general name for an inebriating or an intoxicating
drink, and may argue their ignorance in those times of any other name
than _Wine_ for that liquor or juice in the Saxon or Norman language,
either of those nations being unwilling (it’s probable) to use a
British name for so pleasing a drink, they not affecting the Britains,
made use of few of their {176} words; but since that, that wines have
been imported from foreign parts in great quantities, the English have
been forced to make use of the old British name SEIDER, or _Cider_, for
distinction sake, although the name _vinum_ may be as proper for the
juice of the apple as the grape, if it be derived either from _Vi_ or
_Vincendo_, or _quasi Divinum_, as one would have it. Also the vulgar
tradition of the scarcity of foreign wines in England, viz. that Sack,
which was then imported for the most part but from Spain, was sold in
the apothecaries’ shops as a cordial medicine; and the vast increase
in vineyards in France (Ale and Beer being usual drinks in Spain and
France in Pliny’s time) is an argument sufficient that the name of
_Wine_, might be attributed to our British _Cider_, and of vineyards to
the places separated for the propagating the fruit that yields it.”

As a matter of fact the best cider in the world is made in Normandy.
And for what purpose do the Normans make it? To send to the Champagne
country to be sold to the unsuspecting tourist as the sparkling wine of
that district. This is solid truth. Hundreds of millions of gallons are
made in Normandy with the most scrupulous care, under the supervision
of experienced chemists, and the bulk is eventually sold as champagne.
And not only champagne, but claret, white wines, and even honest,
manly, beautiful, unsophisticated, good old Portuguese port, owe their
being in some instances to Normandy apples; the rich colour of the
port being added by log-wood, beet-juice, {177} and the root of the
rhatany. In fact, genuine port can be so closely imitated as to deceive
many a good judge; and it really seems wonderful that the British
farmer does not go in for making port wine, with apples so plentiful
and cheap, and beet, mangels, and elderberries so easy to cultivate. In
fact, given the time, and the materials, I am convinced that I could
produce an excellent ’98 wine for laying down, for hospital purposes,
public rejoicings, or _miladi’s boudoir_.

Cider, like all other useful drinks, can be, and is, imitated; and
Bands of Hope and other well-meaning but misguided associations are
chiefly responsible for this. What is known at Sunday-school treats
and Salvation Army marriage-feasts as “non-alcoholic cider” has been
found, on analysis, to be “a water solution of sugar and citric acid,
flavoured with apple essence.” It’s the flavouring as does it.

“Harvest cider,” as home-made for the “hands,” is dreadful stuff, and
absolutely unfit for human consumption. Apples which have fallen of
themselves, or been blown off the trees, “windfalls,” are left on the
ground to rot, and be eaten of slugs and wasps; and are then shovelled
into the cider-mill, together with leaves, stalks, slugs, wasps, dirt
of all sorts, spiders, ear-wigs, wire-worms, “Daddy Long-legs”-es,
and—other things; the whole being converted into a species of
“hell-broth,” which would have done credit to the best efforts of the
witches in _Macbeth_, when properly mixed.

For a long time the Germans held aloof from {178} the manufacture
of cider. The good Rhine wine, and the flowing and flatulent lager
of their own country, were good enough for the Teutonic palate. But
when it comes to a question of making money, with the risk reduced
to a minimum, Germany seldom “gets left,” as the Yankees say. Some
of the inhabitants of the Fatherland discovered, about two decades
ago, that there was _gelt_ in cider, and since that time apples have
been imported from France, by train-loads, for the purpose of being
converted into cider. Germany now exports nearly twelve times as much
of this fascinating beverage as does France; and under whatever name it
may figure in the bills—German Champagne, Military Port, Äpfel-wein, or
Sparkling Hock—away goes the apple juice to all parts of the civilized
world, including Damascus, Pekin, Khartoum, San Francisco, and
Shaftesbury Avenue. In Frankfort-on-the-Maine alone there are more than
fifty cider-factories, and the industry brings the town at least half a
million sterling per annum.

“The fruits of the earth,” says the ancient chronicler quoted above,
“and especially of trees, were the first food ordained for man to eat.”

And yet I had always understood that it was for eating an apple that
our first parents were evicted from the garden. But to continue the
quotation.

“And by eating of which (before flesh became his meat) he lived to
a far greater age than since any have been observed to have lived.
And of all the fruits our Northern parts produce, there’s none more
edible, nor more wholesome than _Apples_; {179} which by the various
preparations of the cook are become a part of our table entertainment
almost throughout the year, and are esteem’d to be very temperate and
nourishing.

“They relax the belly, which is a very good property in them; but the
sweet more than the sharp. They help concoction, eaten after meat,
with a little bread: you may be confident that an apple eaten after
supper”—paste this in your hats, ye revellers—“depresseth all offensive
vapours that otherwise would offend the head, and hinder sleep. Apples
rosted, scalded, or otherwise prepared, according to the skill of the
operatour, are good in many hot diseases, against _Melancholy_, and the
_Pleurisie_.

“But _Cider_ is much to be preferr’d, it being the more pure and
active part separated from the impure and feculent; and without all,
peradventure, is the most wholesome drink that is made in Europe for
our ordinary use, as before is observed. For its specifick vertues,
there is not any drink more effectual against the _Scurvy_. It is also
prevalent against the _Stone_, and by its mundifying qualities is good
against the diseases of the _Spleen_, and is esteem’d excellent against
_Melancholy_.”

Possibly the course of time has made us merrier than our forbears; at
all events “melancholy” is a disease for which no remedy is prescribed
in the modern editions of the Pharmacopœia. What with musical farces,
and Arthur Roberts, and the means to purchase a “livener” next morning,
no citizen of London is justified in the possession of lowness of
spirits. {180}

Making cider is easy enough, but requires, like all other manufactures,
care and a modicum of common sense. And here let me join issue with
those who maintain that the inferiority of English cider is due to the
antiquated methods employed in making it. In the first place I question
the inferiority; and in the second, although it is a fact that there is
very little difference between the methods of to-day and two hundred
years ago, we are more careful, on the whole, in the selection of the
material. Far more important than complicated machinery is the proper
choice of apples. Grow these in a scientific way, and do not eat all
the best for dessert. The cider apple should be neither green nor
over-ripe—and certainly not rotten like those used occasionally for
the harvesters—free from injury (and therefore not a “windfall”) and
just full ripe. The selected fruit should be placed in a mill which
breaks them up and pulps them; the pulp is then put under a press, and
squeezed dry to the last drop. The liquid is then left to ferment, and
this process should be very gradual, and be closely watched. Finally
the cider is drawn off, the finest qualities being bottled, and they
may be regarded as pure wine. At all events they are frequently sold
“as sich.”

It is claimed that cider, when pure and well made, is not merely an
extremely wholesome drink, but a very helpful one to those who suffer
from gout or rheumatism. It is asserted that cider will even cure these
painful disorders, and that those who drink the juice of the apple are
far less subject to aching joints and limbs than {181} other quaffers.
It is the “malic acid” in the liquor which is so inimical to these
diseases; and as a cider-drinker of considerable experience, and a sad
sufferer, at times, from both diseases, I can safely say that there is
no “touch” of either in the “natural” Norfolk cider made by Messrs.
Gaymer—a dry wine which is very palatable, and is one of the best and
the most wholesome of beverages.

Cider at its strongest does not contain a large percentage of alcohol,
and its makers contend that its qualities are more health-giving and
far less heady than those of any other liquor consumed in England.
According to Mr. Radcliffe Cooke, an enthusiast on the subject, the
revival in the cider industry dates from 1890, and there is every hope
that that industry will flourish more and more, through the centuries.
The recognized cider fruit may be divided into “bitter-sweets”—such
as the so-called Norman apples and the Wildings—and the “red” fruits,
such as the nearly extinct “Red Streak.” The best cider is made from
an admixture of the two sorts. But the gout-fuge cider, we gather from
another writer, should be made from a _single_ sort of apple.

“There is no difficulty,” writes Mr. Cooke, “in expressing the apple
juice; but the fermentation process is not sufficiently studied, and it
is here that failure commonly occurs.”

“As for the making of Perry and Cider,” writes an authority of the
seventeenth century, “which are drinkes much used in the West parts,
and other countries well stored with fruit in this {182} kingdome;
you shall know that your perry is made of peares onely, and your cider
of apples; and for the manner of making thereof, it is done after
one fashion, that is to say, after your Peares and Apples are well
prickt from the stalkes, rottennesse, and all manner of other filthe,
you shall put them in the presse mill which is made with a mil-stone
running round in a circle, under which you shall crush your peares or
apples, and then straining them through a bagge of haire cloth, tunne
up the same (after it hath bene a little setled) into hogs-heads,
barrels, and other close vessels.

“Now after you have prest all, you shall save that which is within the
haire cloth bagge, and putting it into severall vessels, put a pretty
quantity of water thereinto, and after it hath stood a day or two, and
hath beene well stirred together, presse it over also againe, for this
will make a small perry or cider, and must be spent first. Now of your
best cider that which you make of your summer or sweete fruit you shall
call summer or sweete cider or perry, and that you shall spend first
also; and that which you make of the winter and hard fruit, you shall
call winter and sowre cider, or perry; and that you may spend last, for
it will indure the longest.”

We don’t boil much cider nowadays, but this was a custom in
considerable favour with the ancients.

“In many places,” says another writer, “they boyl their cider, adding
thereto several spices, which makes it very pleasant, and abates the
unsavoury smack it contracts by boyling, but {183} withal gives it
a high colour. This way is not to be commended, because the juice of
the apple is either apt to extract some ill savour from the brass or
copper, we being not acquainted with any other vessels to boyl it in,
or the sediment of it is apt to burn by its adhering to the sides of
the vessel, it being boyl’d in a naked fire.

“But if you are willing to boyl your cider, your vessel ought to be
of _Latten_, which may be made large enough to boyl a good quantity,
the _Tin_ yielding no bad tincture to the liquor. . . . It many times
happens that cider that hath been good, by ill-management or other
accident becomes dead, flat, sowr, thick, muddy, or musty; all which
in some sort or other may be cured. You may cure deadness or flatness
in cider by grinding a small parcel of apples, and putting them in
at the bung-hole, and stopping it close, only sometimes trying it by
opening the small vent that it force not the vessel; but then you must
draw it off in a few days, either into bottles or another vessel, lest
the _Murc_ corrupt the whole mass. Cider that is dead or flat will
oftentimes revive again of itself, if close stopt, upon the revolution
of the year and approaching summer.”

_Hippocras._

Here is an ancient recipe:—

Take of cardamoms, carpobalsamum, of each half an ounce,
coriander-seeds prepared, nutmegs, ginger, of each two ounces, cloves
two drachms; bruise and infuse them two days in two gallons of the
richest sweetest cider, often stirring it together, then add {184}
thereto of milk three pints, strain all through an hippocras bag, and
sweeten it with a pound of sugar-candy.

D’you kna-ow—as the curate in _The Private Secretary_ says—I am not
taking any hippocras to-day.

“Wormwood imbib’d in cider,” says another writer, “produceth the effect
that it doth in wine.” Evidently some nasty effect; only conceive an
admixture of absinthe and cider!

That the ancients loved mixtures—and sweet mixtures—is pretty evident
from the writings of Pliny and others. Were a man to invite me to drink
apple juice in the which had been bottled dried juniper-berries, I
should probably hit that man in the eye, or send for a policeman. But
two or three hundred years ago “juniper-cider” appears to have been a
popular drink, although we read that “the taste thereof is somewhat
strange, which by use will be much abated.”

Ginger, cloves, cinnamon, currants, honey, rosemary, raspberries,
blackberries, elderberries, and “clove-July-flowers,” all used to be
put into cider, by way of flavouring; “but the best addition,” says the
same writer, “that can be to it is that of the lees of _Malaga_ Sack
or Canary new and sweet, about a gallon to a hogshead; this is a great
improver and a purifier of cider.”

Evidently in those days they had some crude sort of ideas on the
subject of Cider Cup.

{185}

CHAPTER XVII

CORDIALS AND LIQUEURS

Let us commence with that grand old British eye-opener,

_Cherry Brandy._

There are more ways than one of making this. Here is an old recipe.

Take six dozen pounds of cherries, half red and half black, and mash
or squeeze them with your hands to pieces, and put to them three
gallons of brandy, and let them stand steeping twenty-four hours. Then
put the mash’d cherries and liquor a little at a time into a canvas
bag, and press it as long as any juice will run; sweeten it to your
taste, and put it into a vessel fit for it, and let it stand a {186}
month, and bottle it out; put a lump of loaf-sugar into every bottle.

Another way, and a nicer; the idea of squeezing cherries to pieces with
the human hands savouring of barbarism—and fingers.

Take Black Geans or Black Morellos—but remember that the former
are sweet, the latter acid and bitter, and there will be a great
difference in the results. They must not be over-ripe. Take off the
stalks, and if you choose prick them with a pin. Fill a bottle with
them three-quarters, pour in brandy to the neck, and cork it up. It
will be ready in a month.

It will be noticed that no mention of sugar is made in the above. The
necessary quantity would naturally vary, according to the description
of cherry employed.

Yet another—my way.

This can either be made from Black Gean cherries, or Morellos, but
the latter are better for the purpose. Every pound of cherries will
require one quarter of a pound of white sugar and one pint of the best
brandy. The cherries, with the sugar well-mixed with them, should be
placed in wide-mouthed bottles, filled up with brandy; and if the
fruit be previously pricked, the mixture will be ready in a month. But
a better blend is procured if the cherries are untouched, and this
principle holds good with all fruit treated in this way, and left
corked for at least three months.

It should be borne in mind that these cordials are far better when
home-made—provided always {187} the best materials be used. The cherry
brandy, sloe gin, etc. etc., which is bought is not always made with
’65 cognac. Remember how many people have to make some sort of profit
out of what can be purchased over the counter.

One more way.

Put six pounds of black cherries, six pounds of Morellos, and two
pounds of strawberries in a cask. Bruise them slightly with a stick,
then add three pounds of sugar, twelve cloves, half an ounce of
powdered cinnamon, and two grated nutmegs, with a quarter of the
kernels of the cherry-stones, and a handful of mint and balm. Pour
over these six quarts of brandy, and let the cask remain open for ten
days. Then close it, and in two months it will be fit for use.

_Cherry Gin_

can be made in the same way as any of the above, merely substituting
Old Tom for cognac. And if you want to make it extra good, use
sugar-candy instead of the ordinary “best lump.”

_Cherry Whisky_

was introduced to the public at the Brewers’ Exhibition in the Royal
Agricultural Hall, London, in 1898. I have not tasted it, but suppose
that the method of making it is similar to any of the above recipes,
substituting Glenlivet. But I fancy brandy or gin would always be
preferable; for whisky does not blend well with fruit. {188}

_Sloe Gin._

The difference between this cordial as made at home, and allowed to
mature gradually, and the stuff retailed in taverns, is marked. ’Tis a
“refresher” which has only become popular within the last few years;
and consequently within a radius of twenty miles from London, the
sloe-bushes are stripped of their fruit, before it is fit to pick, by
the poorer classes, who can obtain sixpence per pound—or something like
that price—for sloes in the market. But the sloe should not be picked
for this purpose until it has experienced at least one night’s frost.

Allow one pound of sugar to one pound of sloes. Half fill an ordinary
quart bottle with sugared sloes, and fill up with gin. If the sloes
have been previously pricked, the liqueur will be fit for use in a
couple of months; but ’tis better _not_ to prick them, but let the gin
do its own work of extraction. In that case the bottle should not be
uncorked within twelve months.

A great deal of the alleged sloe gin sold is light in colour, and
has evidently been hurried in its preparation. A great deal more is
quite innocent of sloe juice, and is merely inferior gin, diluted and
coloured. The orthodox sloe gin should bear the hue of “fruity” port
wine. See that you get it.

_Highland Cordial._

Here is another recipe into which the wine of bonnie Scotland enters.
At one time the {189} cordial was popular with the Scots, who now,
however, prefer their whisky unadorned.

Steep in one bottle of old Scotch whisky one pint of white
currants, stripped of their stalks, the thin rind of a lemon, and
one teaspoonful of essence of ginger. Let the mixture stand for
forty-eight hours, and then strain through a hair sieve. Add one pound
of loaf-sugar, which will take at least a day to thoroughly dissolve.
Then bottle off and cork well. It will be ready for use in three
months, but will keep longer.

A cordial which is but seldom asked for nowadays was known in the
seventeenth century as

_King Charles II.’s Surfeit-Water_.

Take a gallon of the best aqua-vitæ, and a quart of brandy, and
a quart of anniseed-water, a pint of poppy-water, and a pint of
damask-rose-water; put these in a large glass jar, and put to it a
pound of fine powdered sugar, a pound and a half of raisins stoned, a
quarter of a pound of dates stoned and sliced, one ounce of cinnamon
bruised, cloves one ounce, four nutmegs bruised, one stick of licorice
scraped and sliced; let all these stand nine days close covered,
stirring three or four times a day; then add to it three pounds
of fresh poppies, or three handfuls of dried poppies, a sprig of
angelica, two or three of balm; so let it stand a week longer, then
strain it out and bottle it.

And then notify the undertaker, I should think. The Merry Monarch had
his faults, but, surfeit or no surfeit, it is hard to believe that
a king could bring himself to lap such a {190} “hell-broth” as the
above. Pah! Let us take the taste out with

_Ginger Brandy_.

Bruise slightly two pounds of black currants, and mix them with one
ounce and a half of ground ginger. Pour over them one bottle and a
half of best old brandy, and let the mixture stand for two days.
Strain off the liquid, and add one pound of loaf-sugar which has been
boiled to a syrup in a little water. Bottle and cork closely.

_Orange-flower Brandy._

There is not much of this in the market, or the store-cupboard.

Take a gallon of best brandy, and mix with it a pound of
orange-flowers which have been boiled. Save the water, sweeten it, and
bottle off the mixture.

_Carraway Brandy._

Steep an ounce of carraway seeds and six ounces of loaf-sugar in a
quart of brandy. Let this stand nine days, then strain and bottle.

And the author of the above adds: “ ’Tis a good cordial.” Three hundred
years ago carraways invariably figured at the dessert-table in England.
The seeds now appear either in cakes for school-treats, sugar-plums, or
the favourite liqueur known as

_Kümmel_.

This is principally made in Russia, and is an excellent stomachic. Own
brother to the {191} carraway seed is the anise seed, which appears in
a liqueur, made chiefly at Bordeaux, and called

_Anisette_.

Personally, I prefer Kümmel, and the other is more of a drug than an
enlivening potion. Cough remedies for the most part contain anise seed,
which is also largely used at a “drag” hunt, hounds being especially
keen on the scent.

_Apricot Brandy._

This is not often met with away from its home in the United States.

To every pound of fruit (which should not be quite ripe) add one pound
of loaf-sugar. Put the apricots into a preserving-pan, with sufficient
water to cover them. Let them boil up, and then simmer gently until
tender. Remove the skins. Clarify and boil the sugar, then pour it
over the fruit, and let it remain twenty-four hours. Then put the
apricots into wide-mouthed bottles, and fill them up with syrup and
brandy, half and half. Cork tightly, and seal the tops of the corks.

This apricot brandy should be prepared in the month of July, and kept
at least twelve months before using.

_Quince Whisky._

I once superintended the brew of a decoction of quinces and Scotch
whisky. The quinces were treated exactly as the apricots are in the
above recipe, and we kept the stuff bottled up for a year. I don’t
think I ever tasted anything nastier. {192}

_Orange Brandy_

should be made in the month of March, and, well-made, is the best of
all cordials, being especially valuable on a cold morning just before
proceeding with the hounds to draw Newton Wood.

Take the thin rinds of six Seville oranges, and put them into a stone
jar, with half a pint of the strained juice and half a gallon of
good old brandy. Let it remain three days, then add one pound and a
quarter of loaf-sugar—broken, not pounded—and stir till the sugar is
dissolved. Let the liquor stand a day, strain it through paper until
quite clear, pour into bottles, and cork tightly. The longer it is
kept the better.

The ancients apparently interpreted the word “cordial” in a different
way to our later way; and their cordials were chiefly used in the
sick-room.

_The Saffron Cordial_,

for instance, was chiefly employed to cure fainting fits, the ague, and
the smallpox. I think I should have preferred all three complaints at
once.

Fill a large still with marigold flowers, and strew on it an ounce of
ground nutmeg; beat them grosly, and take an ounce of the best English
saffron, pull it, and mix with the flowers; then take three pints of
muscadine or tent, or Malaga sack, and with a sprig of rosemary dash
it on the flowers; then distil it off with a slow fire, and let it
drop on {193} white sugar-candy; draw it off till it begins to be
sowre, save a pint of the first running to mix with other waters on an
extraordinary occasion; mix the rest together to drink by itself. Take
five or six spoonfuls at a time.

As Hamlet observes, on a memorable occasion: “Oh, horrible, horrible,
most horrible!”

_Curaçoa_

is not only the best known of all liqueurs, but the most wholesome.
It will blend equally well with brandy and whisky. The best, in fact
the original brand, is made in Amsterdam, with the peel of a very rare
orange which grows in the island of Curaçoa, and falls from the tree
before it is ripe. The peel of this is dried, and is known in the trade
as the Curaçoa of Holland, to distinguish it from other Curaçoas which
have not the same property, although they are often sold in place of
it. The Dutch distillers naturally keep their process a secret, but the
French imitators declare that the Dutch secret is merely as follows:
that five kilogrammes of dried peel of the Curaçoa of Holland and the
zests of eighty fresh oranges are submitted to the action of sixty
litres of alcohol (85 degrees, French measurement), and that, save in
the colour, there is no real difference between white Curaçoas and
brown. At all events either is very useful in a cocktail, or swizzle;
and there are many restorative compounds, or “tonics” as they are
called, into which the liqueur enters. {194}

_Cassis_,

owing to the ridiculously-high duty imposed upon its importation, is
comparatively unknown in England, although it can be obtained at every
little roadside _cabaret_ in France, cheap enough. The cassis of Dijon
has a great reputation as a cooling drink. There is an infinitesimal
portion of alcohol in it, and it can, I should say, be easily made at
home by anybody who possesses some nice ripe black-currants. Still
the nearest the ordinary English householder gets to cassis is in the
manufacture of so-called “black-currant tea”; and you only get that
when you have a sore throat.

_Chartreuse._

One of the most severe sects of monks manufacture a liqueur which is
the highest prized and priced of all, for the benefit of Sybarites who
deny themselves no luxury in life. St. Bruno the founder of this order
chose for his monastery the most desolate and barren spot he could find
in the mountains of Dauphiné, and forbade his followers to eat the
flesh of bird or beast; the fruit of the vine and strong waters being
likewise defended. But one of them discovered, nevertheless, that a
most seductive liquid could be distilled from plants, chief amongst
them being Angelica Archangelica—a plant which it is probable did not
receive its holy name until trial had been made of the distillation.
The Carthusian monks have the sole right of selling this liqueur—a
right which brings them in a very {195} substantial revenue; for
Chartreuse is esteemed—in France, at all events—above all _chasses_.
The yellow kind is the best, and the white mildest of the three, of
which the green is fiery. Personally, I prefer curaçoa, or, better
still, cognac ’65.

The name of the “little refreshers” consumed at tavern-bars in large
cities is legion. I have heard the following compounds called for, at
different times: sherry-and-bitters—there being at least half a dozen
sorts of bitters—gin-and-ditto, whisky-and-ditto; vermouth (Italian or
French), vermouth-and-sloe-gin, gin-and-sherry, gin-and-orange-gin,
sloe-gin, gin-and-sloe-gin (commonly called “slow-and-quick”),
curaçoa-and-brandy, whisky alone, brandy alone, gin alone. And in the
Borough there is a dreadful mixture known by the appropriate name of

_Twist_.

“This,” says an esteemed correspondent, “is a favourite liqueur of
the porters in the hop-warehouses. You go into the ‘Red Cross,’ for
instance, and ask for a ‘ ’alf-quartern o’ Twist in a three-out glass,’
and you will find that it consists of equal parts of rum and gin, and
is a powerful pick-me-up after a wet night.”

I should question the “pick-me-up” part of this story; therefore shall
not schedule “Twist” in my list of Restoratives, in the next chapter.

_Kirschenwasser._

This is a wholesome and reviving liqueur made from the cherries which
grow in the Black Forest. It is not as potent as maraschino, which
{196} is also made from cherries, in another place. But the Black
Forest cherry-water requires a little treatment to render it palatable.

Put a little in a saucer; take a lump of sugar, set fire to it, and
replace it in the saucer, so that the rest of the liquid may be set
ablaze. When the flame is burnt out and the sugar melted, the liqueur
is fit to drink.

_Noyeau_

is made from white brandy and apricot-kernels, and is the sweetest, as
well as the most pernicious of all liqueurs. I do not know how many
glasses it would take to kill an ordinary man, but most people know
that noyeau contains hydrocyanic acid of which none but those tired of
the world would care to drink too much.

_Parfait Amour_

“What’s in a name?” This is simply bad orange-bitters, and there
is neither love nor perfection in it. But they say that in dear
old England, in the olden time, before oranges could be bought at
three-halfpence per dozen, it was customary for a lover, on New Year’s
Day, to present his sweetheart with an orange stuck all over with
cloves, as an emblem of Perfect Love. The sweetheart of to-day prefers
a bangle, or a bicycle.

One more liqueur,

_Maraschino_.

This is a bitter-sweet liqueur made at Zara from the kernel of
the Marasca cherry, or gean {197} of Dalmatia. The word implies
bitterness, yet the liquid is sweet enough to catch flies. “It is a
curious fact,” says a modern writer, “in natural history that the fair
sex prefer a sweet liqueur to the finest wine; and they have such a
tendency to maraschino that Mr. Hayward has proposed that whereas the
toast most honoured among men is Wine and Women, they should adopt as
their own return toast—Men and Maraschino.”

The French make different imitations of the true liqueur, one of them
from peach-stones, which they call “Marasquin de pêches.” And in the
true Maraschino of Zara there be a few peach-stones mixed with those
of the geans. These are small and quite black, and are fermented first
with honey, then with the leaves and kernels of the fruit, and are last
of all distilled and sweetened with sugar.

One more cordial, to finish the chapter. The recipe was given in
the _Lady’s Pictorial_, by Mrs. C. E. Humphry, the delightful and
ever-welcome “Madge” of _Truth_. I can vouch for the efficacy of the
potion.

_Ginger Cordial._

Two quarts of Scotch whisky, three lemons sliced, one ounce of ground
ginger, half an ounce of carraway seeds, three pounds of lump-sugar,
one ounce of bitter almonds, three ounces of sweet almonds, one pound
of raisins. Put all into a crock, and stir every day for three weeks.
Then strain through three folds of blotting-paper, or one fold of
filtering-paper, and bottle.

{198}

CHAPTER XVIII

THE AFTERMATH OF REVELRY

This is a world of compensations. Therefore it is of no use
shutting our eyes to the fact that for every minute of injudicious,
over-estimated revelry, of devotion to the rosy god, passed at night in
the best of society, with boon companions, we are liable to an hour’s
disturbance, worry, agony of mind, headache, remorse of conscience,
“jim-jams,” “Katzenjammer” (the equivalent for “hot coppers”)—call it
what you will, next day. Some suffer for over-indulgence more than
others. There be so-called “seasoned casks” who claim that no amount
of debauchery can affect them for the worse, as long as the {199}
liquor be good, and not swallowed too quickly. But, although these may
“come up smiling” next day, on making their first public appearance,
the collapse, the downfall is only postponed. Without being able to
explain these things medically, it is certain that Alcohol—which is,
as previously explained, the Devil in Solution—will destroy in the
end, if you abuse her, although her methods of destruction may differ,
according to the capacity, or constitution, of her victims.

And let not the over-estimator expect any sympathy from the world, or
any part of it, whilst he is experiencing the “remorse of conscience”
stage. Katzenjammer patients are sternly and forcibly refused admission
to any public hospitals, even if _in extremis_; for mercy, charity,
and the medical faculty have refused hitherto to recognize the fact
that alcoholism is a disease. And he who is “jumpy” and nervous of a
morning has just as much chance of obtaining condolence from friends or
relatives as has the casual sufferer from gout. Both disorders are, in
fact, excellent provocatives of badinage and laughter.

I remember hearing of an accountant in Cape Town, a hardened
and determined “night bird,” a frequenter of hostelries, a boon
companion—in short, a sot. He was called as a witness in an intricate
case in the High Court, one morning, whilst suffering terribly from
nerves. It was heart-rending to watch his agony. His features twitched,
his eyes rolled, and his hands shook as though afflicted with palsy on
the higher scale. The ledgers which {200} were occasionally handed
up to him by the usher, for reference, slipped from his grasp, and
documentary testimony flew all over the counsels’ wigs. At length the
notice of the judge was attracted to the state of things.

“What is the matter with that witness?” asked his lordship. “Is he
trifling with the court?”

“M’lord,” said counsel for the plaintiff, “I am instructed that the
witness is what may be called a free-liver, and that it is often
necessary for him to swallow a dram in the morning, before proceeding
to business. I am also instructed that the witness overslept himself
this morning, and had no time to procure the necessary dose, before
appearing as a witness before your lordship.”

“Tut, tut!” exclaimed the judge. “This is wasting the time of the
court. Let him be removed at once to the waiting-room and dosed with
old brandy.”

He was a practical judge; and in five minutes’ time that accountant had
pulled himself together.

And an even more painful case than the above is within my memory. A
certain newspaper-proprietor was in the habit of paying the weekly
wages of his staff himself, each member having to sign a receipt for
the reward of merit. The fashion-editor—a hardened libertine—turned up
one Saturday, before his chief, absolutely incapable of signing his
name, or any part of it. His gait was all right, as was his speech; but
the pen slipped through his fingers as though it had been a well-oiled
icicle. The {201} chief called the next case, the while some of us
poured over-proof rum down the throat of the fashion-editor at an
adjacent hostelry. He subsequently trousered his salary, and signed
the receipt, satisfactorily, after pleading that he was suffering that
morning from “shock.”

The chief looked somewhat incredulous.

“Is he an inebriate?” he asked, as soon as the invalid had left the
office.

“Oh! dear no, sir,” replied the acrostic-editor, “he’s almost a
teetotaller.”

And the incident was finished.

But what is really the best thing to be done under such sad
circumstances? Should the invalid resort to the old remedy, and take at
once that “hair of the dog” who bit him overnight? Not invariably. For
instance, should British port, or brandy of the desiccated-window-sill
(_vide_ a former chapter) have been the _causa teterrima_ of the
trouble, nobody, however shaky, would revert to such remedies, the
first thing after waking. And frequently it is difficult for the waker
to remember _which_ dog it was that assaulted him. I once visited a
young friend in his chambers, at the hour of noon, and found him with
a sad countenance, seated in an easy-chair faced by a perfect army of
assorted bottles. I was about to administer a mild reproof, but he
stopped me.

“It’s all right, dear old chappie, I’ve been taking a hair of the
dog—_you_ know. But I met such a lot of dogs, jolly dogs too, last
night, that I’m hanged if I can remember which of ’em bit me!” {202}

The ancients cooled their coppers, for the most part, with ale,
either small or large. And I am led to the belief that cider, or some
preparation of apples, was also used as a pick-me-up, if “melancholy
vapours”—a complaint for which Gervase Markham specially recommended
cider as a specific—meant the same thing as alcoholic remorse. Search
as I may I can find no recipe, no prescription, in old books for “hot
coppers.” Can it be that the ancients, who as previously pointed out,
were _not_ teetotallers, deceived themselves in protesting before men
that they had no sin?

Here is an old recipe headed:

“_Against Drunkennesse._

“If you would not be drunke, take the powder of _Betany_ and
_Coleworts_ mix’t together; and eat it every morning fasting, as
much as will lie on a sixpence, and it will preserve a man from
drunkennesse.”

But this is an alleged preventive of the act, and not a chaser of
sorrow from the brow of the unwise partaker.

“To quicken a man’s wits,” writes the same Mr. Markham, “spirit
and memory, let him take Langdebeefe”—can this mean _langue de
bœuf_?—“which is gathered in June or July, and beating it in a cleane
mortar; Let him drinke the juyce thereof with warme water, and he shall
finde the benefit.”

Probably the most useful part of this prescription was the warm water;
still it can hardly be regarded as a restorative. {203}

Other recipes are before me, for “drawing out bones broken in the
head,” and “for the falling of the mould of the head”; but these,
apparently, have no concern with the question at issue. But to continue
the search—_eureka!_

“_To Cure Spleen or Vapours._

Take an ounce of the filings of steel, two drachms of gentian sliced,
half an ounce of carduns seeds bruised, half a handful of centaury
tops; infuse all these in a quart of white wine four days, and drink
four spoonfuls of the clear every morning, fasting two hours after it,
and walking about.”

This I take to be a _bona fide_ pick-me-up of two hundred years ago;
and if “carduns” be the old spelling of “cardamom” ’tis very much the
same mixture that the chemist will place in the trembling hand of the
over-estimator, enquiring at the same time, “Would you like a lozenge
after it, sir?” And the omission of sal volatile or chloric ether in
the prescription leads to the belief that those drugs were joys unknown
to the reveller of the seventeenth century.

The most aggravating part about the aftermath of revelry is that it
takes, just as it likes, directly opposite forms. Two sinners may
jump the same stiff course—by this sporting metaphor is meant imbibe
the same amount and description of alcohol—after dinner, and, whilst
A may wake with a double-breasted headache, a taste of sewage in
the mouth, and a tongue as foul and furry as a stoat’s back, B will
commence the day with a {204} dreadful sinking at the base of the
stomach, palpitation of the heart, and a desire to eat anything solid
within reach. A prays faintly for burnt brandy, or death, and could
not swallow even a devilled biscuit, were you to promise to make
him a director of a gold-mine for performing that feat; whilst B is
“dead off” brandy, but is capable of washing down ham and eggs and
chops unlimited, with a gallon or two of coffee. Any medical man will
doubtless give a reason for this discrepancy, which is quite beyond my
powers of elucidation.

_The Best Pick-me-up_

known to the writer is “the Boy, the whole Boy, and nothing but the
Boy.” ’Tis an expensive restorative, no doubt; but, just as you cannot
make an omelette without breaking eggs, so are most of our pleasant
vices more or less costly in the long-run. Champagne, _i.e._ genuine
champagne, is about the most valuable restorative known to science, and
has—I believe, though this is not within my own experience—saved the
lives of sufferers from the “black death,” cholera. Whether blended
with beaten eggs, bitters, or brandy, or in his pure natural beauty,
there is, believe me, no such effectual sorrow-chaser as “The Boy.”

_Anchovy Toast._

The next best restorer of the faculties is a quasi-solid; and the
recipe for its concoction has already been given in _Cakes and Ale_.
As, {205} however, a portion of the public may be fated to enjoy the
ale without the cakes, here it is again.

First and foremost, bear in mind that this appetizer must not be made
in the kitchen. It comes under the heading of “parlour cookery,” and
can even be manufactured in the bedroom of the sufferer.

A hot-water plate is necessary for the operator, or, better still, a
slop-basin filled with water as near the boiling point as possible,
with a plate placed atop. Melt on this plate a piece of butter about
the size of a walnut, and when the butter is oiled stir therein with a
fork the beaten yolk of one egg. Keep on the stir, and add, gradually,
a dessert spoonful of essence of anchovies. Add cayenne, according to
your disposition, or indisposition, and then you will be ready for a
nice strip or two of delicately-browned toast, brought up hot from the
kitchen fire. Soak the toast in the mixture, and eat as much as you
can.

Above is the estimate for _one_ invalid. It is essentially a pick-me-up
for a bachelor—benedicts never require these things—and if, whilst
in barracks, or chambers, Jack, Tom, and Harry should call, the
proportions of the ingredients must, of course, be increased. A glass
or two of the Boy will be found to go down excellent well with this
toast, the secret of which I learnt long years ago, in British India.
It is _not_ a dish for the dinner-table.

_Baltimore Egg Nogg_

reads like a “large order.” It is said by its {206} author to be “an
excellent drink for debilitated people, and a nourishing diet for
consumptives.” And he would be a Good Samaritan, who would wait outside
the big gates of Holloway Castle, on a Monday morning, in order to
administer the nogg, in full doses, to the starved captives on their
release. It would also, I should imagine, make an excellent hospital
drink, for a score or so of patients.

Beat the yolks of sixteen eggs and twelve tablespoonfuls of pulverized
loaf-sugar to the consistency of cream; stir into this two-thirds of
a grated nutmeg, and then pour in half a pint of good old brandy, or
Jamaica rum—or both _n.q._—and three wine-glasses of Madeira. Have
ready the whites of the sixteen eggs, whipped to a stiff froth, and
beat them well into the above mixture, and then stir in six pints of
new milk, as fresh as possible from the cow.

One of the best restoratives is that which is frequently given by the
trainer of an athlete, or boxer, should his charge feel the effects of
overwork. It consists of the heart of a good loin chop, free from fat,
and neither underdone nor overdone, on a very hot plate, with a glass
of port wine poured over the meat. Another familiar strengthener is
prepared in the following way:—

Put a tablespoonful of old brandy into half a pint of good beef-tea.
And by beef-tea I mean the juices of the meat extracted at home, and
not by the employées of advertising firms. “Breakfast delicacies” and
tinned preparations are only for the unwary. This may be taken either
hot or cold. {207}

_Orange Quinine_

is an excellent tonic.

To a pint bottle of orange wine add ten grains of sulphate of quinine,
cork well, and let it stand for a few days. Take a wine-glassful at a
time, either with or without a dash of soda-water.

_Brandy-and-Soda_,

already alluded to in an earlier chapter, will get no recommendation
from me, as a restorative. If quite certain of your soda-water, and of
your brandy, a tumblerful on occasion will do no harm; but do not be
in too great a hurry to order this, after meeting an old friend, in a
strange district. Like Wotsisname’s pills, the more brandy-and-sodas
you take, the more you will want; and the tendency of soda-water is
distinctly lowering. As for bad soda-water—well, it will kill almost as
rapidly as will bad brandy.

A favourite restorative of the working man, who has been propounding
abstruse political problems in the tap-room all night, is a
red-herring, eaten raw, with the aid of his clasp-knife. This
he will wash down with some sort of ale, or with a mixture of
gin-and-peppermint, according to the state of his feelings. That old,
heroic soberer the Pump, is not much used for that purpose, nowadays.

_A Scorcher_

is a rarely-employed pick-me-up. It consists of {208} the juice of
half a lemon squeezed into a large wine-glass, a liqueur-glass of old
brandy being added, and a dash of cayenne.

I have already alluded in another chapter to a Prairie Oyster. A
Worcester Oyster is made in the same way, with the substitution of
Worcester sauce for vinegar.

_Brazil Relish._

This reads far more like an emetic than a “livener”; but I am assured
by one who has been in Brazil—“where the nuts come from”—and in the
regions which border on the river Plate, that ’tis used in those parts
as a stimulant, and is in high favour for that purpose.

Into a wine-glass half full of curaçoa pop the unbroken yolk of a
bantam’s egg, and fill the glass up with maraschino. I think I should
prefer the “Twist” of the workers in the Borough hop-market.

_St. Mark’s Pick-me-up_,

a Venetian recipe. The original St. Mark never wanted it.

Ten drops of Angostura bitters in a wine-glass, filled up with
orange-bitters. One wine-glassful of old brandy, one ditto cold water,
one liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, and the juice of half a lemon. This,
I should say, ought to be mixed with a swizzle-stick.

Here follows a very old, and a very excellent, recipe for {209}

_Bitters_

for mixing purposes.

One ounce of Seville orange-peel, half an ounce of gentian-root, a
quarter of an ounce of cardamoms. Husk the cardamoms, and crush them
with the gentian-root. Put them in a wide-mouthed bottle, and cover
with brandy or whisky. Let the mixture remain for twelve days, then
strain, and bottle off for use, after adding one ounce of lavender
drops.

A hot-pickle sandwich may be made with two thin, crisp slices of toast,
with chopped West-Indian pickles in between. There are also many
excellent sandwiches made for restorative purposes, by the nymphs who
enliven the various Bodegas by their abilities and pretty prattle. And
of those sandwiches commend me to the one labelled “Rajah.”

To make a

_Devilled Biscuit_

take a plain cheese-biscuit, heat it, but do not scorch it, in the
oven. Then spread over it a paste composed of finely-powdered lobster
worked up with butter, made mustard, ground ginger, cayenne, salt,
Chili vinegar, and (if you can stand it) a little curry powder. Reheat
the biscuit for a short time, and then deal with it.

But, after all, fresh air and exercise are the best of all
restoratives; and most of the above recipes are adduced in the interest
of the jaded Londoner, or the dweller in cities, to whom a ride, or a
walk, save on Sundays and Bank holidays, {210} is a rarity. Get on
your hack and gallop a dozen miles to covert. By the time you have
mounted your first hunter, you will have forgotten all about the dog
which may have bitten you on the previous night, and will also have
forgotten a stern resolution made, whilst shying at your breakfast,
never again to put whisky, however old, atop of claret. And by the time
you have jumped three ox-fences, and a great yawning drain big enough
and deep enough to bury the whole field, you will have recovered every
bit of that “nerve” about which you had just a suspicion of a doubt,
just before mounting your hack. God grant that nerve may be with you
always!

{211}

CHAPTER XIX

THE DRINKS OF DICKENS

The lesson taught by “Boz” — Clothing Christmas — Dickens’s drunkards
— Fantastic names for ales — Robbing a boy of his beer — A school
supper — Poor Traddles — Micawber and punch — Revelry at Pecksniff’s
— Todgers’s “doing it” — Delights of the “Dragon” — Sairey Gamp’s
requirements — What was in the teapot — The “Maypole” — Sydney
Carton’s hopeless case — Stryver’s model — “_Little D._ is Deed
nonsense” — Dear old Crummles — A magnum of the Double Diamond
— Newman Noggs — Brandy before breakfast — Mr. Fagin’s pupils —
Orange-peel and water — Quilp on fire — “Pass the rosy” — Harold
Skimpole — Joey Bagstock — Brandy-and-tar-water — That ass Pumblechook
— An inexhaustible bottle — Jaggers’s luncheon — Pickwick _v._ total
abstinence — Everything an excuse for a dram — Brandy and oysters —
“The inwariable” — Milk-punch — Charm of the _Pickwick Papers_.

Although it is the fashion of the day to belittle, if not sneer at, the
works of “Boz,” he has still sufficient admirers to justify a chapter
on what is, I hope, a congenial subject to my readers. The characters
may be unduly elaborated, and the incidents too much spun-out for these
slap-dash, go-ahead times; but it is to the simple, homely, hospitality
so often referred to in the novels of Charles Dickens that most of them
owed that popularity which may, or may {212} not, be on the wane. The
close student of these novels will discover that all which is good, and
honest, and upright, and charitable is honoured in their pages, whilst
meanness, deceit, hypocrisy, and cant are lashed with no uncertain
hand. “The greatest of all gifts is Charity,” is the lesson taught by
Charles Dickens, who shewed at the same time that it is quite possible
to enjoy the good things of life without making a beast of oneself.
And he it was who clothed Christmas in that warm, sumptuous robe of
joviality and hospitality which makes all who keep that festival in the
proper spirit forget for the time that a quarter’s rent falls due on
the same day.

Dickens’s drunkards are few and far between—and in this category I do
not include such as Sydney Carton, the members of the Pickwick Club,
and David Copperfield, on the occasion of his first dinner-party.
Nobody has a right to call the man who makes merry with his friends,
now and then, a sot; and a careful study of Dickens shows that the real
inebriates, the “habituals” described in his works, had all more or
less rascality in their composition—not even excepting Dick Swiveller,
who, however, became a reformed character towards the close of the book.

As for the drinks themselves, it is especially worthy of note that
there is no mention whatever made of whisky in these works; a fact
which justifies everything which I have written in a former chapter
as to the neglect with which this undoubtedly estimable and wholesome
fortifier was treated by society, until within the last few {213}
decades. A brandy-and-soda was an unknown fact during the Dickens
period; simply because, although there was plenty of brandy, the true
virtues of soda-water had not been discovered. Moreover, nobody was
known to call for a gin-and-bitters, or a sherry-and-angostura; whilst
cocktails and cobblers are mentioned only in the American chapters of
_Martin Chuzzlewit_. Ales and beers were known by various fantastic
names during the first half of the present century, when men knew not
“four-’alf” nor “bitter-six”; thus we have little David Copperfield
gravely asking for a glass of the “Genuine Stunning,” whilst Mrs.
Gamp was unable to fulfil her arduous duties satisfactorily without a
generous allowance of “the Brighton old Tipper.”

But to the books themselves. And commencing with _David
Copperfield_—who is provided with the heart, feelings, and
understanding of the great novelist himself—I make my first pause at
the waiter at the Yarmouth hotel. I don’t like that waiter, either as
a man or a waiter; and his portrait by “Phiz” suggests a Cheap Jack at
a fair, or a barber, rather than a coffee-room attendant. As a boy,
I always looked up to a waiter as a benefactor—a species of Santa
Claus, and not as a marauding varlet who would probably despoil me of
my lawful share of the banquet and then lie about the incident to the
landlady. And when this rascal pleads that he “lives on broken wittles,
and sleeps on the coals,” I lose patience with him. A waiter who could
rob a poor boy of his beer {214} would not need to sleep on the coals.
He might have been a tax-gatherer, or a bailiff.

Mr. Creakle, the schoolmaster, appears to have been a bit of an
imbiber, whilst the boys themselves partook, _sub rosa_, of cowslip
wine, occasionally fortified by Steerforth with orange juice, ginger,
or a peppermint drop; and it was probably due to this decoction,
rather than to “Crab,” that poor Traddles became ill in the night—his
sufferings being unduly prolonged by black draughts and blue pills, not
to mention six chapters of Greek Testament and a special-extra caning.
Poor little David partook of assorted drinks during his boyhood,
including the aforesaid “Genuine Stunning,” and occasional wine-glasses
of punch whilst lodging with the Micawber family; and, his good aunt
once found, “her first proceeding was to unlock a tall press, bring out
several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my mouth. I
think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure I tasted
aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing.”

“My aunt” partook of hot white wine and water, with strips of toast
soaked therein, by way of a night-cap; and whenever Micawber turns up,
we may be sure that the ingredients for a bowl of punch (presumably
rum punch) are not far off. Not much drinking was done in the Peggotty
family, but Mrs. Crupp, David’s landlady, seems to have had the
proverbial passion of her race for brandy; and, naturally enough,
the “handy young man” hired to wait, on the occasion of the dinner
to Steerforth, got more {215} than his fair share of the wines.
Mr. Wickfield—silly old dotard to be deceived by such a shallow,
transparent ruffian as Uriah Heep—drank assorted wines to drown
his cares; whilst one of the servants engaged by Dora, during her
brief experience of matrimonial joys, used to chalk up an account,
in her mistress’ name, at the public house, the items appearing as
“half-quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.);” “glass rum and peppermint
(Mrs. C.)”—the parenthesis always referring to Dora, who was supposed
to have consumed the whole of these refreshments.

There is a fair amount of assorted drinking in _Martin Chuzzlewit_.
Revelry at Pecksniff Hall took, we learn, the form of red and white
currant wine, of acid characteristics, the remains of the two bottles
being subsequently blended, for the special malefit of Tom Pinch and
young Martin. But the artful Pecksniff himself did not stir without the
brandy bottle when going on a journey, and the family seem to have done
themselves particularly well at “Todgers’s.” Whenever I feel more than
ordinarily depressed in spirits, I overhaul my _Martin Chuzzlewit_ and
read, once again, the report of the dinner at Todgers’s, which led to
Mr. Pecksniff’s fall into the fireplace. John Westlock—about the most
admirable young man in all Dickens’s novels—did not forget to do his
friends well at Salisbury. “As to wines,” we are told, “the man who can
dream such iced champagne, such claret, port, or sherry, had better go
to bed and stop there.”

The blackmailing of the captain of the _Screw_ by the proprietor of
the _New York Rowdy Journal_ {216} took the form of champagne; and
the merits of a sherry cobbler are fully recognized by Martin, who
subsequently, however, fared badly in the way of wines and spirits
whilst in the States. Eden, that alleged “prosperous city,” appears to
have possessed neither pawn-shop, place of worship, nor drinking-bar;
and the comparative delights of the “Dragon” on the return of Mark
and Martin to Wiltshire are made delightfully apparent. As for the
bad characters, Chevy Slyme loafed in a chronic state of eleemosynary
drink, until he joined the police force, whilst Montague Tigg fared
sumptuously on the best of liquor—including old Maderia—until knocked
on the head by the villain Jonas, who also appears to have been a bit
of a soaker, when he could get his drink for nothing.

Mrs. Gamp’s wants were few and simple, but she insisted upon a regular
supply, and got it. Leaving solid sustenance out, she stipulated for
“a pint of mild porter at lunch, a pint at dinner, half a pint as a
species of stay or holdfast between dinner and tea, and a pint of the
celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old Brighton Tipper, at supper;
besides the bottle on the chimney-piece, and such casual invitations
to refresh herself with wine as the good breeding of her employers
might prompt them to offer.” And she never exceeded the allowance
of a shillingsworth of gin-and-water warm when she rang the bell a
second time after supper. She must have cost as much to keep as a
steam-yacht. The contents of Mrs. G.’s teapot, on the occasion of her
historic quarrel with Betsy Prig, are alluded to, {217} vaguely, by
the novelist as “spirits,” and were, I shall ever maintain, gin, and
_not_ rum, as stated by other reviewers. The idea of putting rum on the
top of “Newcastle salmon, intensely pickled,” and such a monstrous (to
a _connoisseur_ in these things) salad as that furnished by Mrs. Prig,
is barbaric.

After an experience of the modern roadside inn, or of the “reserved
lounges” of the alcohol-palaces of to-day, what can be more delightful
reading than the description of the interior of the “Maypole,” in
_Barnaby Rudge_?

“The very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar that ever the wit of
man devised. Such amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes; such
gleaming tankards hanging from pegs at about the same inclination as
thirsty men would hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch
kegs ranged in rows on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate
nets, suggestive, with goodly loaves of sugar stowed away hard by, of
punch, idealized beyond all mortal knowledge, etc. etc.”

Hardly an ideal landlord of the past, though, was old John Willet.
A far better stamp of host was Gabriel Varden, the locksmith, who
took deep draughts of sparkling home-brewed ale, from a goodly jug of
well-browned clay, for breakfast, and who was one of the “Maypole’s”
best customers. Mr. Chester—whose interview with his son will remind
the student of Monsieur le Marquis’s interview with his nephew, in
_A Tale of Two Cities_—was a judge of wine, though not given to
over-indulgence in the bowl, like his bastard, Maypole Hugh; and Lord
George {218} Gordon’s favourite brew appears to have been hot mulled
wine. As for the rest of the rioters, they drank, after the manner of
rioters, anything they could get.

The first mention of wine in _A Tale of Two Cities_ is the fall and
breakage, _pro bono publico_, of a large cask of inferior claret in
the district of St. Antoine—emblematic of the blood to be spilt in
Paris later on—which called forth the delightful, philosophic remark
of Defarge, the master of the wine-shop to which the cask had been
consigned: “It is not my affair. The people from the market did it.
Let them bring another.” But the chief imbibers in the book are Sydney
Carton and Serjeant Stryver, the pushing and successful advocate for
whom the other “devilled.” Stryver, we gather from Edmund Yates’s
_Reminiscences_, was modelled by Dickens, from Mr. Edwin James,
Q.C., who at one time “stood high in popular favour,” and who “liked
talking.” There is plenty of subsequent moderate drinking—in Defarge’s
wine-shop principally—but with the exception of these two advocates,
Stryver and Carton—“what the two drank together, between Hilary Term
and Michaelmas might have floated a king’s ship”—nobody appears to
swallow an undue amount of alcohol, in this the most powerful, and the
saddest, of all Dickens’s books.

I could never wade through _Our Mutual Friend_, and _Little Dorrit_
is not one of my favourite books. It was ruthlessly mauled by the
_Saturday Review_ soon after its appearance, and Thackeray’s openly
expressed opinion of the work was “_Little D._ is Deed stupid.” I have
{219} heard another great man express the same opinion of it, in more
elegant language. There is not much revelry in _Little D._ until we get
to the second volume; and with the exception of Blandois the strangler
and the romantic Flora nobody appears to have a really good thirst.
In the Marshalsea the “collegians” were evidently worse provided with
alcoholic comfort than in the Fleet; and this is all which can be
written in this chapter about _Little Dorrit_.

_Nicholas Nickleby_, on the other hand, is full of allusions to
the flowing bowl. Most of the characters—Smike being a notable
exception—moisten their clay in some way or other, from dear old
Crummles, who is introduced to our notice with a rummer of hot
brandy-and-water in one hand, to the ruffian Squeers. Newman Noggs owed
his fall in life to the bold, bad, bottle, and Mantalini presumably
took to gin together with the washer-woman, in his declining years.
The Brothers Cheeryble were evidently the right sort of people to
dine with—although their dinner-hour would hardly suit the present
generation—especially if they had many magnums of that famed “Double
Diamond.” Sir Mulberry Hawk and his lordly victim drank deep, after
the fashion of the day; whilst the keeper of the “rooge-a-nore from
Paris” booth on Hampton race-course stimulates the energies of his
patrons with excellent champagne, port, sherry, and (most likely)
British brandy. Old Gride keeps a bottle of “golden water”—presumably
the Dantzic liqueur, “Acqua d’Oro,” mentioned in my chapter on that
form of fluid—in his cupboard, {220} and doles out on one occasion a
minute glass thereof to Newman Noggs, who would evidently, like the
farmer at the audit dinner, prefer it “in a moog.” Mr. Lillyvick, the
collector of water-rates, was especially partial to punch—which was
“cut off” so unexpectedly for the benefit of Nicholas, after his walk
from Yorkshire to the metropolis; and the whole of Mr. Crummles’s
company, ladies included, liked a taste of the same beverage. Finally,
John Browdie, the good genius of the book, was a fellow of infinite
swallow, always ready for his meals, and never behindhand when there
was a full jug or bottle handy. And it is recorded that upon being
knocked up by Nicholas, on the visit of the last-named to Yorkshire,
with the news of Squeers’s trial and sentence, “forced him down upon a
huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out from an enormous bottle
about a quarter of a pint of spirits, thrust it into his hand, opened
his mouth, and threw back his head as a sign to him to drink it.” And
before breakfast, too!

Bill Sikes, on occasion, drank brandy “at a furious rate”; but more
often poverty prevented his slaking his thirst on anything more deadly
than Spitalfields ale, or eleemosynary gin. The whole of Mr. Fagin’s
pupils drank whenever opportunity offered, either malt liquor or
gin-and-water out of pewter pots; but the Jew himself, with the innate
caution of his race, avoided the wiles of the bowl. Nancy was an
“habitual,” in her youth, most probably, or she would not have chummed
up with such a criminal crew; and as for Monks, the disorder known
as {221} _delirium tremens_ was no stranger to him. Bumble and his
wife were not averse to a social glass; and even the charity-boy, Noah
Claypole, indulged, during the absence of his master, the undertaker,
in oysters, porter, and some sort of wine, name not mentioned. As far
as we are told, the decent members of society in _Oliver Twist_ were
very moderate in their potations; although it is in my mind that Mr.
Fang, the stipendiary, was a port-wine man.

In _The Old Curiosity Shop_ we get allusions to liquids of all kinds,
from orange-peel and water, the favourite beverage of the Marchioness,
to the truly-awful “wanities” of Quilp, which took the form of
over-proof rum, boiled, burnt brandy, or raw Schiedam out of a keg.
Quilp, by the way, if amusing enough, is the most exaggerated character
ever invented by the great novelist, and has no business out of the
realms of pantomime. But he was very, very funny, as impersonated by
“Johnny” Clarke in the long ago. Dick Swiveller was a swindler by
profession, although like many of these a boon companion, speechifier,
and framer of jovial sentiments. The “rosy wine” was represented at
his humble home by geneva-and-water, and his astonishment when Mr.
Brass’ lodger made a brew of “extraordinary” rum-and-water in “a kind
of temple, shining as of polished silver,” at the same time cooking a
steak, an egg, and a cup of coffee, in the same temple, can only have
been exceeded by his joy at getting something really decent to drink.

The strolling performers with whom Nell and Grandfather travelled did
themselves {222} particularly well, especially dear old Mrs. Jarley,
whose consideration for her own comforts was fully equalled by her
desire for the worldly welfare of others.

In _Bleak House_ allusions to the bowl are infrequent. The rag-shop
“Lord Chancellor” cremated himself with the aid of gin, and Mr.
Tulkinghorn had a weakness for old port. Mr. Bucket favoured brown
sherry, and Harold Skimpole would nibble a peach and sip claret, with
an execution in his house. This is one of the best characters drawn by
Dickens; and although the type is not a familiar one, I have met him in
the flesh.

_Dombey and Son_ is by no means a “thirsty” work; though Joey Bagstock
was a votary of the bowl, like old Mrs. Brown. The rest of the company
put together (I except “the Chicken”) would not have enabled a publican
to pay his rent, and one of the most melancholy parts of the book
is the mention made therein of only one bottle of the old Madeira
remaining in the cellar of Sol Gills, at a time when most of the other
characters in the book—male and female—are making use of his house.

Next to my _Pickwick_ I love my _Great Expectations_. Brandy-and-tar-
water, imbibed by Pumblechook, in mistake, at the Christmas dinner,
should properly come under the heading of “Strange Swallows”; but the
capacity of those two bottles of port and sherry, which he brought
as a present on that occasion, has always been a puzzle to me. Joe,
probably, would not be allowed more than a glass, and, naturally, {223}
little Pip would be out of it; but there remained Wopsle, Mr. and Mrs.
Hubble, and Pumblechook himself; whilst afterwards the sergeant joined
in the treat, and had two glasses. And all these people were served
from one bottle; for we are distinctly told that the second cork was
not drawn until the first bottle had been emptied.

Miss Havisham’s relations having been brewers, beer was naturally
the refreshment offered to little Pip, whilst in service there,
although there seems to have been a bottle or two of wine in the
cellars, for the benefit of Mr. Jaggers and others. That worthy, like
most successful lawyers of the present day, was a light luncher—a
sandwich, and the contents of a flask of sherry serving him for the
purpose; but we are told that at his dinners both meat and drink were
unexceptionable. His great hand always savoured of scented soap, and at
luncheon the odour of superior sherry pervaded his office.

The convict’s emissary, himself a released felon, stirred his
rum-and-water with a file; and this appears to have been the favoured
drink of the “returned transport,” Magwitch. There was a large
consumption of port and sherry—chiefly by Pumblechook—after the remains
of Mrs. Gargery had been consigned to the earth; and what with frequent
visits, on the part of the inhabitants of those parts, to “The Jolly
Bargemen” and “The Boar,” the landlords of those establishments must
have done a thriving trade indeed.

I wonder if Sir Wilfrid Lawson, or any other eminent abstainer, ever
picked up a volume of {224} the _Pickwick Papers_ for the purpose of
perusal? If so, and it was an illustrated edition, the frontispiece
must have made his heart quail; for it represents Pickwick himself
standing on a chair addressing a more or less excited audience, all
seated at a long table, and each with a cigar or pipe in his mouth,
and a large tumbler in front of him. And if the eminent abstainer
cared to carry his researches farther, he would discover that ere the
Pickwickian deputation had started on their first journey they had
taken part in a street fight, eventually quelled by the arrival of a
perfect stranger, who celebrates the occasion by calling for glasses
round of brandy-and-water, hot and strong!

The _Pickwick Paper_ absolutely reek with alcohol, from title-page to
name and address of printer. Everybody drinks with everybody else, both
in and out of the Fleet Prison. The hospitality of the good people is
unbounded, and good and bad alike do it full justice. The very instant
the belated travellers have crossed the threshold of Dingley Dell they
are fed with cherry brandy. The entire deputation has “Katzenjammer,”
on the morning after their arrival at Rochester, and a duel, or an
attempted one, is the consequence. In coffee-room, bar-parlour, or
smoking-room, an introduction, a story, or a song is an excuse for a
bowl of punch. Wherever the Pickwickians go they carry trouble, more or
less amusing to the reader, and the trouble is invariably followed by
revelry.

That two medical students should wash down their oysters with neat
brandy—and before {225} breakfast—seems at the first glance an
impossibility; but many of those who know for certain the effects of
undue indulgence are the most careless in indulging, and Bob Sawyer
and his still more rascally friend and fellow-student Ben Allen are
reckless types of a reckless profession. The same meal—oysters _cum_
brandy—is partaken of, later on, by Solomon Pell and the coachman; and
Dickens probably knew that lawyers and stage-drivers, like sailors, can
digest anything.

The most drunken man in the book, “the Shepherd,” is an alleged
teetotaller; and the abstaining division will assuredly never
forgive Dickens for his word-painting of Stiggins, whose “vanity”
was pine-apple rum with hot water and plenty of sugar. The Wellers,
_père et fils_, were not conservative in their potations; and whether
“the inwariable” is Wellerese for brandy hot, or rum hot, I am still
uncertain, although many correspondents have sought to enlighten me on
the subject; said correspondents being anything but unanimous. One of
the most favoured beverages mentioned in the work is “cold punch,” by
which I understand milk-punch, a very “more-ish” draught indeed.

I have prolonged this chapter perhaps unduly. But the subject of the
Drinks of Dickens is too important a one to slur over. The man who
cannot appreciate _Pickwick_ has never yet come my way. There is a
peculiar charm about the book, a broad hospitality, an unbounded love
of the good things of this life which must endear it to the hearts of
true sons of Britannia, who will revel, on occasion, no matter what
obstacles may {226} be placed in their way. And this is the method of
procedure, the potation being occasionally varied, which succeeded all
the troubles of the friends:—

“So to keep up their good humour they stopped at the first roadside
tavern they came to”—this was after the punch and pound incident—“and
ordered a glass of brandy-and-water all round, with a magnum of extra
strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.”

{227}

CHAPTER XX

SWORN OFF!

Introduction of temperance into England — America struck it first
— Doctor Johnson an abstainer — Collapse of the Permissive Bill —
Human nature and forbidden fruit — Effects of repressive legislation
— Sunday closing in Wales — Paraffin for miners — Toasting Her
Majesty — A good win — A shout and a drink — Jesuitical logic of the
prohibitioners — The end justifies the means — A few non-alcoholic
recipes — Abstainers and alcohol — Pure spring-water _v._ milk-punch —
“Tried baith!”

The first temperance society in England was formed at Bradford,
Yorkshire, on the 2nd February 1830, the chief mover having been Mr.
Henry Forbes, who had signed the pledge at Glasgow. But the use of
ardent spirits was condemned by many medical practitioners early in the
seventeenth century, although the United Kingdom does not seem to have
abstained from strong waters any the more. Repressive legislation, in
order to inculcate sobriety, was tried in Massachusetts, U.S., early in
the present century, but a few years before a society had been formed
at Moreau, New York State, in order to prohibit the consumption of both
wines and spirits, except {228} medicinally, or wine except at public
dinners or in the Lord’s Supper.

The work whence I have gleaned the above details also informs the
reader that “such as Doctor Samuel Johnson and John Howard set an
example of abstinence from all inebriating drinks”; which, as far as
Doctor Johnson is concerned, is somewhat startling news to myself. I
had always imagined that the burly lexicographer—I was reproved by a
critic for calling him this in _Cakes and Ale_—was a bit of a boon
companion; and the records of Fleet Street taverns by no means tend
to contradict this idea. Not only is the hard, oaken seat at one end
of the dining-room of “Ye Olde Cheshyre Cheese” marked with a brass
plate, with a suitable inscription, but the many visitors to that snug
hostelry, including hundreds of our American cousins, are always taken
upstairs and shewn Doctor Johnson’s chair. Did “Sam,” and “Davy,” and
“Noll” slake their thirst on cold water, beneath that tavern’s roof? I
trow not. Cross out Doctor Johnson’s name as a total abstainer, please.

In 1834, Mr. J. S. Buckingham, who was returned for Sheffield to the
first Reform Parliament, succeeded in obtaining a select committee
of the House of Commons, to enquire into the causes, extent, and
remedies of drunkenness. In the meantime the limitation of the pledge
to abstention from ardent spirits had proved a greater drawback than
in other countries, because beer had been the popular beverage, and
its use a cause of widespread drunkenness before ardent spirits were
commonly sold. But the idea of {229} our legislators before 1834 had
been that “good malt and hops could injure nobody.”

From ’34 to ’45 there was great activity in the temperance ranks
throughout the world; and in ’53 the United Kingdom Alliance for
the Legislative Suppression of the Liquor Traffic was formed, its
first president being Sir W. C. Trevelyan. In March ’64 a Permissive
Prohibitory Bill was brought into the House of Commons, but although
repeatedly re-introduced it never obtained a second reading. Nor is it
likely that such a Bill will ever become law as long as the sons of
Britannia are living outside a state of slavery. Repressive legislation
serves only to stimulate that which it claims to check; and thus it
is that these would-be reformers, whether Prohibitors of the Drink
Traffic, Vigilance and Purity Societies, and Anti-gambling Societies
have succeeded in making the state of London infinitely worse, as
regards drunkenness, chastity, and betting, than it was forty years ago.

Poor frail humanity will always do the thing which it ought not to
do in preference to fulfilling its obligations. It has been so since
the beginning of the world, and will continue so until the end.
Forbidden fruit has ever been the sweetest; and it is characteristic of
mankind—and more especially of womankind—to oppose, as far as they can,
any attempt at restraint. What has been the effect of closing Cremorne
Gardens, the Argyll Rooms, and other public resorts where dancing
and revelry were carried on until the small hours, five-and-twenty
years ago? {230} The evil took refuge in the open streets, and, more
recently, in so-called social clubs, in which illicit liquors were, and
are, sold, and the pander, and the pimp, and the bully met, and meet
the drunkard, the dupe, and the greenhorn. What has been the effect of
the Anti-gambling Crusade? To create working-men bookmakers. This is a
fact. In most large warehouses and factories there are _employés_ who
will lay “starting prices,” in shillings and sixpences, to their mates.
There is not a tithe of the amount wagered amongst the upper classes
that there was in the fifties and sixties; but amongst the horny-handed
sons of toil the vice has increased to an enormous extent, mainly owing
to repressive legislation. If a man wants to gamble there is only one
factor to prevent him—impecuniosity; and even that factor need not
prevent a man from having a drink if he waits in the tap-room long
enough on pay-day. Since Sunday closing in Wales, shebeens have arisen
by the hundred; and paraffin, for want of a better drink, is still
drunk on the Sabbath day, by the miners in the Rhondda Valley.

All honour to him who abstains from strong drink for conscience’ sake,
or in the hope that others may profit by his example. But the lash of
scorn for him who because he does not swallow fermented refreshment
himself, says to his brother “Thou shalt not drink!” The Puritans
abolished bear-baiting, not on account of the cruelty to the bears,
but because the alleged sport gave pleasure to the people; and the
Puritans of the day, who forbid cakes and ale, {231} and hunting, and
horse-racing, do so for the self-same reason.

“He who does not smoke,” said the sage, “has known no great sorrow.”
Similarly, it may be urged that he who never joins in a friendly
glass has known no great joy. Do we express our unfeigned joy and
thankfulness for having a great and good Queen to reign over us by
toasting her in flat soda-water? Forbid the deed! When our sons return
from the midst of many and great dangers, from the battle-field, the
raging deep, or the land of savages, do we express our delight by
putting the kettle on to boil? Avaunt! I have known a man who had won
£27,000 on a certain Wednesday at Ascot, dine that same night off a
chump chop, chips, and a bottle of ginger-beer, at a coffee-house no
great distance from Fleet Street. And he gave the waitress one penny
for herself, and counselled her not to “get gamblin’ ” with it. But
amongst my own personal friends, when the fancied horse catches the
eye of the judge, there is revelry; and who shall say that they sin
thereby? I do not believe in the man who takes his winnings sadly—or at
all events impassively. “A shout, and a drink, and then sit down and
write about it,” is the programme pursued by a journalistic friend; and
although I do not always “write about it,” ’tis much the same programme
pursued by myself. Nor do we rejoice for the sole reason that we have
got the better of somebody else. For, alas! the balance at the end of
the year is far too often in favour of that “somebody else.”

“On the question of the prohibition of the {232} liquor traffic,”
says an authority on the ethics or total abstinence, “there has been
much controversy. Its opponents have contended that it is an invasion
of personal liberty; that even when imposed by a majority it is a
violation of the rights of the minority, and that all that is really
required is such a magisterial and police supervision as will repress
drunkenness as much as possible, and inflict different penalties on
offenders. To this statement various answers are returned. With regard
to the violation of personal liberty the prohibitionists maintain that
in one sense all law interferes with liberty. A good law interferes
with the liberty to do wrong. Therefore, they say, assuming that the
common sale of drinks wrongs the public a law interfering with this
wrong is in accord with true liberty. They hold that individual profit
must be subservient to the public welfare, _Salus populi suprema lex_.
If hardship is alleged as affecting the buyer, the statement of John
Stuart Mill is quoted, who declared that every artificial augmentation
of the price of an article is prohibition to the more or less poor;
yet there is hardly any government which does not in some way or other
legislate so that the price of intoxicants is increased. As to the
possibility of extirpating intemperance by means of strict regulation
as to the sale of drink, the prohibitionists affirm that the existing
system has been tried for hundreds of years, and often under the most
favourable circumstances for its success, and that yet the licensing
system, as judged by its fruits, is confessed to be a melancholy
failure.” {233}

My remarks on the above are few and simple. It is this very Jesuitical
logic which has earned the “prohibitionists” the contempt of all
friends of freedom. It is this false and tyrannical doctrine which
asserts that “the end justifies the means,” which still stinks in the
nostrils of the majority of the people’s representatives in Parliament.

Now for a few hints as to some non-alcoholic beverages. And first of
all let it be stated that the thirsty man can do much worse than turn
to a teetotal beverage—as long as he avoids the bottled flatulence
which is sold, and freely advertised outside, in pretty nearly every
country cottage which can boast of good accommodation for travellers,
and a bicycle shed. The iced fruit-fizzers of Mr. Sainsbury—where the
pick-me-ups come from—close to the _Lady’s Pictorial_ office, are, to
my personal knowledge, freely patronized in summer-time by habitual
worshippers at the shrine of Bacchus. Moreover a follower of the sport
of kings would rather go without whisky all the afternoon than miss his
cup of tea, after business hours. No directions are needed here for the
manufacture of tea or coffee. Every housewife has a way of her own; and
it is as the laws of the Medes and Persians that her way is the only
way. Nor need a discussion be entered on as to the respective merits of
different brands of cocoa.

_A Superior Lemon Squash._

Take the juice of eight lemons, and sweeten it, allowing one
tablespoonful of sifted sugar to each {234} lemon. Put the juice into
an enamelled saucepan and simmer gently over the fire until the sugar
is quite dissolved. Beat up the white of one egg, add to the syrup,
and stir well till the mixture boils; let it boil for a minute or two,
and pour gently through a jelly-bag into a basin. When quite cold add
a quarter of an ounce of citric acid, bottle, and cork tightly. When
required for use, put six drops of Angostura bitters in a soda-water
tumbler, turn it round and round, then add a wine-glassful of the
squash, fill up with soda-water, place a thin slice of lemon atop, and
serve with two straws.

_Almond Comfy._

Put six ounces of pulverized sweet almonds and two ounces of smashed
bitters ditto into a saucepan with one quart of water, and let it
simmer for a quarter of an hour; then add one pound of sifted sugar.
When dissolved strain through a hair sieve or jelly-bag, and add a
tablespoonful of orange-flower water. When cold, a wine-glassful of
the mixture should be put into a tumbler, which should be filled up
with soda-or Seltzer-water.

_Temperance Cider._

Put half a gallon of water on to boil, and when boiling throw into the
saucepan a dozen medium-sized apples, cut into slices unpeeled. Keep
the lot boiling until quite tender, then strain till dry, taking care
not to let any of the pulp escape through the sieve. Add sifted sugar
_ad lib._, and the juice of two lemons. Let the mixture stand until
cool, when it will be ready for use. Of course ice is an improvement,
in warm weather. And only add a _soupçon_ of _eau de vie_ when you are
quite alone. {235}

The next item on the programme is called in my book,

_Drink for Dog Days_,

but as this is not a nice name, and suggests hydrophobia and—other
things, I will re-christen it

_Citron de Luxe_.

The composition is very simple. Put a lemon-ice in a large tumbler,
fill up with soda-water, stir well, and drink.

_N.B._—Mr. George Krehl, of “Verrey’s,” who knows something about dog
days, and dogs, won the prize offered in the _Sporting Times_ for
the best recipe for a summer drink, many years ago, with a similar
suggestion. But G. K. added a small glass of Curaçoa, and (I think) a
drop or two of Angostura bitters.

_Cherry Cobbler_

Take one pound of cherries of Kent, free from stalks and stones. Throw
them into a pint of boiling syrup, made of one pound of loaf-sugar
dissolved in one pint of water. Let the cherries boil as fast as
possible—“gallop” is, I believe, the technical word—for ten minutes,
and then add a quart of boiling water; put the whole into a pan, and
when cold strain. The addition of soda-water will make it all the more
watery.

_D. D._

[_This is not naughty language, but short for Delicious Drink._]

Mix together one pint of raspberries, one pint of {236} strawberries,
and one pint of white currants, all free from stalks; mash them well
together, and then add two quarts of boiling water, and three quarters
of a pound of sifted sugar. Let the mixture remain in a bowl all
night—unless you make it early in the morning, when all day will do as
well—then strain, and give it the dear children before their dinner.

_Raspberry Squash._

Put into a large soda-water tumbler one tablespoonful of raspberry
syrup, one tablespoonful of lemon squash (_vide_ above) and a lump of
ice; nearly fill the glass with soda-water, and ornament with a thin
slice of lemon, and a few red and white raspberries. Drink through
straws.

Raspberry Vinegar.

Take ripe, dry raspberries, and pour over them sufficient good malt
vinegar to cover them; let them stand three or four days, stirring
occasionally with a silver spoon. On the fourth day, strain through a
sieve, and let them drain for some hours; measure the juice, and add
an equal quantity of sifted sugar; put into a lined preserving pan,
and let the mixture boil gently for five or six minutes. Carefully
remove the scum as it rises. When cold, bottle, and cork well. A
wine-glassful with a bottle of soda-water is a refreshing “cooler” in
illness.

Elderberry Punch.

Put two bottles of elderberry wine, ⸺ hallo! what’s this? I turn to
the recipe for Elder Wine, and read: “A quart of brandy thrown into
the cask {237} when it is about to be sealed up will greatly improve
the wine.” Then what sort of a temperance drink can Elderberry Punch
be? No more on that head, in the name of St. Wilfrid.

I also read, in the work of reference from which I am quoting, under
the same heading, “Temperance Drinks,” that:—

“Many of the British wines, mixed with an equal quantity of water,
with a little ice, make very cool and refreshing drinks.” Very, very
likely. But can there be wine without fermentation? And are the total
abstainers, not content with drinking alcoholic gingerade and stone
ginger-beer, getting the wedge in still further. Forbid it!

_Cold Spring-water_

is a most excellent drink, and according to so great an authority as
Sir Henry Thompson, not only the cheapest drink in the world but the
best. For my own poor part I prefer milk-punch. And as the Scotchman
said, I have “tried baith.”

{239}

INDEX OF RECIPES

Absinthe, 115.

Ale, Brasenose, 59 ;
brewing of, 52, 53, 70 ;
cock, 41, 42 ;
cup, _see_ cup ;
flip, _see_ flip ;
mulled, 55 ;
posset, _see_ posset ;
rum and, _see_ rum ;
sangaree, _see_ sangaree.

Almond comfy, 234 ;
punch, _see_ punch.

Anchovy toast, 204.

Anisette, 191.

Apple Jack sour, _see_ sour.

Apricock wine, 34.

Apricot brandy, _see_ brandy.

Arctic regions, _see_ cocktail.

Arrack, 118.

Baltimore egg nogg, _see_ nogg.

Barley wine, 45.

Bastard, white, 38.

Beer soup, 54 ;
brewing of, 53.

Bengal cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Birch, 30.

Bishop, 140.

Bitters, 209.

Black stripe, 171.

Blue blazer, 169.

Booze, rum, _see_ rum.

Bosom caresser, 171.

Bourbon sour, _see_ sour.

Braggonet, _see_ mead and braggon.

Brandy, apricot, 191 ;
burning, 166 ;
carraway, 190 ;
champirelle, 170 ;
cherry, _see_ cherry ;
cocktail, _see_ cocktail ;
daisy, 152 ;
ginger, 190 ;
orange, 192 ;
orange-flower, 190 ;
sangaree, _see_ sangaree ;
scaffa, 160 ;
smash, _see_ smas ;
sour, _see_ sour.

Brasenose ale, _see_ ale.

Brazil relish, 208.

Brewing of ale, _see_ ale ;
beer, _see_ beer.

Brown Betty, 57.

Bull’s milk, _see_ milk.

Burglar’s brew, 154.

Burning brandy, _see_ brandy.

Butter and rum, _see_ rum.

Capillaire punch, _see_ punch.

Carraway brandy, _see_ brandy.

Cassis, 194.

Catawba cobbler, _see_ cobbler.

Chablis cup, _see_ cup.

Champagne cup, _see_ cup ;
cocktail, _see_ cocktail ;
English, 40 ;
punch, _see_ punch ;
smash, _see_ smash.

Cherry brandy, 185, 186, 187 ;
cobbler, _see_ cobbler ;
gin, _see_ gin ;
whisky, 187.

Cider, 174 ;
cup, _see_ cup ;
posset, _see_ posset ;
temperance, 234.

_Citron de Luxe_, _see_ drink for dog days.

Claret cup—Badminton, Balaclava, Donald’s, or
“For’ard On”—_see_ cup.

Clary wine, 34.

Classical sherbet, _see_ Oxford punch.

Cobbler, Catawba, 150 ;
cherry, 235 ;
Hatfield, 150 ;
Moselle, 150.

Cock ale, _see_ ale.

Cocktail, Arctic regions, 151 ;
Bengal, 157 ;
brandy, 155 ;
champagne, 156 ;
Coomassie, 156 ;
gin, 88, 157 ;
Jersey, 156 ;
Jockey Club, 158 ;
Manhattan, 156 ;
Martini, 158 ;
Newport, 157 ;
Saratoga, 151.

Cocktail sherry, 158 ;
sunrise, 158 ;
swizzle, 157 ;
whisky, 159.

Cold tankard, _see_ cider cup.

Colleen Bawn, 171.

Coomassie cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Cordial, ginger, 197 ;
Highland, 188 ;
saffron, 192.

Corpse reviver, 160.

Crimean cup, _see_ cup.

Cup, ale, 55 ;
chablis, 99 ;
champagne, 98 ;
cider, 94 ;
claret, 91, 92, 93 ;
Crimean, 95, 97 ;
Freemason, 99 ;
loving, 97 ;
perry, 95 ;
porter, 100 ;
race day, 97 ;
red, 99 ;
Rochester, 98 ;
tennis, 100.

Curaçoa, 193.

D. D., 235.

Devilled biscuit, 209.

Doctor, 169.

Drink for dog days, 235.

Ebulum, 41.

Egg flip, _see_ flip.

Egg nogg, _see_ nogg ;
Baltimore, _see_ nogg ;
sherry, _see_ sherry.

Egg punch, _see_ punch.

Elderberry punch, _see_ punch.

English ale, 55–57 ;
champagne, _see_ champagne ;
punch, _see_ punch ;
sack, _see_ sack.

Flip, ale, 55, 57 ;
egg, 90.

Freemason, _see_ cup.

Frontiniac wine, 46.

Gin and ginger beer, 88 ;
cherry, 187 ;
cocktail, _see_ cocktail ;
punch, _see_ punch ;
sangaree, _see_ sangaree ;
sling, _see_ sling ;
sloe, 188 ;
smash, _see_ smash ;
sour, _see_ sour.

Ginger beer and gin, _see_ gin.

Ginger brandy, _see_ brandy ;
cordial, _see_ cordial.

Glasgow punch, _see_ punch.

Golden slipper, 160.

Halo punch, _see_ punch.

Hatfield cobbler, _see_ cobbler.

Heap of comfort, 161.

Highland cordial, _see_ cordial.

Hippocras, 183.

Home Ruler, 166.

Jersey cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Jockey Club cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

John Collins, _see_ sling.

Julep (or julap), 152 ;
mint, 153 ;
pine-apple, 153.

King Charles II.’s surfeit water, 189.

Kirschenwasser, 195.

Knickerbein, 159.

Kümmel, 190.

_L’Amour Poussée_, 159.

Lemon squash, _see_ squash ;
wine, 44.

Locomotive, 169.

Loving cup, _see_ cup.

Malmsey, 39.

Manhattan cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Martini cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Mead, 27 ;
and Braggon or Braggonet, 30.

Metheglin, 28.

Milk, bull’s, 152, 170 ;
and rum, _see_ rum ;
punch, _see_ punch.

Mint-julep, _see_ julep.

Moselle cobbler, _see_ cobbler.

Mother-in-law, 58.

Muskadine, 44.

Negus, port wine, 168 ;
sherry, 168.

Newport cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Nogg, Baltimore egg, 205 ;
egg, 168 ;
sherry egg, 168.

Noyeau punch, _see_ punch.

Orange brandy, _see_ brandy ;
flower brandy, _see_ brandy.

Orange quinine, 207.

Orgeat, 96.

Oxford punch, _see_ punch.

Pepper posset, _see_ posset.

Perry cup, _see_ cup.

Pick-me-up, 204 ;
St. Mark’s, 208.

Pine-apple julep, _see_ julep.

Pope, 170.

Pope’s posset, _see_ posset.

Port wine negus, _see_ negus ;
sangaree, _see_ sangaree.

Porter cup, _see_ cup.

Porteree, _see_ sangaree.

Posset, ale, 55 ;
cider, 172.

Posset, pepper, 172 ;
Pope’s, 46 ;
sack, 32, 173.

Prairie oyster, 167.

Punch, almond, 110 ;
capillaire, 106 ;
champagne, 113 ;
egg, 111 ;
elderberry, 236 ;
English, 104 ;
gin, 88, 107 ;
Glasgow, 104 ;
halo, 114 ;
milk, 107 ;
noyeau, 107 ;
Oxford, 105, 107 ;
rack, 112 ;
restorative, 110 ;
shrub, 111 ;
Uncle Toby, 112 ;
Vauxhall, 112 ;
Victoria, 113 ;
Yorkshire, 113.

Quince whisky, _see_ whisky.

Race-day cup, _see_ cup.

Rack punch, _see_ punch.

Raspberry squash, _see_ squash ;
vinegar, _see_ vinegar.

Red cup, _see_ cup.

Renish wine, 47.

Restorative punch, _see_ punch.

Rochester cup, _see_ cup.

Rum and ale, 85 ;
and butter, 85 ;
and milk, 85 ;
booze, 89.

Rumfustian, 58, 170.

Sack, English, 32 ;
posset, _see_ posset.

Saffron cordial, _see_ cordial.

St. Mark’s pick-me-up, _see_ pick-me-up.

Sangaree ale, 162 ;
brandy, 162 ;
gin, 163 ;
port wine, 163 ;
porteree, 163 ;
sherry, 163.

Santa Cruz smash, _see_ smash.

Saragossa wine, _see_ English sack.

Saratoga brace-up, 154 ;
cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Scaffa, brandy, _see_ brandy.

Scorcher, 207.

Sherry cocktail, _see_ cocktail ;
egg nogg, _see_ nogg ;
negus, _see_ negus ;
sangaree, _see_ sangaree ;
sour, _see_ sour.

Shrub punch, _see_ punch.

Sling, 163 ;
gin, 88 ;
John Collins, 88, 163.

Sloe gin, _see_ gin.

Smash, brandy, 164 ;
champagne, 164 ;
gin, 164 ;
Santa Cruz, 164 ;
whisky, 164.

Sour, apple Jack, 165 ;
Bourbon, 165 ;
brandy, 165 ;
gin, 165 ;
sherry, 166 ;
whisky, 165.

Spleen, to cure, 203.

Squash, lemon, 233 ;
raspberry, 236.

Strengthener, 206.

Sunrise cocktail, _see_ cocktail.

Surgeon-Major, 169.

Swig, _see_ wassail.

Swizzle, _see_ cocktail.

Temperance cider, _see_ cider.

Tennis cup, _see_ cup.

Turkey oyster, 167.

Twist, 195.

Uncle, _see_ mother-in-law ;
Toby, _see_ punch.

Usquebaugh, 33.

Vauxhall punch, _see_ punch.

Victoria punch, _see_ punch.

Vinegar, raspberry, 236.

Wassail, 56.

Whisky, cherry, _see_ cherry ;
cocktail, _see_ cocktail ;
quince, 191 ;
smash, _see_ smash ;
sour, _see_ sour.

White bastard, _see_ bastard ;
wine whey, 172.

Worcester oyster, 208.

Yorkshire punch, _see_ punch.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Original spelling and grammar have been generally retained, with some
exceptions noted below.

The index was originally structured rather inconsistently as a
nested list, with line-breaks separating list items. In these ebook
editions, semicolons have been inserted between list items, with full
stop inserted at the end of each top-level entry. The original book
separated key terms from page references with comma, and key terms from
"_see_ [other topic]" with semicolon; the latter have been changed to
comma. One particularly complicated top-level heading, “Egg”, has been
split into three top-level entries, “Egg flip”, “Egg nogg”, and “Egg
punch”.

Page 82. ‘Collins—’ to ‘Collins”—’.

Page 121. ‘Orginal’ to ‘Original’.

Page 126. ‘ “champagne”) ’ to ‘ “champagne”),’.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Flowing Bowl - A Treatise on Drinks of All Kinds and of All Periods, Interspersed with Sundry Anecdotes and Reminiscences" ***

Home