CHAPTER XV DRINK

Mr. Crosland has very kindly suggested that "under the inspiring tutelage of the national bard Scotland has become one of the drunkenest nations in the world." I shall not retaliate as one might do, but shall content myself by referring the reader to the easily accessible tables of statistics, which render it quite plain that Scotland's drunkenness is very considerably exceeded by the drunkenness of England.

In London, at any rate, strong drink flows like a river. There are 5300 licensed houses in the metropolitan area alone. In Kilburn, a suburb of more or less irreproachable respectability, there are twenty-five churches and chapels and thirty-five public-houses.[Pg 145] During late years public-house property has begun to be looked upon in the light of a gilt-edged investment. Turn where one will, one finds the older inns are being swept away, while on their sites are erected flaring gin-palaces, with plate-glass fronts, elaborate mahogany fitments, gorgeous saloon and private bars, painted ceilings, inlaid floors, and electric light throughout. Behind the bar, instead of mine host of a former day and his wife and daughter, there are half a dozen perked-up barmaids with rouged cheeks and Rossetti hair, and a person called the manager, who for ￡2 a week runs the place for its proprietors—a Limited Company, which owns, perhaps, twenty or thirty other houses. In the conduct of these mammoth drinking-places three great points are kept in view: namely, that a quick-drinking, stand-up trade pays better than any amount of slow regular custom; that the English drinker of the lower class cannot tell the difference between good drink and bad, often preferring, indeed, the bad to the good;[Pg 146] and that, as bad liquor is cheaper than good, the sound commercial thing to do is to supply bad liquor.

With these admirable axioms continually before it, the English trade has prospered amazingly. More drink and worse drink is sold in England to-day than has ever been sold in England before. Through legislation intended to ensure sound liquor and the proper conduct of licensed houses the proprietors have consistently made a point of driving the usual brewer's dray. "In order to meet the Food and Drugs Adulteration Act, all spirits sold at this establishment, while of the same excellent quality as heretofore, are diluted according to strength." "The same excellent quality as heretofore" is choice, and so is "diluted according to strength." As for the beer, we dilute also the beer according to strength. When we are caught at it, it is a mistake on the part of the cellarman, who has been discharged; and the fine is so small in proportion to the profit on selling water, that we smile at the back of[Pg 147] our necks and keep on diluting according to strength. Our whole system, in fact, is designed to make people drink, and to make them drink the worst that we dare put before them.

Now, the Scot, drunkard or no drunkard, does have something of a taste in liquor. The best clarets have gone to Scotland (in spite of Mr. Crosland) since claret became a dinner wine. You cannot put off a Scot with either bad whisky or bad beer. He knows what whisky should be and what beer should be, and in Scotland, at any rate, he never has any difficulty in getting them. But the English, taking them in the mass, are quite the other way. Any sort of wine, provided it be properly fortified and sophisticated, passes with them for the real thing. Their Scotch whisky is about the most wholesome thing they drink; but large quantities of this are bought by English merchants in a crude state, and rammed down the public throat without a thought to maturing, blending, and otherwise rendering the spirit[Pg 148] potable. English beer, we have been told in song and story, is the finest beer in the world. Yet nobody can visit an English brewery without discovering that English beer is not English beer at all. Glucose in the place of malt, quassia and gentian in the place of hops, finings in the place of storage, are the universal order; and so depraved and perverted has the fine old English taste in beer become that brewers who have set up to provide an honest article and sent it out to their customers have had it returned with the curt comment that "nobody would drink such hog-wash, and what the customers wanted was beer, and not brewer's apron." Every now and again scares crop up in consequence of the use of improper ingredients; there is an inquiry, a Royal Commission, and the Englishman still goes on stolidly drinking. Arsenic will not drive him away from his favourite tipple, neither will cocculus indicus or any of the round dozen abominations upon which the brewer's chemist takes his stand.

[Pg 149]

If there is one thing more than another that is considered the chief necessity of life in the English household of the poorer class, it is beer, and its sister beverage, porter. From morning till night the can is continually going between the house of the artisan and the neighbouring "public." The first thing in the morning the artisan himself must have a couple of goes of rum and milk; by eleven o'clock he is ready for a pint of four-half; at noon, when he knocks off for dinner, he will imbibe a quart or more of the same beverage; and at night, after work, he sits in the taproom till closing-time, and drinks as much as ever he can pay for or chalk up. Meanwhile, his wife must have her drop of porter in the morning, her drop of bitter to dinner, and her drop of something hot before going to bed. Also on Saturday afternoons, when the twain go marketing together, they must have a few drinks, just to show there is no ill-feeling; while on Saturday night the artisan not infrequently improves the shining hours by "getting[Pg 150] blind," to use his own elegant phrase. Thus it quite commonly happens that a third and even a half of the total income of a household of the artisan class is spent in alcohol. Thrift, provision for a rainy day and for old age, become an impossibility. Underfeeding usually walks hand in hand with overdrinking; the man loses his nerve, the woman her comeliness and her capacity; and the end is pauperism and a pauper's grave, if nothing worse.

Among the English middle and upper classes there is distinctly a greater tendency to moderation than among the lower classes. For all that, the middle classes especially can point to a great many brilliant examples of the fine art of soaking. Publicans, betting-men, commercial travellers, proprietors of businesses, solicitors' clerks, journalists, and the like get through an amount of drinking in the course of a day which would probably appal even themselves if they kept an account of it. "Let's 'ave a drink," is invariably one of the first phrases dropped when[Pg 151] two Englishmen meet. "We'll 'ave another" is sure to follow; and so is, "'Ang it, man! we must have a final." Among the middle classes, too, as also among the upper classes, there is a very great deal of secret drinking, particularly among women and persons whose professional or official positions necessitate the maintenance of an appearance of extreme respectability. The grocer's license and his fine stock of carefully selected wines and spirits offer a ready means of supply to the female dipsomaniac, who would not be seen in a public-house for worlds; besides, gin can be charged as tea in a grocery account, and many a bottle of brandy has figured in such accounts under the innocent pseudonym of "rolled ox-tongue."

Though the English upper classes, as I have said, drink with a certain moderation, their moderation really embraces a quantity of liquor which would send the artisan quite off his head. Whiskies-and-sodas at noon, Burgundy at lunch, with cognac to one's[Pg 152] coffee, three kinds of wine at dinner, followed by liqueurs and whisky, make no appreciable mark on a man who is living at his ease and can sleep as long as he likes; but the sum total of alcohol is quite considerable, and probably greater than that consumed by the "drunken sot" for whom my lord has such contempt.

Of English drinking, generally, one may remark that it is done in a very deliberate and unsociable way. The English cannot be said to drink for company's sake. They do not foregather and carry on their drinking merrily. In their cups they are neither witty nor happy, but just dull and dour and inclined to be quarrelsome. They drink for drinking's sake,—for the sake of intoxication, and to drown trouble. I wish them good luck and less of their vile concoctions!