THE BAR
If on thy theme I rightly think,
There are five reasons why men drink:
Good wine, a friend, because I’m dry,
At least, I should be by-and-bye,
Or any other reason why.—H. ALDRICH.
The bar of the “Cheese” is unique amongst the bowers of Boniface
in the metropolis. It has no equal and no rival. “Here,” says the
_Sportsman_ of March 30, 1887, “gather poets, painters, lawyers,
barristers, preachers, journalists, stockbrokers, musicians, town
councillors, and vestrymen, with just a _soupçon_ of sporting
celebrities, and a decided dash of the impecunious ‘Have beens.’
The latter represent in the ‘Cheese’ colony the Irish division in
Parliament. Many of our most eminent journalists, legal luminaries,
and successful merchants have been patrons of the Old Cheshire Cheese
in the days when it was to them club, discussion forum, and even
home.”
The “Cheese” bar resembles no other in London. The customers are
unique, and the names of their drinks are peculiar. The simplest and
amplest is “whisky,” and that means Scotch whisky. No old customer of
the “Cheese” would ever think of asking for “Scotch.” If anyone dares
to say “Scotch,” he is marked down at once as one not yet inured
to the ways of the bar. On the other hand, neither must he whisper
“Irish”—certainly not! If he knows his “Cheese” he asks for “Cork,”
and if he says “Irish” he is an ignoramus. Then who would mention
“gin?” The word is absolutely vulgar, and should be confined to the
East End and Mrs. Harris. No, no! the cognoscente calls for “rack”—an
odd name, which may be meant to suggest the state of mind of the
drinker on the morrow, or it may be a mere contraction of arrack.
Punch, a mysterious and delectable compound, we had better not order
in the bar, its consumption is so much more pleasant upstairs; but
there is no reason why we should not admire the punch bowls, and
having considered them and studied the portrait of an erstwhile
waiter over the fireplace as much as they deserve, we probably turn
about, and, as the eyes become accustomed to the darkness, find
ourselves confronted with the way out. But don’t go for a while.
You would probably like to see somebody in the bar. Adequately to
people the bar would task the pencil of a Hogarth, the pen of a
Thackeray. That more genial Hogarth of our time, the late Phil May,
has indeed done it exceedingly well in his “Parson and the Painter.”
But the human constituents of the bar’s society vary with the hour
of the day. In the morning the journalistic element predominates.
But it is when night begins to fall that the life of the bar is at
its brightest. Then the blinds are drawn, the gas is lighted, and
the full orchestra tunes up. The Cheeseites are in their glory, and
what might be copy for a dozen comic papers elicits a little passing
laughter and then is forgotten. When the sparkle has fled from the
champagne, who can restore it? Here, however, are a few fragments of
typical conversation.
The bar is crowded, and floating in the ambient air one detects
the rich voice of a Scotch poet who is being taken to task for his
grammar.
[Illustration: “THE WAY OUT.”]
“It’s maybe not English at present, Mr. Bluggs; but wha maks your
English? It’s your Shakespeares, your Multons, an _Me_!”
From another part of the room comes the voice of an Englishman
somewhat at a disadvantage among Irish and Scotch intonations of rich
variety.
“Of course the Scotch say they speak better English than the English.
I remember I once had a short engagement on an Edinburgh paper. When
about to leave ‘Auld Reekie’ there was a little _deoch-an-dorus_,
and some fifteen of the fellows came to wish me God-speed. They were
from some fifteen different parts of Scotland, and after certain
formalities in the way of hot toddy my Scotch friends brought up
the eternal question of their immaculate English. ‘It may be as you
say,’ I interposed, ‘but why do you speak it with fifteen different
accents?’ Had them there, ha! ha!”
Irish Dramatist (discussing tours, etc.)—“Did I hear you say Stony
Stratford? I was once there, and no wonder they called it Stony
Stratford, for I was never so bitten with bugs in my life.”[3]
Genial Advertising Manager—“I hear that poor old Mac’s dead” (general
sorrow and display of handkerchiefs). (Enter poor old Mac—silence
falls on the company.)
Poor old Mac—“Good evening, Miss S——, I haven’t seen you for a long
time.”
Miss S.—“Was it very hot where you have come from?”
Funny Man—“Why, Jack, you seem to believe in a lot of things nobody
else believes in”—(then, as a clincher)—“I suppose you believe in the
transmigration of souls!”
Solemn Man—“I do—and so do you. You must feel you were an ass when
you lent me that half-sovereign six months ago.”
Socialistic Journalist (to admiring friends)—“Have you read my
articles in the _X Y Gazette_? No? Well, read them, and you will
see that I am the second, if not the first, among the teachers of
humanity. Nobody, for at least eighteen hundred years, has taught as
I have taught.”
Waiter, suddenly entering the bar—“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you did
not pay for that steak you had in the room.”
Socialistic Journalist—“Pay for it! Not likely! It was from the
beginning as much my steak as Charlie Moore’s. Now it is more mine
than his. Pay? Base is the slave that pays.”
Racing Journalist—“Jones is a good writer, but he will never set the
Thames on fire.”
Impecunious Reporter—“I wish he would, for it’s very cold, and I have
to sleep on the Embankment.”
The story goes that on one occasion there was some little
misunderstanding at the bar; but misunderstandings are of the rarest,
and this one has become legendary. The account which reached me ran
something after this manner:—
Great Sub-Editor (with back to fire)—“_You’re_ not a freemason.”
Great Reporter—“I am.”
G. S.-E.—“Why, I’ve been making masonic signs to you for the last
half-hour.”
G. R.—“Do you call me a——?”
G. S.-E.—“I do.”
G. R.—“Then——” (and they roll together on the floor).
Head waiter (rushing in)—“What’s this? What’s this about?”
Manageress—“Only two gentlemen making a few masonic signs under the
table.”
Of course, as a rule, harmony prevails in the “Cheese,” and “chaff”
abounds without physical threshing, for the _habitués_ love the
ancient hostelry and themselves too much to make the place a
bear-garden.
To quote again from the _Sportsman_:—
“There is a sense of comfort and veneration about the place which
constitutes an absolute charm. There is something homely and out of
the common in its sawdust-coated floors, with uneven boards and great
gaping ‘chinks.’ The fireplaces are huge and commodious, capable of
holding a hundredweight of coal at a time. These said fireplaces, by
the way, have much to answer for in legions of broken resolutions
to be home at six. On a cold winter’s day, when their genial warmth
penetrates every portion of the room, and the merry flames dance and
leap after each other up the capacious chimney space, a man listens
to the howling wind without, or hears the rain pattering on the paved
courts, and he says, says he, ‘The old woman may be cross, or the
mater may scold; but we don’t kill a sheep every day, and—just one
more, James, and I will catch the seven.’ Those wicked fireplaces,
the huge singing kettle, the cosy recesses, and the seductive perfume
of toddy have indeed much to answer for.”
FOOTNOTES:
[3] This _non sequitur_ has already appeared in print.