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.”