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}