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!
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.
A
_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}