There are fortunate mortals who can always comfort themselves with a
cliché. If any question arises as to the moral value of Racing, whether
in war-time or in peace-time, they will murmur something about
"improving the breed of horses," and sleep afterwards with an easy
conscience. To one who considers how many millions of people are engaged
upon this important work, it is surprising that nothing more notable in
the way of a super-horse has as yet emerged; one would have expected at
least by this time something which combined the flying-powers of the
hawk with the diving-powers of the seal. No doubt this is what the
followers of the Colonel's Late Wire are aiming at, and even if they
have to borrow ten shillings from the till in the good cause, they feel
that possibly by means of that very ten shillings Nature has
approximated a little more closely to the desired animal. Supporters of
Hunting, again, will tell you, speaking from inside knowledge, that "the
fox likes it," and one is left breathless at the thought of the altruism
of the human race, which will devote so much time and money to amusing a
small, bushy-tailed four-legged friend who might otherwise be bored. And
the third member of the Triple Alliance, which has made England what it
is, is Beer, and in support of Beer there is also a cliché ready. Talk
to anybody about Intemperance, and he will tell you solemnly, as if this
disposed of the trouble, that "one can just as easily be intemperate in
other matters as in the matter of alcohol." After which, it seems almost
a duty to a broad-minded man to go out and get drunk.
It is, of course, true that we can be intemperate in eating as
well as in drinking, but the results of the intemperance would
appear to be different. After a fifth help of rice-pudding one
does not become over-familiar with strangers, nor does an extra
slice of ham inspire a man to beat his wife. After five pints of
beer (or fifteen, or fifty) a man will "go anywhere in reason,
but he won't go home"; after five helps of rice-pudding, I
imagine, home would seem to him the one- desired haven. The two
intemperances may be equally blameworthy, but they are not
equally offensive to the community. Yet for some reason over-
eating is considered the mark of the beast, and over-drinking the
mark of rather a fine fellow.
The poets and other gentlemen who have written so much romantic
nonsense about "good red wine" and "good brown ale" are
responsible for this. I admit that a glass of Burgundy is a more
beautiful thing than a blancmange, but I do not think that it
follows that a surfeit of one is more heroic than a surfeit of
the other. There may be a divinity in the grape which excuses
excess, but if so, one would expect it to be there even before
the grape had been trodden on by somebody else. Yet no poet ever
hymned the man who tucked into the dessert, or told him that he
was by way of becoming a jolly good fellow. He is only by way of
becoming a pig.
"It is the true, the blushful Hippocrene." To tell oneself this
is to pardon everything. However unpleasant a drunken man may
seem at first sight, as soon as one realizes that he has merely
been putting away a blushful Hippocrene, one ceases to be angry
with him. If Keats or somebody had said of a piece of underdone
mutton, "It is the true, the blushful Canterbury," indigestion
would carry a more romantic air, and at the third helping one
could claim to be a bit of a devil. "The beaded bubbles winking
at the brim"--this might also have been sung of a tapioca-
pudding, in which case a couple of tapioca- puddings would
certainly qualify the recipient as one of the boys. If only the
poets had praised over-eating rather than over-drinking, how much
pleasanter the streets would be on festival nights!
I suppose that I have already said enough to have written myself
down a Temperance Fanatic, a Thin-Blooded Cocoa-Drinker, and a
number of other things equally contemptible; which is all very
embarrassing to a man who is composing at the moment on port, and
who gets entangled in the skin of cocoa whenever he tries to
approach it. But if anything could make me take kindly to cocoa,
it would be the sentimental rubbish which is written about the
"manliness" of drinking alcohol. It is no more manly to drink
beer (not even if you call it good brown ale) than it is to drink
beef-tea. It may be more healthy; I know nothing about that, nor,
from the diversity of opinion expressed, do the doctors; it may
be cheaper, more thirst-quenching, anything you like. But it is a
thing the village idiot can do--and often does, without becoming
thereby the spiritual comrade of Robin Hood, King Harry the
Fifth, Drake, and all the other heroes who (if we are to believe
the Swill School) have made old England great on beer.
But to doubt the spiritual virtues of alcohol is not to be a
Prohibitionist. For my own sake I want neither England nor
America dry. Whether I want them dry for the sake of England and
America I cannot quite decide. But if I ever do come to a
decision, it will not be influenced by that other cliché, which
is often trotted out complacently, as if it were something to
thank Heaven for. "You can't make people moral by Act of
Parliament." It is not a question of making them moral, but of
keeping them from alcohol. It may be a pity to do this, but it is
obviously possible, just as it is possible to keep them--that is
to say, the overwhelming majority of them--from opium. Nor shall
I be influenced by the argument that such prohibition is outside
the authority of a Government. For if a Government can demand a
man's life for reasons of foreign policy, it can surely demand
his whisky for reasons of domestic policy; if it can call upon
him to start fighting, it can call upon him to stop drinking.
But if opium and alcohol is prohibited, you say, why not tobacco?
When tobacco is mentioned I feel like the village Socialist, who
was quite ready to share two theoretical cows with his neighbour,
but when asked if the theory applied also to pigs, answered
indignantly, "What are you talking about--I've GOT two pigs!" I
could bear an England which "went dry," but an England which
"went out"--! So before assenting to the right of a Government to
rob the working-man of his beer, I have to ask myself if I assent
to its right to rob me of my pipe. Well, if it were agreed by a
majority of the community (in spite of all my hymns to Nicotine)
that England would be happier without tobacco, then I think I
should agree also. But I might feel that I should be happier
without England. Just a little way without--the Isle of Man, say.