Now for the saints. Although the fact of his drinking deep has been denied, St. Augustine appears to have confessed to “a day out” occasionally, in some such words as these: “Thy servant has been sometimes crop-sick through excess of wine. Have mercy on me, that it may be ever far from me.”
Amongst the bishops one instance must suffice. “Pontus de Thiard,” as appears from an old translation of the works of an eminent Frenchman, “after having repented of the sins of his youth, came to be bishop of Chalons-sur-Soane; but, however, he did not renounce the power of drinking heavily, which seemed then inseparable from the quality of a good poet. He had a stomach big enough to empty the largest cellar; and the best wines of Burgundy were too gross for the subtility of the fire which devoured him. Every night, at going to bed, besides the ordinary doses of the day, in which he would not suffer the least drop of water, he used to drink a bottle before he slept. He enjoyed a strong, robust, and vigorous health, to the age of fourscore.” Dear old Pontus!
Of all other mighty men, Alexander the Great serves to best point the moral of the evils of intemperance. Wearied of conquering, this hero gave himself up to debauchery in its worst and wildest forms. He killed his foster-brother in a fit of drunkenness, and subsequently, at the bidding of “lovely Thais,” queen of the {14} Athenian demi-monde, set fire to, and burnt to the ground, Persepolis, the wonder of the world. What an awakening Alec must have had! Not that he was the first, nor yet the last, man to make a fool, or rogue, of himself, at the bidding of the (alleged) gentler sex. Cleopatra corrupted a few heroes, and as for La Pompadour
but those be other stories. Alexander the Great, who had lost most of his greatness by that time, died from the effects of chronic alcoholism; although they didn’t tell me as much as this at school.
Cambyses was but little removed from a sot. This prince, having been told by one of his courtiers that the people thought Cambyses indulged in too many “drunks” for the good of the nation, reached for his best bow and his sharpest arrow, and, the courtier having retired out of range, shot the courtier’s son through the heart; after which the prince enquired of the courtier: “Is this the act of a drunkard?” which reminds me of a more modern anecdote, of a Piccadilly roysterer. But some men can shoot straighter, and ride better, and write more poetically, when under the influence of the rosy god; and had this courtier been a man of the world he would not have touched on the subject of ebriation to his prince. For ebriates are but seldom proud of their weaknesses.
Darius, the first King of Persia, commanded that this epitaph, which is here translated, should be placed on his tomb: “I could drink much wine and bear it well.” Philip of Macedon, father of Alexander the Great, took too much wine on {15} occasion; to corroborate which fact we have the exclamation of the good lady whose prayer for justice he had refused to hear — this is a quotation beloved of members of Parliament—“I appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober.” Dionysius the younger, tyrant of Sicily, frequently had vine-leaves in his hair for a week at a time; he drank himself almost blind, and his courtiers, in order to flatter him, pretended to be blind too, and neither ate nor drank anything unless it were handed to them by Dionysius himself. Tiberius was called Biberius, because of his excessive attachment to the bowl; and, in derision, they changed his surname of Nero to Mero. Bonosus, according to his own historian, Flavius Vobiscus, was a terrible soaker, and used to make the ambassadors, who came from foreign parts, even more drunk than himself, in order that he might discover their secret instructions.
I cannot glean from the ancient records that any monarch who reigned over Great Britain was an habitual drunkard, an absolute and confirmed sot. But many of them were given to conviviality, notably Richard of the Lion Heart, Bluff King Hal — who had gout badly, and suffered also from obesity and other things—and the Merry Monarch. A story is told of the Second Charles, that when dining with the Lord Mayor, Sir Robert Viner, on one occasion—it was probably a 9th of November dinner at the Mansion House—the King noticed that most of the guests were uncomfortably uproarious, and, with his suite, rose to leave the banqueting chamber. Whereupon the Lord Mayor hastily {16} pursued him, caught hold of his robe, and exclaimed: “Sire, you shall take t’other bottle.” The King stopped, and with a graceful smile repeated a line of the old song, “He that is drunk is great as a king,” and with this compliment to his host, he returned, and took “t’other bottle.”
The immortal Pepys describes a Lord Mayor’s Feast which was given in 1663. It was served at one o’clock, and a bill of fare was placed, together with a salt-cellar, in front of every guest; whilst at the end of each table was a list of “persons proper” there to be seated. Pepys was placed at the merchant-strangers’ table, “where ten good dishes to a mess, with plenty of wine of all sorts.” Napkins and knives were, however, only supplied at the Lord Mayor’s table to him and the Lords of the Privy Council; and Pepys complains bitterly that he and those who were seated with him had no napkins nor change of trenchers, and had to drink out of earthen pitchers. He, however, took his spoon and fork away with him, as was customary in those days with all guests invited to entertainments. But as each guest brought his own tools, nobody was the worse for this custom. The dinner, says Pepys, was provided by the Mayor and two sheriffs for the time being, and the whole cost was between £700 and £800.
We are not told what was drunk at the Mansion House on that occasion, but I have a list before me of the potables served at the Lord Mayor’s banquet in 1782—more than a century later—which seems deserving of mention in this little work:— {17}