This is not the brand served out to our army and navy; although the “tots” issued periodically to Tommy Atkins and Ben Bowline consist of good, sound liquor, wholesome enough, save for gouty subjects—and a sailor with the gout would be of about as much use to his Queen and country as a watch without works—and writing from past experience I can aver that every drop of liquor, whether ale or rum, supplied in a regimental canteen had to be previously passed by a committee of “taste.” In many ships, nowadays, no rum or other intoxicant is served out; and as no equivalent is given, it might appear as though the owners made a good thing out of the temperate habits of their crews. But I do not believe in total abstinence as an aid to work; and I have never seen a sailor the worse—on board ship—for his “tot.” On the other hand, in the old days of “Green’s” troop-ships, the old sailing-vessels which made the voyage to India round the Cape of Good Hope, it was by no means infrequent for a soldier to be “overcome” by the cane-spirit, of which he occasionally got rather more than his orthodox allowance.
How was this managed? The thrifty seafarers were in the habit of selling their grog allowance to the “swaddies”; and as soon as the ship’s captain found this out, he issued stringent regulations which it might have been expected would put a stop to this practice. When all hands were piped to grog a ship’s officer was {85} stationed by the tub, to see that each sailor drank his allowance. Still there was intoxication amongst the troops, and it was discovered that many of the sailors’ pannikins had false bottoms, and that in this way the rum was concealed. After that the ship’s officer was enjoined to see that each sailor partook of his tot; but even this precaution failed; for the rum would be ejected from the men’s mouths into a bucket in the fo’c’sle, and then sold—a disgusting practice which merited severe punishment, and frequently obtained it.
We English do not make nearly as much use of rum in cookery as do our lively neighbours. One of the most approved of entremets is an omelette au rhum, a truly grateful dish, if the omelette be properly made, although rum be spelt with an “h.” But it is a mistake to use rum-sauce with plum-pudding, as do the French; for brandy is a far better digestive of the cloying materials of which the pudding is composed. As mentioned in Cakes and Ale, rum-and-milk is said, by the chief English authority on dietetics, to be the most powerful restorative known to man. This may, or may not, be true; I am prepared to back a judicious dose of “the Boy”—not limited to a “split pint,” either. But of all horrible mixtures, defend me from rum-and-ale, which used to be a potion much in favour with the dangerous classes of our metropolis, in the days when I went “slumming” in search of plain unvarnished facts. A steaming tumbler of rum and hot water, with a piece of butter melted therein, was, in my younger days, in vogue as an infallible {86} specific to eject a cold from the head. Nowadays, I prefer the cold.
Gin is supposed by students, who do not make practical test of their learning, to be distilled from malt, or from unmalted barley, or from some other grain, and afterwards rectified and flavoured. And just as it was (according to Mr. Samuel Weller) the seasoning which did it in the case of the cheap pies, so is it the rectifying, and the flavouring which do it, in the matter of gin. Occasionally “rectifying” is hardly the right word to use. That there is such a thing as wholesome, tolerably-pure gin is more than probable; but there is also a very undesirable fluid sold to the poorer classes, and esteemed by their vitiated palates, known under different pet names, of which “blue ruin” and “white satin” are two. This brand of gin is flavoured more or less with oil of turpentine and common salt. No wonder thirst stalks abroad next morning!
“In one well-known hostelry,” observes a writer in a daily newspaper, “situated not a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, you can, if you be so minded, ask for and obtain a farthing’s worth of gin. It is served in tiny liqueur-glasses, and the custom dates from the time when the purchasing power of the coin in question was far greater than it is now, and when consequently, a farthing’s worth of gin was considered to be a sufficient quantity for any respectable citizen. Another public-house, in Bishopsgate Street, is also compelled, by the terms of its license, to supply a farthing’s worth of either ‘gin, rum, or shrub,’ to any customer requiring {87} it; while not far away is a hostelry which is permitted to carry on the dual businesses of liquor-dispensing or pawnbroking. Yet another City public-house possesses a sort of annexe where medicines are retailed. Handy, this, for the unhappy sufferer from swelled head.”
I suppose as the above has appeared in a newspaper, it is strictly true. But how sad! Although my knowledge of London is “peculiar” I cannot say I am acquainted with the licensed house in which drawing drinks and taking in pledges are combined; but I have seen farthing’s worths of “Old Tom” dispensed in more than one hostelry, to slatternly women, before my own breakfast hour, and I have shuddered at the sight. But why stop short at selling medicines in the annexe of a dram shop? I should have thought an undertaker, in another compartment, might do a fairish trade.
These are some of the ingredients put into gin, to give it “body,” and make it “bite”—gin without teeth being notoriously inferior tipple and altogether unfit for the consumption of the good ladies who are, sad to say, by far the best customers of the gin retailer:—roach-alum (this sounds fishy), salt of tartar, oil of juniper, cassia, nutmeg, lemon, fennel, and carraway and coriander seeds, cardamoms, capsicums, and sulphuric acid. All these, mind ye, besides the afore-mentioned oil of turpentine, and the afore-mentioned potato-spirit, which last would seem to enter into most drinks of the day.
The word “Gin” is really an abbreviation of “Geneva,” under which name the spirit was at {88} one time known. Not that it is principally manufactured in picturesque Switzerland, where the watches come from; but “Geneva” is a corruption of the old French word genevre, the juniper. I used to read, in childhood’s days, that
Juniper berries and barley make gin,
but those ingredients—or the berries, at all events—would seem to be only regularly used in Holland, nowadays.