the “maturing,” or “ageing,” of whisky the constituents of fusel-oil
underwent decomposition; but my good friend Doctor James Bell, C.B.,
the chief Government analyst at Somerset House (he retired some three
years ago), utterly refuted this theory by analysis.

Whisky is, like brandy, naturally white, and {81} takes its trade
colour, and, to a certain extent, flavour, from the sherry-casks in
which it is matured. It is also coloured by the direct addition of
caramel (burnt sugar), or a maturing wine.

In America, Rye or Bourbon whisky is made from wheat or maize grown
in the Bourbon country, Kentucky, and some of it would kill at forty
yards. The chief distillery states on the other side of the Atlantic
are Illinois, Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, New York, and Pennsylvania.
At the Cape, and throughout South Africa, there is decent whisky
procurable, as also a pernicious compound known as “Square-face” or
“Cape smoke,” and in much favour with the dusky races of the country.
On the Congo, palm-wine—similar to the fermented toddy of the East
Indies—was for centuries the only livener, but with the march of
civilization have come the whiskies of Great Britain, more or less
adulterated; and whereas in the past death by the sword, or the club,
was the only known punishment for the subjects of the native tyrants
who are so fond of thinning out the population, a well-fuselled whisky
is now freely employed for the same purpose.

Although whisky is now freely partaken of all over Great Britain, it
was comparatively speaking despised in England until the first half
of the present century had slipped by. This fact is apparent from
a perusal of contemporary literature. And in no country has “malt”
had such a rise in public estimation as in the great continent of
Hindustan, where “John Exshaw” and “John {82} Collins”—the last named
a seductive compound of gin, limes, Curaçoa, and soda-water—have
been almost knocked out by John Barleycorn and Jean Pomme-de-terre.
Until the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, brandy was almost the
sole potation of the heroes who helped to hold the big wonderland,
the old-fashioned _brandi-pani_ gradually giving place to the brandy
diluted with _Belati pani_, or “Europe water.” Thirty years ago a “peg”
meant a brandy-and-soda; but whisky has now usurped the proud position
once occupied by the products of John Exshaw, Justerini and Brooks,
and others.

{83}

CHAPTER VIII

OTHER SPIRITS

 Old Jamaica pine-apple — “Tots” for Tommy Atkins — The grog tub
 aboard ship — _Omelette au rhum_ — Rum-and-milk — Ditto-and-ale — A
 maddening mixture — Rectifying gin — “The seasoning as does it” — Oil
 of turpentine and table-salt — A long thirst — A farthing’s worth of
 Old Tom — Roach-alum — Dirty gin — Gin and bitters — “Kosher” rum
 — An active and intelligent officer — Gambling propensities of the
 Israelites — The dice in the tumbler — Nomenclature at “The Olde
 Cheshyre Cheese” — “Rack” — “Cork.”

We now come to Rum, “superior old Jamaica pine-apple,” otherwise known
as “sailors’ tea”—the spirit in question having from time immemorial
been held in high esteem by mariners both afloat and ashore. Rum is
probably one of the easiest beverages to make, being, simply, fermented
and distilled cane-sugar. Occasionally pine-apples and guavas are
thrown into the still, but in making this spirit on a large scale no
attempts are made to add to its flavour and thereby deduct from the
profits to be made on the commodity. It is coloured with caramel, and
the longer you keep it the better and, therefore, the more valuable, it
becomes. In the city {84} of Carlisle in the year 1865 some rum known
to be 140 years old was sold for £3 : 3s. per bottle.

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.

“Dirty” gin, of which we used to hear so much, was, I believe, as pure
as any other geneva, and not less clean. Plymouth gin is said to be the
healthiest form of the article, but ’tis an acquired taste, and “Old
Tom” is certainly more toothsome. In entering as fully into details
as I have above I have no wish to discourage the consumption of gin
proper, especially when blended with ginger-beer (an excellent summer
beverage), or doing duty in a cock-tail, a sling, a punch, or a John
Collins. But I am not a “gin man” myself. And to my mind a “nip” less
calculated to promote appetite than any other is a “gin-and-bitters.”

“Kosher” rum, _i.e._ rum treated according to instructions laid down
in the Mosaic Law, is in high favour with the Jews; and in some of the
taverns which abut on the Israelitish quarters which are about Aldgate
there are recognized “rum-rooms.” There used to be, and probably is at
the present day, a considerable amount of card—playing (_spieling_)
or throwing of dice for wagers, carried on in these apartments; and I
once knew a son of Judah who was heavily fined {89} by the stipendiary
magistrate, for gambling on licensed premises. To the day of his death
this Jew protested his innocence of the crime.

He told me the whole story, interlarded with tears and gesticulations.

The _rozzers_ (detectives) raided the rum-room one afternoon, and
created considerable commotion. Some of the imbibers managed to make
their escape, but my informant was not so fortunate. He was seized by
one minion of the law, and shortly afterwards another officer cried:

“See where he has hidden the dice in his tumbler of Old Jamaica!”

“And, may I die,” added the poor Yid, “if the _gonoph_ (rascal) hadn’t
placed ’em there himself—don’t yer beliefe me?”

Of course I did.

Here is another way of employing rum; but you will not be able to shine
at solo-whist afterwards.

_Rum Booze._

 The yolks of eight eggs well beaten up, with some sifted sugar, and
 a grated nutmeg; extract the juice from rind of a lemon by rubbing
 loaf sugar thereon; put the sugar, a piece of cinnamon, and a bottle
 of white wine into a clean saucepan, and when the wine boils take it
 off the fire. Pour one glass of cold sherry into it, put it into a
 spouted jug (I don’t mean hypothecated, but a jug with a spout to it)
 and pour it gradually amongst the egg mixture, keeping the whole well
 stirred with a spoon as the wine is poured in. Sweeten to taste, and
 pour the mixture from one vessel to another until a fine white froth
 is obtained. {90}

 The recipe continues. “Half a pint of rum is sometimes added, but it
 is then very intoxicating.”

But _sans_ rum whence the Rum Booze? Port Wine is sometimes substituted
for white wine, but is not considered so palatable. This liquor should
be drunk when quite hot. If the wine be poured boiling hot among the
eggs, the mixture will become curdled.

_Without_ the rum the mixture is one form of Egg Flip.

When treating of gin I should have mentioned that at one well-known
City hostelry, “The Olde Cheshyre Cheese” in Wine Office Court, Fleet
Street, gin is never known by any other name than “rack.” Why, I know
not. But in the same old tavern should you require Scotch Whisky you
must call for “Scotch,” without mentioning the word whisky; and if
Irish, “Cork” is the password.

{91}

CHAPTER IX

CUPS WHICH CHEER

 Claret combinations — Not too much noyeau — A treat for schoolboys
 — The properties of borage — “Away with melancholy” — _Salmon’s
 Household Companion_ — Balm for vapours — Crimean cup — An elaborate
 and far-reaching compound — Orgeat — A race-day cup — “Should auld
 acquaintance be forgot?” — Sparkling Isabella — Rochester’s delight —
 Freemason’s relish — Porter cup — Dainty drink for a tennis-party.

It is probable that there are almost as many recipes for claret cup as
there are letters in Holy Writ, or acres in Yorkshire. This is the late
Mr.

_Donald’s Cup._

 One bottle claret.
 1 wine-glass pale brandy.
 ½    do.     yellow chartreuse.
 ½    do.     curaçoa.
 ½    do.     maraschino.
 2 bottles Seltzer water.
 1 lemon cut in thin slices.
 A few sprigs of borage.
 Ice and
 sugar to taste. {92}

To my taste there is rather too much liqueur in the above. Here is a
simple recipe for

_Badminton_.

 Peel half a small cucumber and put it into a silver cup together with
 four ounces of sifted sugar, the juice of one lemon, a little nutmeg,
 half a glass of curaçoa, and a bottle of claret; when the sugar is
 thoroughly dissolved, pour in a bottle of soda-water, add ice, and
 drink. The cucumber should not be left in too long, and a sprig or two
 of borage will improve the flavour.

_Balaclava Cup._

 Throw into a large bowl the thinly pared rind of half a lemon, add two
 tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, the juice of two lemons, and half a
 small cucumber, _unpeeled_, in slices. Mix well, and add two bottles
 of soda-water, two bottles of claret, and one of champagne; mix well,
 ice, and flavour with borage.

_Another Claret Cup._

 Put into a large bowl three bottles of claret, a large wine-glass of
 curaçoa, a pint of dry sherry, half a pint of old brandy, a large
 wine-glass of raspberry syrup, three oranges and one lemon cut into
 slices. Add four bottles of aërated water, sweeten to taste, ice and
 flavour with borage. This is a good cup for a garden-party, or a tent
 at Ascot; and remember always that the better the ingredients the
 better the cup. More especially let your brandy be of the right brand.

_Yet Another._

 Pour into a large jug one bottle of claret, two wine-glasses of dry
 sherry, and a dash of maraschino. {93} Add a few sliced nectarines,
 or peaches, and sweeten to taste. Let it stand till the sugar is
 melted, and then add a sprig of borage. Just before using add one
 bottle of Seltzer water, and a large piece of ice.

 Soda-water, Stretton water, or any other natural spring-water may be
 substituted for Seltzer.

_One More_,

 and a very simple one. Put into a bowl the rind of one lemon pared
 very thin, add sugar to taste, and pour over it a wine-glass of
 sherry; then add a bottle of claret, more sugar, a sprig of verbena
 for flavour, one bottle of aërated water, and a little grated nutmeg;
 strain and ice.

_My Ideal Claret Cup._

 Two wine-glasses old brandy, one wine-glass curaçoa, and a little thin
 lemon-peel, sweeten to taste, and pour over the mixture two bottles
 of light claret. Just before using add a pint bottle of sparkling
 moselle, and two bottles of fizzing water. Flavour with borage, and
 put a large block of ice in the bowl.

Nobody who has not tried it can understand how much the addition of a
little sparkling Moselle improves a claret cup.

_“For’ard On” Cup._

 Put into a large bowl three bottles of claret, a _large_ wine-glass
 of curaçoa, one pint of sherry, half a pint of old brandy, two
 wine-glasses of raspberry syrup, three oranges and one lemon cut into
 slices; add a few sprigs of borage, a little cucumber-rind, {94} two
 bottles of Seltzer water and three bottles of soda-water. Mix well,
 and sweeten to taste. Let the mixture stand for an hour, then strain,
 and put a large block of ice in it. Serve in small tumblers; and if
 champagne be substituted for claret, and noyeau for raspberry syrup,
 a most excellent champagne cup will be the result. Beware, however,
 of too free a hand with the noyeau. This liqueur contains hydrocyanic
 (otherwise Prussic) acid, and should only be used cautiously, unless
 evil be wished to your guests.

_Cider Cup, or Cold Tankard._

 This is a favourite beverage for schoolboys and university students.
 I cannot say that I have encountered it since the early sixties, but
 ’tis a refreshing drink for the river-side and the cricket-field.

 Extract the juice from the peel of one lemon by rubbing loaf-sugar on
 it; cut two lemons into thin slices; the rind of one lemon cut thin, a
 quarter of a pound of loaf-sugar, and half a pint of brandy (I don’t
 think they allowed as much brandy as this at my old school). Pour the
 whole into a large jug, mix it well together, and pour one quart of
 cold spring-water upon it. Grate a nutmeg into it, add one pint of
 white wine, and a bottle of cider, sweeten to taste with capillaire
 or sugar, put a handful of balm and the same quantity of borage in
 flower, stalk downwards. Then put the jug containing this liquor into
 a tub of ice, and when it has remained there one hour it will be fit
 for use. The balm and borage should be fresh gathered. And here a few
 words as to the virtues of these.

In _Evelyn’s Acetaria_ it is written:—“The {95} sprigs of borage in
wine are of known virtue, to revive the hypochondriac, and cheer the
hard student.”

_Salmon’s Household Companion_, 1710, told us: “Borage is one of the
four cordial flowers; it comforts the heart, cheers melancholy, and
revives the fainting spirits.”

“Borage,” wrote Sir John Hill, M.D., “has the credit of being a great
cordial; throwing it into cold wine is better than all the medicinal
preparations.”

“The leaves, flowers, and seeds of borage,” says the _English
Physician_, “all or any of them, are good to expel pensiveness and
melancholy.”

“Balm is very good to help digestion and open obstructions of the
brain, and hath so much purging quality in it, as to expel those
melancholy vapours from the spirits and blood which are in the heart
and arteries, although it cannot do so in other parts of the body”
(_Ibid_).

After all this information, let not the garden of the melancholy
vapourer be searched in vain for balm and borage.

_Perry Cup_

is made in the same manner as the above, with the natural substitution
of perry for cider.

_Crimean Cup._

This is an elaborate affair.

 One quart of syrup of orgeat (to make this _vide_ next recipe), one
 pint and a half of old brandy, two wine-glasses of maraschino, one
 pint of old rum, {96} two large and one small bottles of champagne,
 three bottles of Seltzer water, half a pound of sifted sugar, and
 the juice of five lemons. Peel the lemons and put the thin rind in a
 mortar with the sugar. Pound them well, and scrape the result with a
 silver spoon into a large bowl. Squeeze in the juice of the lemons,
 add the Seltzer water, and stir till the sugar is quite dissolved.
 Then add the orgeat, and whip the mixture well with a whisk, so as
 to whiten it. Add the maraschino, rum, and brandy, and strain the
 whole into another bowl. Just before the cup is required, put in the
 champagne and stir vigorously with a punch ladle. The champagne should
 have been previously well iced, as no apparent iceberg is allowable in
 this mixture.

Do not make too free with this mixture, if you are about to ride the
favourite for an important race, or you will be seeing five winning
posts, like the late “Jem” Snowden.

_Orgeat._

You do not often hear this compound called for nowadays, but here is
the programme for its manufacture:—

 Blanch and pound three quarters of a pound of sweet almonds, and
 thirty bitter almonds, in one tablespoonful of water. Stir in by
 degrees two pints of water and three pints of milk. Strain the mixture
 through a cloth. Dissolve half a pound of loaf-sugar in one pint of
 water. Boil and skim well, and then mix with the almond water. Add two
 tablespoonfuls of orange-flower water and half a pint of old brandy.
 Be careful to boil the _eau sucré_ well, as this concoction must not
 be too watery. {97}

A Crimean Cup for a much smaller party can be made, without the
addition of orgeat, as follows:—

 Put the peel of half a lemon or orange into a bowl, add a
 tablespoonful of sifted sugar, one small glassful of maraschino, half
 that quantity of curaçoa, and a wine-glassful of old brandy. Mix
 well together, and add two bottles of aërated water, one bottle of
 champagne, and a block of ice.

_Race-day Cup._

 Dissolve a quarter of a pound of sugar in a quarter of a pint of
 water, add the juice of two lemons, one wine-glassful of brandy,
 half a wine-glassful of cherry brandy, a dash of maraschino, and a
 bottle of champagne. Add also a small piece of cucumber-peel, two
 sprigs of borage, two thin slices of lemon, four strawberries, four
 brandy-cherries, and two bottles of Seltzer water; stir well, and ice
 for an hour after covering up the bowl. Before serving put in a block
 of ice, and serve in tumblers.

_Loving Cup._

Better a little flavoured brandy-and-water where love is than a Crimean
Cup or a Halo Punch amidst bickerings and vexation of spirit.

 Rub the rind of two oranges on loaf-sugar and put the sugar into a
 bowl; add half a pint of brandy, the juice of one lemon, one-third
 of a pint of orange juice, and one pint of water. Add more sugar if
 required, and ice well.

I don’t know if the above is the way the Loving Cup at the Mansion
House is made; {98} but probably one recipe is as good as another,
when all you have to do is to sip the liquid and pass it on.

The ancients knew not “cups”; simply because they knew not the virtues
of Wenham Lake ice, or its imitations; whilst the “strong-waters” and
alleged wines of the past did not blend particularly well, and there
was no soda-water. Fearful and wonderful beverages were their compound
drinks, however, many of which have already been analysed in these
pages. But the recipe for

_Rochester_

Cup, which is taken from a comparatively modern book, smacks of the
antique. At all events my own wine-merchant professes to be “out of”
sparkling Catawba and sparkling Isabella. But here is the programme.

 Put into a bowl two bottles of sparkling Catawba, two bottles of
 sparkling Isabella, and one bottle of Sauterne; mix well, then add
 two wine-glasses of maraschino and two wine-glasses of curaçoa; ice
 well, and add some strawberries, or a few drops of extract of peach or
 vanilla.

A very excellent

_Champagne Cup_

can be made from the recipe headed “Donald’s Cup” at the commencement
of this chapter, substituting “the Boy” for the red wine of Bordeaux.
And here is a simple little refresher, suitable for a breaking-up party
at a young ladies’ school. {99}

_Chablis Cup._

 Dissolve four or five lumps of sugar in a quarter of a pint of boiling
 water, and put it into a bowl with a very thin slice of lemon rind;
 let it stand for half an hour, then add a bottle of Chablis, a sprig
 of verbena, a wine-glassful of sherry, and half a pint of water. Mix
 well, and let the mixture stand for a while, then strain, add a bottle
 of Seltzer water, a few strawberries or raspberries, and a block of
 ice. Serve in small glasses.

Should you wish to make

_Red Cup_

 use one pint of port wine instead of white; and sometimes two glasses
 of red-currant jelly are added. In other respects, follow the
 directions already laid down for making Cider Cup; a little warm water
 being necessary to dissolve the jelly.

_Freemason._

 This sounds a “for’ard” sort of potion:—Put into a bowl one pint of
 Scotch ale, one pint of mild ale, half a pint of brandy, one pint of
 sherry, and half a pound of sifted sugar. Mix well together, grate a
 little nutmeg over the top, and add a block of ice.

Mind, I, personally, do not believe in the blending of malt liquor
with wine or spirits; and the above reads like a bile-provoker of the
most persistent type. But compared With the next recipe—which some of
my readers may think should come, for choice, under the heading of
“Strange Swallows”—it is harmless indeed. {100}

_Porter Cup._

 Put into a tankard or covered jug one bottle of stout, one bottle of
 mild ale, and one wine-glassful of old brandy, with sugar _ad lib._;
 then add a little powdered ginger, half a nutmeg grated; cover it
 over, ice for half an hour; before serving, stir in a teaspoonful of
 carbonate of soda, add a few strips of cucumber-rind, and put in, last
 of all, a block of ice.

One more cup, and I have done with this part of my subject. This is a
ladylike concoction, as its name would seem to imply.

_Tennis Cup._

 Put into a bowl four tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, the rind of one
 lemon and juice of two, one wine-glassful of brandy, one wine-glassful
 of ginger syrup, and a small piece of cucumber-rind; add two bottles
 of soda-water, one sprig of borage, and two sprigs of verbena. Ice
 well; and serve in small glasses.

{101}

CHAPTER X

PUNCH

 Derivation of the word questioned — Not an Asiatic drink —
 “Pale-punts” — No relation to pale punters — Properties of rum — Toddy
 as a tonic — Irish punch — Glasgie ditto — O’er muckle cauld watter —
 One to seven — Hech sirs! — Classical sherbet — Virtues of the feet
 of calves — West India dry gripes — Make your own punch — No deputy
 allowed — Attraction of capillaire — Gin punch — Eight recipes for
 milk punch — University heart-cheerers.

 When e’en a bowl of punch we make,
   Four striking opposites we take:
 The strong, the small, the sharp, the sweet,
   Together mix’d, most kindly meet,
 And when they happily unite
   The bowl is pregnant with delight.

In _Cakes and Ale_, grave doubts are expressed as to whether the
usually-accepted derivation of punch is the correct one. Why Asia
should be raked to find a name for a purely European concoction, is
beyond my powers of argument; and, as observed in another place, in the
concoction of this seductive brew it is by no means necessary to limit
oneself to _five_ ingredients.

It may be news to the adopters of the _panch_ (five) theory to read
that punch was at one time {102} called “pale-punts,” why or wherefore
deponent sayeth not; here is the extract from a work published A.D.
1691:—

“Pale-punts, here vulgarly known by the name of Punch; a drink
compounded of brandy or _aqua vitæ_, juice of lemons, oranges, sugar,
or such like; very usual amongst those that frequent the sea, where a
bowl of punch is an usual beverage.”

But it was “usual” only in the days of sailing-ships and long voyages;
and with fast steamers and whole evenings devoted to the beauties
of poker, or selling pools, a more usual modern maritime drink is a
modicum of whisky diluted with aërated water.

“The liquor called Punch,” writes another professional authority, “has
become so truly English, it is often supposed to be indigenous to this
country, though its name at least is Oriental. The Persian _punj_, or
Sanscrit _pancha_, i.e. five (vide _Fryer’s Travels_), is the etymon
of its title, and denotes the number of ingredients of which it is
composed. Addison’s ‘fox-hunter,’ who testified so much surprise when
he found that of the materials of which this ‘truly English’ beverage
was made only the water belonged to England, would have been still more
astonished had his informant also told him that it derived even its
name from the East.”

But did natives of the East drink it? Tell me that.

“Various opinions are entertained respecting this compound drink. Some
authors praise it as a cooling and refreshing beverage, when drunk
{103} in moderation; others condemn the use of it as prejudicial
to the brain and nervous system. Dr. Cheyne, a celebrated Scotch
physician, author of an essay on ‘Long Life and Health,’ and who by a
system of diet and regimen reduced himself from the enormous weight of
thirty-two stone to nearly one-third, which enabled him to live to the
age of seventy-two, insists that there is but one wholesome ingredient
in it, and that is the water. Dr. Willich, on the contrary, asserts
that if a proper quantity of acid be used in making punch, it is an
excellent antiseptic, and well calculated to supply the place of wine
in resisting putrefaction, especially if drank cold with plenty of
sugar; it also promotes perspiration; but if drank hot and immoderately
it creates acidity in the stomach, weakens the nerves, and gives rise
to complaints of the breast. He further states that after a heavy meal
it is improper, as it may check digestion, and injure the stomach.

“Rennie states that he once heard a facetious physician at a public
hospital prescribe for a poor fellow sinking under the atrophy of
starvation a bowl of punch. Mr. Wadd gives us a prescription:—

“ ‘Rum, aqua dulci miscetur acetum, et fiet ex tali fœdere nobile
Punch.’

“He also states that toddy, or punch without acid, when made for a day
or two before it is used, is a good and cheap substitute for wine as a
tonic, in convalescence from typhus fever, etc.”

It is here worthy of note that what is meant by “punch” in Ireland is,
and has been for at least two centuries, whisky, sugar, lemon, and
{104} the less water the better. A very old way of concocting it is to
melt the sugar within the tumbler (which should be covered, _pro tem._)
with the smallest quantity of water sufficient for the purpose, the
thin lemon-rind having been previously added. Then comes the whisky;
“and,” according to the old formula, “the laste dhrop o’ wather” added
atop of the “crathur” will spoil the punch. But in all English works in
which punch has been mentioned—previous to the early seventies, at all
events—by the active ingredients of punch should be understood either
rum, brandy, or gin.

“_English Punch_,”

says a writer of our own time, “is, as regards the spirit, mostly of
two kinds—brandy and rum, mixed in proportions which must be left
to taste. The rum generally predominates. The acid is nearly always
lemon juice. The spice is nearly always lemon-peel, but sometimes
tea-leaf”—now marry come up!—“sometimes nutmeg; and as for the sugar
and the water they explain themselves.”

The Scotch make toddy in very much the same way as the Irish concoct
their punch. But

_Glasgow Punch_,

according to John Gibson Lockhart, was compounded with the coldest
spring-water—a commodity which would seem to be growing somewhat scarce
in Caledonia—for the purpose of punch-making, at all events. {105}

 The sugar being melted with a little cold water, the artist squeezed
 about a dozen lemons through a wooden strainer, and then poured in
 water enough almost to fill the bowl. In this state the liquor goes by
 the name of sherbet, and a few of the connoisseurs in his immediate
 neighbourhood were requested to give their opinion of it—for in the
 mixing of the sherbet lies, according to the Glasgow creed at least,
 one half of the whole battle. This being approved by an audible smack
 from the lips of the umpires, the rum was added to the beverage, I
 suppose in something about the proportion of one to seven⸺.

Hech sirs! Or, does it mean seven of rum to one of the spring?

 Last of all the maker cut a few limes, and running each section
 rapidly round the rim of his bowl, squeezed in enough of this more
 delicate acid to flavour the whole composition. In this consists the
 true _tour-de-maître_ of the punch-maker.

_Oxford Punch_

or

_Classical Sherbet_

is a very ancient beverage, and from the sustaining powers of the
calves’-foot jelly (under what heading, amongst punch ingredients, does
this come, by the way?) inserted therein might fairly pose as meat and
drink.

 Extract the juice from the rind of three lemons, by rubbing loaf-sugar
 on them. The peeling of two Seville oranges and two lemons, cut
 extremely {106} thin. The juice of four Seville oranges and ten
 lemons. Six glasses of calves’-feet jelly in a liquid state. The above
 to be put into a jug and stirred well together. Pour two quarts of
 boiling water on the mixture, cover the jug closely, and place it near
 the fire for a quarter of an hour. Then strain the liquid through a
 sieve into a punch bowl or jug, sweeten it with a bottle of capillaire
 (the recipe for this follows), and add half a pint of white wine, a
 pint of French brandy, a pint of Jamaica rum, and a bottle of orange
 shrub; the mixture to be stirred as the spirits are poured in. If not
 sufficiently sweet, add loaf-sugar, or a little more capillaire. To be
 served either hot or cold.

In making the punch limes are sometimes used instead of lemons, but are
not so wholesome; in fact Arbuthnot, in his work on aliments, says:
“The West India dry gripes are occasioned by lime-juice in punch.” And
nobody wants them.

Ignorant servants sometimes put oxalic acid into punch, to give it a
flavour; but unless the throats of the drinkers be lined with brass,
this acid is of no real service. And the host who would entrust the
making of any sort of punch to a subordinate, must be either very
ignorant, or very careless of the comfort of his guests—and possibly
both. Cups, punches, and salads should always be concocted by somebody
who will make personal trial of their merits.

To make

_Capillaire_,

 put two ounces of freshly-gathered maidenhair fern into a jug, with
 sufficient boiling water to cover it. {107} Let it stand in front of
 the fire to infuse for some hours; then strain and put it into a clear
 syrup made by boiling together three pounds of sugar and three pints
 of water; add two tablespoonfuls of orange-flower water, and stir the
 mixture over the fire for a few minutes. Strain through a jelly-bag,
 and bottle when cold.

A more potent punch can be made from the same recipe as the Oxford
Punch, by leaving out the calves’-feet jelly, and substituting green
tea for water. And this sort is invariably drunk hot. Mix three
wine-glasses of noyeau with the original recipe and it is entitled to
the name of

_Noyeau Punch_.

Omit the rum, brandy, and shrub, and substitute two bottles of gin, and
it becomes

_Gin Punch_.

If I could only afford to keep a secretary, a clever stenographer
and type-writer, I might be able to supply the world with gratuitous
recipes for cooling cups, dainty drinks, and peerless punches, and
earn, maybe, the thanks of both Houses of Parliament, and a granite
bust on the Thames Embankment or in Shaftesbury Avenue. It is entirely
due to lack of funds that I am issuing books on the subject of meat and
drink; and I will now proceed to enlighten the thousands of alleged
_bons-vivants_, who ask questions as to the concoction of

_Milk Punch_.

There are many recipes for this seductive drink, each one better than
its predecessor. {108}

 1. Warm two quarts or water and one of new milk, then mix them well
 together, and sweeten with a sufficient quantity of loaf-sugar. Rub a
 few lumps of sugar on the peel of a lemon, put them into a jug with
 the above, and half a pint of lemon juice, stirring the mixture well
 as it is poured in. Then add one quart of old brandy. Strain and
 bottle off, and in cold weather it will keep a fortnight.

 2. Dissolve two pounds and a half of sugar in one gallon of cold
 spring-water; add thereto a quarter of a pint of orange-flower water,
 with the juice of twenty limes and eight oranges. Stir well together;
 pour one quart of boiling milk into it, and then add three bottles of
 old brandy, and a like quantity of orange brandy shrub. Strain and
 bottle off.

 3. Cut the peeling of six Seville oranges and six lemons very thin.
 Pound in a stone mortar. Add one pint of brandy and let the mixture
 stand six hours, covered. Then squeeze in the juice of six Seville
 oranges and eight lemons. Stir well, and add three more pints of
 brandy, three pints of rum, and three quarts of water. Make two
 quarts of milk boiling hot, and grate a nutmeg into it; mix this
 gradually with the other ingredients, and add a sufficient quantity
 of loaf-sugar to sweeten it—about two pounds. Stir till the sugar is
 dissolved; let the mixture stand twelve hours, then strain through
 a jelly-bag until quite clear. Bottle off, and it will keep in any
 climate for any length of time.

 4. Three bottles of rum.
    One bottle of sherry.
    Three pounds of loaf-sugar.
    The rind of six lemons and the juice of twelve.
    One quart of boiling skim milk.

 Mix together, and let the mixture stand eight days, {109} stirring
 it each day. Strain and bottle, and let it stand three months. Then
 re-bottle, and let the bottles lie on their sides in the cellar for
 two years, to mature. The flavour will be much better than if drunk
 after the first period of three months.

 5. For a solitary drink.

 Put into a small tumbler a teaspoonful of sugar, half a wine-glassful
 of old brandy, half a wine-glassful of old rum, and fill up with
 boiling milk.

 6. Put into a bottle of rum or brandy the thinly-pared rinds of three
 Seville oranges, and three lemons. Cork tightly for two days. Rub off
 on two pounds loaf-sugar the rinds of six lemons, squeeze the juice of
 the fruit over the two pounds sugar, add one quart of boiling water,
 and one of boiling milk. Mix well till the sugar is dissolved, and
 grate a little nutmeg over the mixture. Pour in the rum or brandy,
 stir, and strain till clear: bottle off.

 7. Cut off the thin yellow rind of four lemons and one Seville orange,
 taking care not to include even a fragment of the _white_ rind, and
 place in a basin. Pour in a bottle of old rum, and let it stand,
 covered over, for twelve hours. Then strain, and mix with it one pint
 of lemon juice, and two pints of cold water, in which one pound of
 sugar-candy has been dissolved; add the whites of two eggs, beaten to
 a froth, three pints more of rum, one pint of madeira, one pint of
 strong green tea, and a wine-glassful of maraschino. Mix thoroughly,
 and pour over all one pint of boiling milk. Let the punch stand a
 little while, then strain through a jelly-bag, and either use at once
 (as you will naturally feel inclined) or bottle off for festivals.

It is assumed, by the compiler of this little volume, that the _best_
materials only will be used by the concocters of these compound drinks.
{110}

 8, and last. The best recipe for milk punch extant. Over the yellow
 rinds of four lemons and one Seville orange pour one pint of rum. Let
 it stand, covered over, for twelve hours. Strain and mix in two pints
 more of rum, one pint of brandy, one pint of sherry, half a pint of
 lemon juice, the expressed juice of a peeled pine-apple, one pint of
 green tea, one pound of sugar dissolved in one quart of boiling water,
 the whites of two eggs beaten up, one quart of boiling milk. Mix well,
 let it cool, strain through a jelly-bag, and drink, or bottle off.

_Restorative Punch._

[This is another Oxford recipe, and used to be the favourite potion of
the embryo Gladstones and Roseberies, before proceeding to discuss the
affairs of the nation at the “Union.” There is “no offence in’t.”]

 Extract the juice from the peeling of one Seville orange and one
 lemon; the juice of six Seville oranges and six lemons, six glasses
 of calves’-feet jelly in a liquid state, and about half a pound of
 loaf-sugar; put the whole into a jug, pour on it one quart of boiling
 water, and then add one pint of old brandy. Stir well together, and
 use.

_Almond Punch._

 Extract the juice from the peeling of one Seville orange and one
 lemon by rubbing loaf-sugar on them; the juice of six lemons and one
 Seville orange, one bottle of capillaire, and a quarter of a pound of
 loaf-sugar. Put the whole into a jug, and when well mixed pour upon
 it three pints of boiling {111} water. Cover the jug close, and keep
 it near the fire for a quarter of an hour. Then add three ounces of
 sweet, and half an ounce of bitter, almonds, blanched and pounded fine
 in a mortar, and gradually mixed with a bottle of old brandy. Stir
 well, and it may be used immediately.

_Egg Punch._

[Also once a favourite beverage at the universities.]

 One quart of cold water, the juice of six lemons and six oranges, four
 glasses of calves’-feet jelly in a liquid state; stir the whole well
 together; let it remain covered over for half an hour, then strain
 through a hair sieve, and add one bottle of capillaire, two glasses
 of sherry, half a pint of brandy, and one bottle of orange shrub. Put
 some pulverized sugar and ten fresh hens’ eggs into a bowl, beat them
 well together, and gradually unite the two mixtures by keeping the
 eggs well stirred as it is poured in; then whip it with a whisk until
 a fine froth rises, and if sweet enough it is fit for immediate use.

 This punch should be drunk as soon as made, for it will not keep sweet.

 Omit the wine and spirits, and freeze the remainder, and a delicious
 mould of ice may be obtained.

The above can be converted into

_Shrub Punch_,

of a superior quality, by the simple omission of the eggs.

Details are wanting as to the composition of the {112}

_Rack Punch_

of which Jos. Sedley partook so freely at Vauxhall, and which put a
temporary stop to the carryings-on of the fascinating Miss Sharp with
the susceptible Anglo-Indian. Thackeray does not tell us if this was
an abbreviation of Arrack Punch. My own idea is that brandy and rum—of
inferior quality—entered into it; although, as mentioned in a previous
chapter, “rack” is the “Cheshyre Cheese” synonym for gin. But I should
be inclined to back arrack. At all events this is one of the component
parts of a

_Vauxhall Punch_

of which the recipe is in my possession.

 A large tumbler, one wine-glass of old brandy, one ditto of old rum,
 one ditto of arrack, the juice of half a lemon, and a tablespoonful
 of sugar. Mix, strain into two small tumblers, and fill up each with
 boiling water.

_Uncle Toby._

Here is another encouragement to the bile industry:—

 Rub the rind of one lemon on two lumps of sugar, put the sugar in
 a large tumbler with the juice of the lemon, and dissolve in one
 wine-glass of boiling water; then add one wine-glass of brandy, one
 ditto of rum, and two dittoes of hot stout; mix well, strain, and add
 more sugar if necessary. {113}

_Victoria Punch._

 Throw into a bowl one lemon cut in slices, free from pips, two ounces
 of sifted sugar, two wine-glasses of boiling water, one wine-glass of
 hot milk, one wine-glass of old rum, and one ditto of ancient brandy;
 keep stirring whilst adding the ingredients; strain and serve.

_Yorkshire Punch._

I have not yet met this in the North Riding; but it is never too late
to copy a good recipe.

 Rub the rinds of three lemons on a quarter of a pound of lump-sugar,
 and place the sugar in a bowl with the thin rind of one lemon and
 of one orange, the juice of four oranges and of ten lemons, six
 wine-glasses of calves’-feet jelly, and two quarts of boiling water.
 Mix thoroughly, strain, and add a pint of rum, a pint of brandy, and a
 bottle of orange shrub. Sweeten to taste.

_Champagne Punch._

 Pare two lemons very thin, and steep the peel in one pint of rum.
 Add a wine-glass of sherry, half a pint of brandy, the juice of
 four lemons, a little capillaire, as much boiling water as you may
 fancy—play light with the kettle, lads—sweeten to taste, and last
 thing of all pour in a bottle of champagne.

The above will act as a restorative after a hard day’s hunting. Later
in the evening the true sportsman may feel ready and willing to tackle
a glass or two of the celebrated {114}

_Halo Punch_,

whose praises continue to be sung throughout the land.

 With a quarter of a pound of sugar rub off the outer rind of one lemon
 and two Seville oranges. Put rind and sugar into a large punch bowl
 with the juice and pulp; mix the sugar well with the juice and one
 teacupful of boiling water (just enough to melt it) and stir till cold.

 Add half a pint of pine-apple syrup, one pint of strong green tea, a
 wine-glass of maraschino, a liqueur-glass of noyeau, half a pint of
 “Liquid Sunshine” rum, one pint of old brandy, and a bottle and a half
 of “the Boy.” Sweeten to taste, strain, and serve.

Do not, oh! do not boil the above before serving, as did some Cleveland
friends of mine, on the night of a certain Ebor Handicap. The result of
this was a considerable amount of chaos.

The above was the favourite tipple of the Prince Regent at the
beginning of the present century.

{115}

CHAPTER XI

STRANGE SWALLOWS

 “Wormwood!” — The little green fairy — All right when you know it,
 but⸺ — The hour of absinthe — Awful effects — Marie Corelli — St. John
 the Divine — Arrack and bhang not to be encouraged — Plain water — The
 original intoxicant — Sacred beverage of the mild Hindu — Chi Chi —
 Kafta, an Arabian delight — Friends as whisky agents — Effervescent
 Glenlivet — The peat-reek — American bar-keeper and his best customer
 — “Like swallerin’ a circ’lar saw and pullin’ it up again” —
 Castor-oil anecdote — “Haste to the wedding!”

We will now proceed to consider certain weird potations, some of
which I have personally tested, others of which not all the wealth of
Golconda, Peru, and Throgmorton Street would induce me to sample of my
own accord, and all of which bring more or less trouble in their wake.

Gall and wormwood have been closely allied from time immemorial;
and it is in accordance with the eternal fitness of things that the
consumption of

_Absinthe_

should be almost entirely confined to France. And what is absinthe?
Merely alcohol, in {116} which have been macerated for a week or
so the pounded leaves and flowering tops of wormwood, together with
angelica root, sweet-flag root, star-anise, and other aromatics. The
liquor is then distilled, and the result is the decoctions sacred to
the “little green fairy,” who has accomplished even more manslaughter
than the Mahdi, the Khalifa, and the Peculiar People, put together. Of
all the liqueurs absinthe is the most pernicious; and with many other
sins it occupies some time in taking possession of its victim. Like Mr.
Chevalier’s hero, you “have to know it fust,” and after that the rest
is easy. Like golf, “scorching,” and gambling, once you “get” absinthe,
it gets you, and never leaves you whilst you last; and there is a
weird, almost tragic, look about the milky liquid, when diluted with
water, as to suggest smoke, and brimstone, and flames, with a demon
rising from their midst. But it is only “the little green fairy”; who
is, however, as deadly and determined as any demon.

The best absinthe is made in the canton of Neuchâtel, Switzerland, and
is not made entirely from Wormwood proper, but from a mixture of plants
related to it—such as Southernwood (“Old Man”), and another which takes
its name from the invulnerable Achilles. But the merry Swiss boy knows
a trick worth two of drinking absinthe; so the French get the most of
it, whilst some goes to America, and some to the foreign quarters of
our great metropolis. The French soldiers learnt to appreciate it, from
drinking it as a febrifuge, during the Algerian campaign, 1832–47,
and it afterwards became, {117} gradually, a popular drink on the
boulevards, where the five o’clock gossip-hour at the _cafés_ came to
be known as “the hour of absinthe.” Its use is now forbidden in the
French army and navy, and no wonder. The evil effects of drinking it
are very apparent: utter derangement of the digestive system, weakened
frame, limp muscles, pappy brain, jumpy heart, horrible dreams and
hallucinations, with paralysis or idiocy to bring down the curtain.

In that seductive, though gruesome book, _Wormwood_, Marie Corelli
gives a most graphic picture of an _absintheur_, once a gay young
banker, who, through trouble of no ordinary kind, gradually came under
the spell of the “green fairy.” I forget how many murders he committed;
but his awful experiences and hallucinations will never leave anybody
who has read the book. He is haunted for some days by a leopard who
accompanies him on his walks abroad, and who lies down at the foot of
his bed at night-time—the “jim-jams,” in fact, in their worst form.

“There are two terrible verses,” says a writer on the subject, “in the
Revelations of St. John.

 “And the third angel sounded his trumpet, and there fell a great
 star from the heavens, burning like a lamp, and it fell upon a third
 part of the rivers and upon the fountains of waters. And the name of
 the star is called Wormwood; and the third part of the waters became
 Wormwood, and many men died of the waters because they were made
 bitter.”

Which seems a very appropriate quotation; {118} yet will men drink of
the waters, for although absinthe makes the heart grow blacker, and the
pulse more feeble, men—and, occasionally women—will continue, as long
as there is a world, to do the thing they ought not to do. With which
moralising let us pass to the next objectionable drink,

_Arrack._

This is an East Indian name, derived from the Arabic, for all sorts of
distilled spirits, but chiefly for the “toddy,” or palm-liquor obtained
from the cocoa-palm, as also from rice, and the coarse brown sugar
known to the natives as “jaggery.” “Toddy,” when fresh, is a delicious
drink, and bears no sort of relationship to whisky-toddy. An almost
nude male swarms up a cocoa-palm—assisted by a rope which encircles his
ankles and the trunk of the tree—early in the morning, and fetches down
the vessel which has been fastened up atop, overnight, to catch the sap
which has dripped from the incisions made in the tree. That sap, in its
raw state, is delicious—especially with a dash of rum in it, but it
ferments rapidly, and usually turns sour in three or four days. Then
the natives distil, and make “arrack” of it—a liquor which is sold in
the bazaars and drunk on the occasion of a _burra din_, or festival.
Nor is its use confined to natives. The British soldier drinks it,
_faute de mieux_; and occasionally the British officer.

Poor B⸺, who was in my old regiment, had fuddled himself into such a
state of stupidity, that all liquor was forbidden him by the doctor’s
{119} orders. I, who shared his bungalow, took particular care
that these orders were carried out, and threatened his _bearer_ and
_khitmugar_ with fearful penalties should they convey any surreptitious
alcohol to the _sahib_. Still he managed to get it; and it took me a
week to find out _how_. His _syce_ (groom) used to smuggle arrack from
the bazaar, and hide it under the horse’s bedding in the stable; and
whenever I was away from the house, poor B⸺ used to creep over to the
stable, and “soak” there!

An imitation arrack may be made by dissolving 10 grains of benzoic acid
in a pint of rum; but arrack is just the sort of fluid which ought not
to be imitated. Give me the honest, manly, simple, beautiful Bass!

_Bhang_,

another dreadful East Indian drink, and a deadly intoxicant, is
distilled from hemp; and if it had only been round the neck of the
inventor before he invented it, society would have benefited.

_Saké_,

the favourite beverage of the Japs, who got it from the Chinese,
and improved upon it, is not a desirable swallow. It is a rapid
intoxicant, but the over-estimator rapidly recovers the perpendicular.
_Saké_ was handed round as a liqueur, at the much-advertised banquet
of the “Thirteen Club”; but it is said that the liqueur was in no
subsequent request. Not even one of those {120} daring and adventurous
mirror-smashers and salt-spillers express the desire to take-on _saké_
“in a moog.”

_Vodka_

is the “livener” of the Russian peasantry, and is distilled from—what?

_Plain Water_,

whether fortunately or otherwise, comes under the heading of “Strange
Swallows.” It is still consumed in prisons, and other places where
sinners and paupers are dieted at the expense of the ratepayer. And
hard as are the ways of the transgressor, his daily “quencher” is even
harder. “Plain water,” wrote a celebrated Mongolian of his day, “has
a malignant influence, and ought on no account to be drunk.” More
especially if it be Thames water. I once saw a drop of this, very
much magnified, displayed on a stretched cloth, in a side-show at the
Crystal Palace. In that drop of water I counted three boa-constrictors,
a few horrors which resembled giant lobsters, and a pair of turtles
engaged, apparently, in a duel to the death. Three ladies in the front
row of the stalls, at that exhibition, were carried out, swooning.

Whether cold water ought to be drunk, or not, I am bound, as a
tolerably truthful chronicler, to remark that very few folk who can
obtain any other sort of tipple do drink it.

It has been claimed by the Brahmins that {121}

_The Original Intoxicant_

was evolved from the climbing bindweed of Hindustan, one of the
convolvulus family. From this was made a liquor called _Soma_, which
is still the sacred beverage of the Hindus. It is the Persian _Haoma_,
and, I should imagine, “absolutely beastly” to the Christian taste.
Everybody knows the Christian bindweed—the stuff you get in your garden
when you set potatoes, or early peas.

Pulque, which is the sap of the aloe, is the favourite drink of
the Mexicans. In Kamtchatka the natives drink (or used to drink)
birch-wine, which has been already described in these pages. The
Russians, also, are very fond of birch-wine; and their’s effervesces,
like champagne.

In Patagonia they drink

_Chi Chi_,

a cider made from wild apples. Pits are dug, and lined with the hides
of horses, to prevent any liquor escaping, the apples are thrown in,
and left to decay, and ferment, “on their own.” The Patagonians have
an annual “big drink” of this dreadful mess, besides many smaller
boosing-bouts. And upon these occasions the Patagonian ladies are in
the habit of hiding all the knives and lethal weapons they can find,
and retiring, with their children, into the woods, until their lords
and masters and other relatives have drunk themselves mad, and then
slept themselves sober again. {122}

In the Caucasus district there be strange drinks made from mares’ milk,
sparkling—such as _Koumiss_, or otherwise. But these beverages do not
have a large sale in other districts.

_Kafta_,

which hardly comes under the heading of “swallows,” is in much request
amongst the Arabs, especially in the neighbourhood of Yemen. These
people boil the leaves and stems of the _kat_—a shrub about ten feet
high, which is planted in the same ground as the coffee—and chew them.
All visitors are presented with twigs of this _kat_ plant to chew; and
the drawing-room carpet suffers terribly.

“Very pleasant sensations” are, it is said, caused by this custom,
and the effect is so invigorating that the Arab soldier who goes in
steadily for _Kafta_ can do “sentry go” all night without feeling
in the least drowsy. Whether the soldiers of the Khalifa did much
chewing on the night before the battle of Omdurman deponent sayeth
not. Frequently the _kat_ leaves are boiled in milk sweetened with
honey, and the result is the same. The infusion is intoxicating, but
the effect is not of long endurance; and at a synod of the most learned
Mahomedans it was pronounced lawful for the faithful to chew, or drink
_Kafta_, “as, whilst it did not impair the health nor hinder the
observance of religious duties, it increased hilarity and good humour.”
Sly rogues, these followers of the Prophet!

If a man wants to retain his old friends and {123} to make fresh
ones let not that man take to selling wines or spirits on commission.
Some years ago I gave an old schoolfellow an order for a case of
Scotch whisky, which he declared upon oath to be absolutely the best
procurable. Home came the whisky, and the first cork was drawn. Pop!
The stuff was literally effervescent, like champagne, or Russian
birch-wine. “My dear,” I observed to the partner of my joys and cares,
“we had better not drink much of this.”

At the next Sandown Park race-meeting I met the whisky agent, who, I
forgot to mention before, was a bit of a stammerer.

“And wh-wh-wh-what,” he asked, “d’you think of that wh-wh-wh-wh-whisky?”

Stammering is occasionally to be caught.

“I think,” was my reply, “it’s the d-d-d-dashedest m-m-m-muck I ever
t-t-t-t-tasted.”

“Wh-wh-what’s the m-m-m-matter with it?”

“It f-f-f-fizzes like g-g-g-ginger p-p-p-pop.”

“My d-d-dear sir,” he protested, “that is no dr-dr-drawback. That’s the
p-p-p-peat-r-r-reek.”

Peat-reek or no, that whisky was not used for household purposes-not
even for the Christmas pudding; but was kept for the special benefit
of such police-constables, Inland Revenue officers, process-servers,
tax-gatherers, book agents, and retailers of certain winners, as might
call around, with a thirst in them.

Strange whisky reminds me of the American story of the proprietor of
a spirit-store in Arizona, who found the ordinary brand of “Rye” was
not sufficiently attractive to his customers. So he fitted together a
blend of his own, consisting of {124} essence of ginger, capsicums,
croton oil, snuff, carbolic acid, pain-killer, turpentine, and a little
very young and very potent spirit distilled from old junk. He placed a
bottle of this on the counter, and the first customer who came along
helped himself to a tumblerful, and, taking it “straight,” swallowed it
at a gulp.

As soon as he had got his second wind, he gasped out: “That’s the best
doggoned whisky I’ve sampled in this yer camp. Sonny, guess you’ve
fixed me up to rights. It’s like swallerin’ a circ’lar saw and pullin’
it up again. So long.”

And with the tears pouring down his cheeks, and holding on to
his diaphragm with both hands, he staggered into the open. The
saloon-keeper watched him from the doorway, until he had passed the
second block, and rounded the corner; and returned to his counter and
his bottles, with the pious exclamation: “The Lord be praised.! He
hasn’t died in our parish!”

No chapter on strange drinks would be complete without the following
story, which, I confess at the outset, is one of the most venerable of
“chestnuts.” It appeared in the _Sporting Times_ four-and-twenty years
ago, and I will not affirm that it was strictly original even then. It
has since been translated into every known language; but it is just
possible that some of the rising generation may not have heard it.

A well-dressed gentleman entered a chemist’s shop one morning,
evidently in a violent hurry.

“Can you make me up a dose of castor-oil?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the dispenser, with a bow. {125}

Whilst he was going through the usual motions—no prescription can be
properly made up until the chemist has overhauled every bottle on
the top shelf, opened most of the empty drawers, and upset a tray of
tooth-brushes—the customer was fidgeting about the shop, and fanning
himself with a scented pocket-handkerchief.

“It’s infernally hot,” he said presently, “and I don’t think I ever
felt so thirsty in my life. Can I have a bottle of lemonade?”

“Certainly, sir.”

More sorting of bottles. Presently “pop” goes a cork, and the sparkling
lemonade is poured into a mammoth tumbler. The customer drains it at
once.

“Ah-h-h!” he crowed, wiping his mouth. “I feel a bit better now.”

A pause. Presently he asked:—

“Have you made that up yet?”

“What, sir?” asked the chemist.

“Why that stuff—the castor-oil I ordered.”

“You’ve had it, sir.”

“Had it? Wotty mean?”

“I gave it you in the lemonade, sir.”

“Great Scotland Yard!” exclaimed the customer. “I didn’t want it for
myself—I’m going to be married in half an hour!”

{126}

CHAPTER XII

“THE BOY”

 Definition of the youth — The valley of the Marne — An Archbishop
 in sparkling company — All is not cham. that fizzes — Beneficial
 effects of Pommery — Dire memories of the Haymarket — The bad boy at
 York — A hair of the canine — The good boy — Gout defied — Old Roman
 cellars — A chronic bombardment — Magnums to right of ’em — Duties
 of the disgorger — Simon the cellarer — Fifteen millions of full
 bottles — Pro-dig-i-ous! — Gooseberry champagne a myth — About Médoc
 — The ancients spelt claret with two “r’s” — Hints on adulteration —
 “Château Gubbins” — New wine — Gladstone claret — “Pricked!”

 “See how it sparkles, this drink divine,”

sings Giroflé, in Lecocq’s opera; and although the sparkling liquor
therein is described in the text as “punch”—which does _not_ sparkle
much as a rule—I have no doubt whatever that what Lecocq, or his
librettist meant, was the grateful liquid which is described in
different circles of society as “fiz,” “Simpkin” (the nearest approach
a Mahomedan table-servant can make to “champagne”), “a bottle,” “golden
pop,” and “the Boy.”

Here let me interpolate the commonly-received {127} interpretation
of the last-named title. At a shooting party, a stout urchin of some
fifteen summers was specially told off to carry the liquid refreshment
for the shooters, which took the form of Perrier Jouët in magnums. And
so frequent were the calls of “Boy!” that morning, that the youth threw
up his situation before noon.

D’you believe it? Not a word of it? Same here. At least I never
attended a “shoot” at which the gunners steadied their nerves by the
aid of choice vintages—before luncheon, at all events; and I don’t mean
to begin now. Champagne was probably called “the Boy” because of its
free, happy, joyous, loose-and-careless characteristics. The sparkle
represents youth, and the froth irresponsibility; whilst the whole⸺ but
never mind about the whole, just now.

The Champagne district, as some people know, lies on the chalk hills
which surround the valley of the Marne. The townlets of Epernay, Ay,
and Château Thierry owe their prosperity to these seductive wines,
and Rheims has attained world-wide celebrity, as much from being the
centre of the champagne industry as from being the seat of the premier
ecclesiastic of France, the Archbishop of Paris. So far, guide-book.

The champagne-vines are short and stunted, the grapes being small,
but most prolific of juice. A third, and even a fourth, crushing will
yield a very delicious wine, to an uneducated palate; and this is the
inferior liquor which is sold to tourists in Rheims at the equivalent
of one shilling and fivepence per large bottle. It is a sweet—what
{128} connoisseurs call a “lady’s” wine, which an expert would not
taste a second time; and its aftermath, its effect on the imbiber the
following day, is somewhat distressing. Somehow, notwithstanding the
import duties, champagne—I am alluding now to the superior brands—is
almost as cheap in London as in the best hotels in Rheims; but the
experiment of drinking it in the land of its birth is not as risky
as on alien shores. At least so say the natives of the district, who
maintain that although work in the cellars is not the pleasantest in
the world—the strong smell, which is even intoxicating, giving the
workmen a distaste for the sparkling wine—it is quite possible for an
outsider to drink a quantity of champagne of undoubted quality without
feeling any bad after-effects.

“You may, in fact,” it was told me on the spot, “drink four bottles of
Pommery ’84, and feel all the better for it next day.”

Possibly; but how about the inferior stuff which we used to sample,
occasionally, in our salad days, when our green judgment led us to pass
our early mornings in riotous junketings in the now staid and peaceful
region of the Haymarket, S.W.? Much later than those days I have
sampled alleged champagne—“extra _sec_,” it was called, though “extra
sick” would have been more appropriate—on a race-course, in order to
fitly celebrate some famous victory. But in my riper years, the victory
(when it occurs) is honoured in more staid and seemly fashion. I was
never nearer death by poison than one Friday morning in the ancient
city of York, {129} after indulging somewhat freely in the “sparkling”
proffered me on the previous day in a booth on Knavesmire. Do what I
would—and I walked ten miles, went for a scull on the river Ouse, and
then swallowed hot mustard-and-water—the distressing sensations, the
great wave of depression which seemed to have swamped the heart, would
not quit the body, until—and the idea came as a bolt from the blue—I
had summoned up sufficient strength of mind to enter the coffee-room of
the principal hotel, and demand a pint of Pommery. It was _not_ a hair
of the dog which had bitten me; the mangy brute from the attention of
whose fangs I was suffering was no sort of relation to the highly-bred
terrier who rooted out the anguish from my soul. And that small pint
was so successful that another went the same way. And by that time I
had been inspired with nerve enough to face a charging tiger, unarmed.

Many learned people, including one section of the medical profession,
incline to the belief that consumption of champagne offers direct
encouragement to gout. But there is no such idea amongst those employed
in the cellars of Moet et Chandon, Geisler, Mum, Pommery, and other
large firms. Not that these workmen are allowed to drink as much of
their own foaming productions as they have a mind to. As a matter of
fact the wine supplied to the _ouvriers_ is the thin red stuff of the
district, resembling inferior Burgundy, and not of a very elevating
nature. It is not particularly attractive, this life of labour, for
nine or ten hours a day, in a damp, cold {130} cellar some fifty yards
below the level of the street pavements, with occasionally bottles
bursting to right and left of you. These cellars are cut out of the
calcareous rock, and were, many of them, inherited from the Romans;
and champagne is such a sensitive, exacting sort of wine that it must
be stored in the very bowels of the earth, where all is peace and
quietude, and where neither motion nor vibration can reach the maturing
vintages.

At least that is what they tell visitors; although the only time I have
visited champagne cellars could hardly be called a peaceful experience,
owing to the almost continuous bombardment of bursting bottles. And
it is said that as a rule at least 10 per cent of the stored wine is
wasted in this way; whilst in seasons of early and unusual heat the
percentage may rise to as much as 20, and even 25.

Sparkling champagne—and we are not concerned with the still wine—is the
result of a peculiar treatment during fermentation. During the winter
months the wine is racked-off, and fined with isinglass; and in the
early spring it is bottled and tightly corked. In order to collect the
sediment in the necks of the bottles these are placed at first in a
sloping condition, with the corks downward, for a term. In the second
year this sediment requires to be disgorged, or _dégagé_-ed. This feat
can only be learnt by long practice, and even then there be workmen
who cannot be safely trusted to shift the sediment, without shifting a
too-large proportion of the wine itself. {131}

May I confess to the belief that I should never make a good, reliable,
valuable disgorger?

Of course there is art, or knack, in it. The _degager_ takes a
bottle, cuts the string of the cork, expels the sediment—occasionally
without spilling more than a drop or two—and passes the bottle to his
neighbour, who fills it up with a liqueur, composed of sugar-candy
dissolved in cognac, and flavoured, and with some bright, clarified
wine. The bottle is then recorked, by machinery, wired, labelled, and
sent about its business.

The fermentation being incomplete at the first bottling of the wine,
the carbonic acid gas generated in a confined space—this part comes
unadorned, out of a book—exerts pressure on itself, and it thus remains
as a liquid in the wine. When this pressure is removed it expands into
gas, and thus communicates the sparkling property to champagne. Hence
the bombardments.

How do I know all this? I once paid a visit to the cellars of Pommery
et C^{ie.}; and my dearest friend asked subsequently what sort of
writ of ejectment had to be drawn up to rid them of my presence
and thirst. But all joking apart the time was well spent, and the
industry is deserving of all the encouragement which it receives. The
head cellarman is, literally a host in himself, an old gentleman of
aristocratic mien, and portly—or, rather, champagne-ly—presence; and
one of the _formulae_ to be gone through before quitting the premises
is to drink a glass of the very best with that charming old gentleman,
who I hope still flourishes amid his bottles and his {132} disgorgers.
And when it is added that there are usually upwards of 15,000,000
bottles in the cellars at one time, the old heresy as to the district
being unable to supply sufficient wine save for Russian consumption is
at once exploded.

In fact some twenty-five millions of gallons of champagne are produced,
annually, in the district. Of course not all of it is of the finest
growth, and some of it a connoisseur would reject with scorn. In order
to smash another old fallacy it is, perhaps, hardly necessary to
add that champagne is _not_ made from gooseberries—at all events in
countries where grapes grow. And the reason for this is that gooseberry
juice is far scarcer, and therefore more expensive than grape juice.
Some few dozens may be made in England, but to make sufficient
gooseberry champagne to be profitable would require more berries than
are grown in the country. It would, in fact, require hundreds of tons
of the fruit to pay the manufacturer.

Lest my readers should be wearied of the subject of French wines, I
shall not particularize as to the burgundies, but confine myself to
the clarets of the country which are by far the more popular wines in
England—even when they are artificially manufactured, in Spain, and
elsewhere.

“The wines that be made in Bordeaux,” wrote Gervase Markham, in the
middle of the seventeenth century, “are called Gascoyne wines, and you
shall know them by their hazel hoopes, and the most be full gadge, and
sound wines.”

Evidently adulteration’s artful aid was but little employed in those
days. {133}

“See that in your choice of Gascoine wines,” continues Gervase, in his
minute direction to the overwrought “housewife,” “that your Clarret
wines be faire coloured, and bright as a Rubie, not deepe as an
Ametist; for though it may shew strength, yet it wants neatnesse. If
your Clarret wine be faint, and have lost his color, then take a fresh
hogshead with his fresh lees which was very good wine, and draw your
wine into the same, then stop it close and tight, and lay it a foretake
for two or three daies that the lees may run through it, then lay it up
till it be fine, and if the colour be not perfit, draw it into a red
wine hogshead . . . and if your Clarret wine have lost his colour, take
a pennyworth of Damsens⸺” ha! what is this?

“Or else blacke Bullesses, as you see cause, and stew them with some
red wine of the deepest colour, and make thereof a pound or more of
sirrup, and put it into a cleane glasse, and after into the hogshead of
Clarret wine; and the same you may likewise doe unto red wine if you
please.”

Ahem! Evidently they did know something about adulteration in the
seventeenth century.

It is a common idea that only a very few clarets are entitled to the
prefix “Château.” The truth is very different. The district on the
south bank of the Gironde simply teems with châteaux, of a kind. For
miles you cannot go a few hundred yards in any direction without
seeing or passing two or three; each with its vineyards and cellars
and special labels, and more or less unblemished reputation. There is
Château {134} Latour, and there is (or may be) the Château Smith. Did
I choose to buy a cottage in that district, grow my own grapes, and
make my own wines, I should be fully entitled to label them “Château
Gubbins,” and incur no penalty by so doing.

But please do not pick the ripe grapes, although you may be sorely
tempted by the sight of dozens of bunches separated from the vines
by their sheer weight, and lying in the furrows. Plenty of people do
commit this sort of theft, for there be hundreds of the rough element
who visit the Médoc country. The “Hooligans” and _gamins_ of Bordeaux
drift here at picking-time just as the poor of London drift into the
county of Kent during the hopping season. They are not loved, but
they have to be endured. Somebody must pick the grapes, and after
all a few depredations will not ruin the grower any more than do the
strawberry-pickers in the south of England “break” the growers, by
adopting their usual plan: “three in the mouth, one in the basket.”

The claret-cellars are not nearly as far beneath the earth as are
those in the region about Rheims. Nor are they as amusing. There is no
“pop, pop” down here, no danger of wounds and lacerations from flying
splinters of glass. The principal objects of interest are the cobwebs
which are piled up all over the place like dusky curtains. It is not
well to sample too many glasses which may be offered you of the wine
of the country. For the samples are taken from the new, immature wine,
and are suggestive of {135} pains and disturbances below the belt.
The head cellarman, portly and urbane like his brother of Rheims,
will watch your face closely as you taste his novelties, and will
invariably ask your opinion of it. But the wise visitor will not be
too opinionative on the subject. I have noticed that the man who says
the least is accounted the most knowing, whether he be inspecting the
contents of a cellar, or of a stable. And believe me, there is as much
rubbish talked about wine as about horses. Still, in sampling new
champagne you may praise indiscriminately, without being accounted an
absolute dunce; whilst with claret it is altogether different. The
wine varies exceedingly with the vintage; and none but an expert and
accomplished palate may dare to say what is good, what is bad, and what
is mediocre.

Is it necessary to state that claret was not drunk, on ordinary
occasions, by the Ancient Britons? I trow not. And I fancy the wines
of the noble old Romans partook more of the nature of burgundies
than clarets. In England the wines of Médoc have never been fully
appreciated until during the latter half of the present century, when
the taste for port began to die out, with the good port itself. And
as I writhe, occasionally, in the throes of gout, I bethink me of the
merciless law delivered unto Moses, which provides that the sins of the
fathers shall be visited upon their descendants, even unto the third
and fourth generation. For the good old three-and-four-bottle men of
eighty years ago, and farther back than that, certainly laid {136}
the foundations for much of the trouble at this end of the century.
Still there be doctors who actually recommend port wine as a gout-fuge.
And it is certainly safer to drink a little good port—matured in the
wood, and innocent of beeswing—an you be a podagric subject, than some
of the clarets which, thanks to the enterprise of the late Mr. W. E.
Gladstone, are within the reach of the slenderest purse.

Do not smoke whilst drinking claret, or port, either. Nothing destroys
the flavour of red wine so effectually as the flavour of a cigar.

One of the greatest “sells” ever experienced by an expectant party
of claret judges—of whom I posed as one—was after this fashion. Our
host had inherited a pipe of Château Lafitte ’64, which had been duly
bottled off. We had enjoyed a nice plain little dinner—a bit of crimped
cod, a steak, and a bird—in order the better to taste the luscious
wine. After dinner bottle number one made its appearance; and as they
sipped, and prepared to sing hymns of praise, the jaws of the guests
fell. And a great cry uprose: “Pricked !”

{137}

CHAPTER: XIII

THE OLD WINES AND THE NEW

 Decline and fall of port — Old topers — A youthful wine-bibber — The
 whisky age succeeds the port age — “Jeropiga” — Landladies’ port —
 A monopoly — Port _v._ gout — A quaint breakfast in Reading — About
 nightcaps — Sherry an absolutely pure wine — Except when made within
 the four miles’ radius — Treading the grapes — “Yeso” — Pliny pops up
 again — “Lime in the sack” — What the _Lancet_ says — “Old Sherry” —
 _Faux pas_ of a General — About vintages.

On the decline and fall of port wine volumes might be written. At
the same time I am not the man who is going to write them. According
to early recollections, the conversation of my elders was limited to
hunting, racing, and the wines of Oporto. The man who had “ ’20,” or
“Comet,” port in his cellars was a man to be cultivated, and dined
with; whilst “ ’34” and “ ’47” men were next in demand. And this was
after the era of the three-and-four-bottle heroes, of whose deeds I
have heard my father speak, almost with bated breath; how, after the
retirement of the ladies, to discuss tea and scandal by themselves,
the dining-room door would be locked by the host himself, who would
{138} pocket the key thereof. Many of the guests slept where they
fell, “repugnant to command,” like the sword of Pyrrhus, whilst others
would be fastened in the interior of their chariots at a later hour.
Even in the late fifties, the estimable divine with whom I was studying
the beauties of the classics, would on the frequent occasion of a
dinner-party provide one bottle of port per head, for his guests, in
addition to hock, champagne, and sherry; and the writer, then a boy of
fifteen, was included amongst the “heads.”

But as the stone age succeeded the ice age, as the iron age succeeded
the stone age, and as the gold age, and the railway age, and the
rotten company age succeeded the iron age, so have the whisky age, and
the “small bottle” age, and the gin-and-bitters age almost wiped out
the age when man drank, talked, and thought port. Our ancestors were
immoderate in their potations but, as far as wine went, these were
but rarely indulged in until after sundown, although the Briton would
frequently wash his breakfast down with ale of the strongest. And
it is difficult to believe that the evil habit of “nipping,” at all
hours of the day, which now prevails in some circles—a habit which is
mainly due to the break-neck pace at which life is pursued—is either
more conducive to health or intellectuality, or morality than the
after-dinner debauch of a century ago.

The “hot and heady” wine is (or, rather, was) produced chiefly in a
mountainous district of Portugal called Cima de Douro. The wine is
largely mixed with spirit even during {139} fermentation, the proper
colour being given by a mixture known as _jeropiga_, which is a
preparation of elder-berries, molasses, raisin juice, and spirit.

The wine which is made within the Metropolitan Police District, for
the special benefit of landladies, infirmaries, and she-choristers,
is also treated with a similar mixture, with the addition of a little
logwood-extract; but in fashionable quarters the mixture is not known
as _jeropiga_, a name which would probably affect the sale.

Port wine was known in England before the year 1700, but was not in
much demand. From the year mentioned till 1826 the export trade was a
monopoly in the hands of English merchants. The effect of this monopoly
was to increase the price in England, and to gradually deteriorate the
quality. Exports from Oporto have decreased in a marked way for the
last forty years or so; and although there is still some demand, and
some decent wine left, the “hot and heady” concoction whether dry or
fruity, a lady’s wine, or a military ditto, is gradually leaving us.

The pity of it! And simultaneously with its departure comes the
pronouncement of the medical profession that port (with the exception
of the “old crusted” brand) does _not_ encourage gout to abide within
the human frame. I may fairly claim to have been a “port man” all my
life, and never, when serving Her Majesty, overlooked my orthodox
allowance of the “black strap” purchased with the Prince Regent’s
allowance. Nevertheless I am not going to recommend this description of
wine as an ideal breakfast drink; although very early in {140} life I
once made trial of it at nine o’clock one morning.

This was in the good town of Reading, in company with a schoolmate or
two. We were on our way home for the holidays, and had been entrusted,
for the first part of the journey, to the care of the French master.
Him we had evaded for the time being—he was much interested in the
manufacture of sweet biscuits—and marching boldly into the best inn’s
best room, we demanded bread and cheese and a bottle of the most
expensive port on the wine-list. Schoolboy-like our fancy turned to
quaintness in the matter of meals; and I am bound to add that the state
of our health was not one whit improved by this weird breakfast. As for
the French master, no sooner had he run us to earth, than⸺ but that
part of the story is too painful to tell.

One of the oldest winter beverages known to civilization is

_Bishop_,

a composition of port wine and spices of which it has been written:—

 Three cups of this a prudent man may take;
 The first of these for constitution’s sake,
 The second to the girl he loves the best,
 The third and last to lull him to his rest.

And an effectual luller is this Bishop.

 Make several incisions in the rind of a lemon, stick cloves in the
 incisions, and roast the lemon at a slow fire. Put small but equal
 quantities of {141} cinnamon, cloves, mace, and all-spice into
 a saucepan, with half a pint of water; let it boil until reduced
 one-half. Boil one bottle of port wine; burn a portion of the spirit
 out of it by applying a lighted paper to the saucepan. Put the roasted
 lemon and spice into the wine, stir it well, and let it stand near the
 fire ten minutes. Rub a few lumps of sugar on the rind of a lemon, put
 the sugar into a bowl with the juice of half a lemon (not roasted),
 pour the wine into it, grate some nutmeg into it, sweeten to taste,
 and serve with the lemon and spices floating on the surface.

To sum up, the decline and fall of port in British estimation may be
said to be due, mainly, to the following causes: inferiority of most
of the modern vintages, the introduction of whisky, the present taste
for lighter wines, such as the cheaper clarets and burgundies, with
the wines of Germany and Italy, and a sort of “boom” in wines from
Australia and California. These last-named, however, are but seldom
seen at the tables of the wealthy; and thus far the demand for the
productions of gallant little Wales have not been in any great request,
although the demand is said to be equal to the supply.

Sherry, the “sack” which was said to cheer the heart of Sir John
Falstaff and other of Shakespeare’s heroes, is, like port, a light
of other days. Like the wine of Portugal, also, its exportation has
for many years been in the hands of English settlers. The following
startling statistics have been published about these exports, which
statistics speak for themselves: The output to England in 1891 was
2,135,969 gallons, or _sixty-four per cent_ {142} less than in 1873,
which was the “record” sherry year. And although many efforts have been
made to stem the ebb, the last seven years have shewn a steady decrease
in the exports.

Yet, according to the best authorities, sherry is not only the
purest, but the most wholesome of all wines. Of course, in making
this statement the wine of Spain, the _vino de Jerez_ is implied,
and not the home-made productions for the malefit of those who study
economy without due regard to digestion. Strictly speaking, sherry
means Jerez (pronounced “herreth”) wine. But Manzanilla, a wine which
is made at St. Lucas, and Montilla which comes from a town south of
Cordova, may come under the same category. And with a view of shewing
the wholesomeness of sherry it is stated, by no less an authority than
the _Lancet_, that it is the only wine enjoined in the preparations of
the wines of the British Pharmacopœia, with two exceptions—viz. _vinum
ferri citratis_, and _vinum quininae_, which are made with orange wine.
Therefore it is certain that the sufferer from gout, for whom _vinum
colchici_ is prescribed, may swallow a proportion of the juice of the
grape, and, possibly, a hair of the dog which bit him. This naturally
recalls the old story of the sherry which was sent to a former Lord
Chesterfield as a _panacea_ for his ailment, and the curt reply sent:
“Sir, I have tried your sherry, and prefer the gout.”

There are several types of sherries, according to the different
characters developed. These are known by several distinguishing
terms {143} comprehending the characters and specific qualities of
the wine from one end to the other of a scale ranging from delicate
and light wines to rich, generous, and dark-coloured wines. Between
a straw-coloured _Vino de Pasto_ and the very fine Old East India
Brown—the sherry which two decades ago was in enormous demand at
such old-fashioned hostelries as the “Rainbow” in Fleet Street, ere
the reign of gin-and-bitters—there is a vast difference, both in
colour and flavour. Broadly, however, sherry may be divided into
two classes—_fino_, a light-coloured, delicate light wine of the
Amontillado type, and the _oloroso_, a full-bodied, highly-developed
wine.

The sherry grapes are collected and placed in large panniers on the
backs of mules and conveyed to the press-houses. The press is of very
primitive construction, and is identical with those used in ancient
history. It consists simply of a wooden trough about ten feet square,
provided in the centre with a screw press, which is used after the
treading by foot power is done, to get the last drop of juice out of
the crushed mass. Rather less than a ton of grapes serves for one
pressing, and the idea that this is done with the naked feet of the
Spanish peasantry is a popular error. Sherry is not kneaded like German
bread. Men clad in light clothing and shod with wooden clogs, with
nails on the soles and heels, pointing in a slanting direction, proceed
to tread the grapes in a most methodical manner, proceeding row by row,
each row being of the width of the nailed sole of the clog.

After the grapes have been trodden over for {144} the first time,
_i.e._ partly crushed and bruised, a measured quantity of sulphate of
lime (_Yeso_) is sprinkled over the sticky mass—now I have gone so
far perhaps ’twould be as well to complete the narrative, although it
is not always wise to enquire too closely into the interior economy
of wine presses, or kitchens. This sulphate of lime is a pure native
earth, found in the neighbourhood of Jerez, and is burnt before being
mixed with the grapes. How many sherry drinkers, I wonder, know how
largely mother earth enters into their pet tipple? The idea, certainly,
does not seem a nice one, but this mixing of lime with sherry is a very
ancient custom indeed.

Pliny—where should we modern bookmakers be without dear old
Pliny?—mentions the custom as an ancient African one. And in days of
yore it must be remembered that Africa was not entirely populated by
cannibals and dervishes, but was the home of many who lived wisely and
well.

“There’s lime in the sack!” is a sentence put into the mouth of
Falstaff. In modern days the process has become known as “plastering,”
from the fact that plaster-of-Paris consists principally of sulphate of
lime or burnt gypsum.

“It is interesting,” says the _Lancet_, “to surmise the origin of this
very ancient custom. That it had some intelligent basis admits of no
doubt. Some think that it had its origin in the fact being noticed that
when the grape juice was fermented in alabaster vessels or in marble
tanks the wine was better, it clarified quicker, and {145} developed
character more satisfactorily. Others regard the addition of sulphate
of lime as convenient from a mechanical point of view during the
pressing; it was necessary when the grapes were wetter than usual in
order to bind the residuary mass together. We do not incline to this
view.”

As the _Lancet_ devotes a considerable space to the exposition of the
view to which it does incline I may be excused from quoting it in
full—more especially as there be tables of percentages, and complicated
mathematical calculations in said exposition. But it is proved to the
satisfaction of the _Lancet_ that “lime in the sack” is matter in the
right place. And although to an uneducated mind lime suggests such
terrifying developments of _tarda podagra_ as chalk-stones, possibly
the action of the grapes on the lime renders it innocuous.

It is a curious fact that sherry in keeping develops a slight increase
of alcohol as the time advances. All spirit added to sherry, however,
is obtained from wine itself, corn-spirit in Spain being quite a
superfluity, since wine-spirit can be produced so cheaply and in
unlimited quantity. Moreover the importation of German spirit into
Spain is made practically impossible by a prohibitive duty. Still,
unless rumour lies, some Spanish wines receive the German spirit after
exportation; so Spain “gets there just the same.”

Here is an item of news which should inspire confidence in the sceptic.

“Good brandy—_i.e._ a genuine wine-distilled {146} spirit—is being
produced in Spain in commercial quantities which it is to be hoped will
successfully compete with the stuff erroneously called brandy, not to
say Cognac, but of which not a drop has been derived from the grape.”

In my researches into the manufacture of port and sherry, I have come
across no mention of the phylloxera. I am, therefore, halting between
the beliefs, either that the Spaniards and Portuguese understand vermin
better than do the French, or that the “vine-louse” has her own reasons
for keeping out of Spain and Portugal.

Forty years ago an estimable Irish nobleman was known as “Old
Sherry,” from his partiality to that wine. And thirty years ago I was
once seated at the table of a General of Division, up at Simla. My
right-hand neighbour was a son of this same nobleman, but our host,
apparently, did not know this—or had forgotten the fact. At all events,
during a lull in the conversation, the General (who had a voice like
sharpening a saw) rapped out: “By the way, Captains—you say you’ve been
quartered in Ireland—did you ever meet ‘Old Sherry’ there?”

A subaltern can’t very well throw a dinner-roll at a General or stick
a carving-fork into his leg; but that is what I, personally, felt like
doing.

In mediæval times a sufficient quantity of wine for the needs of the
inhabitants was made in gallant little Wales; and the idea of reviving
the industry occurred to the Marquis of Bute, who has done so much for
the welfare of Cardiff {147} and the neighbourhood. The vineyards are
on the site of the old ones, facing south, and the vines were planted
twenty years ago, and are very hardy. There is no reason why they
should not be propagated to almost any extent, and there is abundant
scope for the extension of the vineyards and a proportionate increase
in the yield of wine.

The vintages of 1885, 1890, and 1891 are marked in Messrs. Hatch,
Mansfield and Co.’s list as “All sold,” and although the vintage
of ’98, owing to the long spell of dry weather, does not promise
particularly well, the Marquis is no more unfortunate in this respect
than most other vine-growers.

_Vintages._

As my readers may not all be connoisseurs in the matter of wines, a few
words on the subject of vintages may be appropriate, at the close of
this chapter.

With regard to champagnes, the good years are ’65, ’68, ’74 (especially
good), ’78, ’80, ’84, ’85, ’87 (somewhat light in body), ’89, ’92, and
’93. All the other vintages since ’65 have turned out more or less
badly; and there have been no good vintages since ’93.

One of the largest and best vintages of claret on record is that of
’75, which ranks with the older ones of ’48, ’58, and ’64. ’77 is fair,
and between that year and ’88 there was no vintage of particular merit.
’93 wine is good, and this year furnished the largest yield since ’75.
’94 wine is exceptionally bad. During the five years {148} from ’82 to
’86 the merits of the wines were completely destroyed by mildew.

The burgundy vintages have been good since ’84. As for ports, the
drinkable wines (since ’34) are those of ’41, ’47 (one of the finest
wines ever known), ’51 (exceptionally good), ’52, ’53 (fine and
fruity), ’54, ’58, ’63, ’68, ’70, ’72, ’75, ’78 (exceptionally fine),
’81, ’84, ’87 (the best since ’78), and ’96 which “shews promise.” The
worst years are ’55, ’56, ’57, ’59, ’64, ’66, ’69, ’71, ’74, ’76, ’77,
’79, ’80, ’82, ’83, ’86, ’88, ’91, ’93 (exceptionally bad), ’94, and
’95.

The above statistics are also from Messrs. Hatch, Mansfield and Co.’s
list.

{149}

CHAPTER XIV

THE LONG AND THE SHORT OF IT

 The Long Drink — Cremorne Gardens — Hatfield — Assorted cocktails —
 Brandy-and-Soda — Otherwise Stone Fence — Bull’s milk — A burglar’s
 brew — More cocktails — A “swizzle” — L’Amour Poussée — A corpse
 reviver — A golden slipper — A heap of comfort.

Our grandfathers knew not the Long Drink; the chief reason for this
fact being that aërated water, and consequently large tumblers, had not
been invented. And soda-water—one of the most ineffectual restoratives
I know—was originally employed, under its pet name “sober water,” as a
pick-me-up. The Long Drink came in, I fancy, with Cremorne. At primæval
Vauxhall men still refreshed themselves with glasses of alleged sherry,
and with rummers of brandy-and-water—a flat, stale, and unprofitable
potion, which nobody who is in complete possession of his faculties
thinks of imbibing nowadays.

Let us now run over a few recipes which require large tumblers to hold
the drinks. And we will commence with “cobblers,” those seductive
warm-weather importations from the United States. {150}

_Catawba Cobbler_,

so called because Catawba (which is a Californian wine and but little
known in this island of ours) is seldom used in its concoction.
Champagne is an excellent substitute, whilst a cheaper one is the
Italian wine, sparkling Asti.

 Dissolve one teaspoonful of sifted sugar in one tablespoonful of water
 in a tumbler; add two glasses of Catawba, or Asti, or champagne, and
 fill the tumbler with crushed ice. Shake, ornament with a slice of
 orange or pine-apple, and drink through straws.

_Moselle Cobbler._

 One glass of sparkling moselle in a large tumbler, a spot of old
 brandy, sugar to taste, a slice of lemon, and filled up with crushed
 ice.

But there is a sameness in the manufacture of cobblers, in which
almost every known wine, or strong water, may be used, with the other
ingredients, ice, sugar, slices of lemon or orange, and water (not much
water) added.

“The secret of making

“_Hatfield_,”

writes an invaluable authority, “is supposed to be a secret only known
to the manager at The Oval. We used to drink at the Old Winchester
Music Hall an imitation, composed of two bottles of soda-water to one
ginger-beer, a quartern of Old Tom and a half-quartern of noyeau, duly
iced.”

Most “cocktails” come under the heading of {151} “Short Drinks,” and
will be found duly scheduled, farther on. Here, however, is a long ’un.

_Saratoga Cocktail._

 Put into a large tumbler twenty drops of pine-apple syrup, twelve
 of Angostura bitters, twenty of maraschino, and a wine-glass of old
 brandy; nearly fill the glass with pounded ice, and mix well. Add two
 or three strawberries and a shred of thin lemon-peel, and top up with
 champagne.

_Arctic Regions._

 Large tumbler. Quarter of a pint of milk, wine-glass of sherry, and
 liqueur-glass of old brandy. Fill up with pounded ice, and sweeten to
 taste. Shake well, dust with cinnamon, and suck through a straw.

_Brandy-and-Soda._

Every Saturday morning, of all respectable newsagents, in the pink
paper, price⸺ Pshaw! What am I thinking about? This concoction is
also known in America as “Stone Wall” (Why?), and used to be known
in Her Majesty’s dominions in Asia as a “Peg”—simply because every
dose swallowed was said to represent a peg in the coffin being
manufactured for the swallower. It is unnecessary to give any recipe
for this mixture, the proportion of the ingredients varying with the
inclination, disposition, indisposition, state of health, or pocket,
of the swallower. But above all let your ingredients be of the best.
There is only one thing worse {152} than bad brandy, and that is bad
soda-water. Avoid the cheap stuff with the little glass stoppers, as
you would the tipstaff.

_Brandy Daisy._

 Put into a large tumbler the juice of a small lemon, half a
 tablespoonful of sifted sugar, and dissolve with one squirt of aërated
 water from a syphon. Add a liqueur-glass of yellow chartreuse, nearly
 fill the glass with crushed ice, and add one wine-glassful of old
 brandy. Stir well and strain.

_Bull’s Milk_

 A large tumbler. One teaspoonful of sifted sugar, half a pint of
 milk, one-third of a wine-glassful of old rum, one wine-glassful of
 old brandy. Add ice, shake, strain into another glass, and dust with
 cinnamon and nutmeg.

_Julap, or Julep._

     Behold this cordial Julap here,
 That flames and dances in his crystal bounds,
 With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixt.

Although the mint julep is compounded and used principally in the
continent of America, the original “julap” is a Persian word,
signifying a sweet potion. John Quincey, the author of a dictionary on
Physic, describes julap as “an extemporaneous form of medicine, made of
simple and compound water, sweetened, and serves for a vehicle to other
forms not so convenient to take alone.” {153}

The simple water is usually omitted nowadays. And here is one recipe
for a Mint Julep.

 Pound a quantity of ice quite fine, enough to half fill a large
 tumbler. Add two teaspoonfuls of sugar. Then add a wine-glass of old
 brandy, half a wine-glass of old rum, and two or three sprigs of mint.
 Stir well together, and drink through a straw.

Another way to make a

_Mint Julep_.

 Put into a large tumbler two and a half tablespoonfuls of water, a
 tablespoonful of sugar, and two or three sprigs of mint pressed well
 into the sugar-and-water to extract the flavour; add one and a half
 wine-glassfuls of brandy, fill up with crushed ice, shake well, draw
 the sprigs of mint to the top of the glass with the stems downwards,
 and decorate with berries in season and small slices of orange; dust
 with a little sugar, and dash with rum. Serve with a straw.

Mint julep, it may be added, is supposed to have been introduced into
England by Captain Marryat, the nautical novelist.

_Pine-apple Julep._

This is a beverage for bookmakers and company-promoters only. All
others should substitute pine-apple syrup from the tin for the slice of
pine-apple.

 Large tumbler. Slice of pine-apple. The juice of half an orange, ten
 drops of maraschino, ten drops {154} of raspberry syrup, half a
 wine-glassful of gin; half fill the tumbler with crushed ice, shake
 well, and top up with champagne. Drink through straws.

_Saratoga Brace-up._

 Large tumbler, tablespoonful sifted sugar, twelve drops of Angostura
 bitters, twelve drops of lemon juice, six drops of lime juice, twelve
 drops of anisette, one fresh egg, and a wine-glass of old brandy. Half
 fill the glass with crushed ice, shake thoroughly, strain into another
 large tumbler, and fill up with Seltzer or Apollinaris water.

_A Burglar’s Brew._

Amongst the kind and generous correspondents who have furnished me with
matter for this work is an Austrian gentleman, who, apparently, holds
some appointment under Government. He writes: “Our local man in blue
(or rather in _green_, in Prussia) and I have just driven twenty miles
a burglar to the police-station. Bobby and I being both new to this
part of the world, did not know the road, but our passenger directed us
quite well, and actually rang the bell himself at the gaol; after which
he most properly wished a very happy new year to the head constable,
with whom he seemed to be quite on sitting terms.

“But the point of this is to tell you of a very decent drink, mixed
by ‘Billy’ ”—presumably the burglar—“himself, on our journey—a most
acceptable ‘gargle,’ with two feet of snow and a beastly east wind.
{155}

 “2 pints lager beer, brought to boiling point.
  3 glass rhum.
  3 glass cognac.
  8 lumps sugar.
  1 lemon.

“I am afraid the poor fellow won’t get another taste of it for five
years.”

Lager beer and “rhum” does not read particularly delectable. But there
is no accounting for tastes; and possibly the Burglar’s Brew may find
favour amongst some of my young friends.

Reserving the right to re-enter upon the subject of long drinks, I will
now touch upon a short one or two. _Imprimis_,

_Cocktails_,

another brand of beverages which our American cousins have introduced
into the old country. I am bound to add that the beverage in question
has not altogether “frozen on” here, although the American Bar has
become an institution in all fashionable and much-frequented quarters.
In the land of its birth the cocktail is said to be popular at shooting
or fishing parties. But on this side the host who wants his guests to
shoot straight does not ply them freely with fancy drinks.

_Brandy Cocktail._

To save wearisome repetition of words, it should be stated at the
outset that the cocktail is almost invariably mixed in a small tumbler,
in which the necessary crushed ice has been placed first. {156}

 One wine-glass of brandy, thirty drops of gum syrup, six drops of
 Angostura bitters, and twenty drops of curaçoa. Stir, and shake well.
 Place a small shred of lemon-peel atop.

_Champagne Cocktail._

 One teaspoonful of sugar, ten drops of Angostura bitters, a slice of
 pine-apple, and a small shred of lemon-peel. Fill up with champagne,
 mix, and strain.

_Coomassie Cocktail._

 Break the yolk of an egg into the tumbler, and mix with it a
 teaspoonful of sugar; add six drops of Angostura bitters, a small
 wine-glass of sherry, and one-third of a glass of brandy. Shake and
 strain; then dust with nutmeg and cinnamon.

_Jersey Cocktail._

 Instead of crushed ice, put two nice little blocks in the tumbler, add
 one teaspoonful of sugar, one teaspoonful of orange bitters, and half
 a wine-glass of old brandy. Top up with bottled cider, and mix with a
 spoon. Serve with a strawberry and a sprig of verbena atop.

_Manhattan Cocktail._

 Half a wine-glass of Italian vermouth, half a wine-glass of rye
 whisky, ten drops of Angostura bitters, and ten drops of curaçoa.
 Shake and strain, and place a small shred of lemon-peel atop. {157}

_Bengal Cocktail._

 Thirty drops of maraschino, one teaspoonful of pine-apple syrup,
 thirty drops of curaçoa, six drops of Angostura bitters, one
 wine-glass of old brandy. Mix, etc., and add peel.

_Newport Cocktail._

 Two _lumps_ of ice, and a small _slice_ of lemon in the tumbler, add
 six drops of Angostura, half a wine-glass of noyeau, and a wine-glass
 of brandy. Mix, etc., and add peel.

_Gin Cocktail._

 Thirty drops of gum syrup, ten drops of Angostura, one wine-glass of
 gin, ten drops of curaçoa. Mix, etc., and add peel.

_A “Swizzle,”_

which is well known in fashionable circles as a morning “livener,”
somewhat resembles the above concoction, but is even more seductive and
enthralling. When I gave the recipe for this in _Cakes and Ale_, it
brought down upon my devoted head the horror and indignation of many
of the good young critics of the superior dailies. Yet the swallow is
harmless enough, absolutely innocuous—save to the melancholy vapours.
And to shew my utter lack of appreciation of friendly warnings I append
the same recipe in all its original beauty:— {158}

 Crushed ice (this is a welcome addition), a wine-glassful of Hollands,
 a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, three drops of Angostura, a little
 sugar, and half a small bottle of Seltzer water. Churn up the mixture
 with a swizzle-stick, which can be easily made with the assistance of
 a short length of cane (the ordinary school-treat brand), a piece of
 cork, a bit of string, and a pocket-knife.

_Martini Cocktail._

 Thirty drops of gum syrup, thirty drops of orange bitters, half a
 wine-glass of gin, and half a wine-glass of vermouth; fill with
 crushed ice, shake, strain, and place a small piece of lemon-peel atop.

_Sherry Cocktail_

 is made in the same way as the above, leaving out the gin and
 vermouth, and substituting a wine-glass of sherry.

_Sunrise Cocktail_

 Thirty drops of vanilla syrup, ten drops of Angostura, two-thirds of
 a wine-glass of sherry and one-third of a wine-glass of brandy; mix,
 strain, and add peel.

_Jockey-Club Cocktail_

(although it may seem high-treason to connect the Jockey Club with a
cocktail).

 Thirty drops of gum syrup, ten drops of Angostura, ten drops of
 raspberry syrup, half a wine-glass {159} of gin, and half a
 wine-glass of vermouth; shake, strain, and add peel.

_Whisky Cocktail_

is made in the same way as the above, omitting the raspberry syrup,
gin, and vermouth; and this brings us to the end of cocktails.

There is a fancy drink which is known in different parts of the world
under different names, and some of the ingredients in which differ
slightly. In the Mediterranean islands it is known as a

_Knickerbein_,

and this is the way to make it.

 Break into a small tumbler the yolk of one egg, add one-third of a
 wine-glass of curaçoa, one-third of a wine-glass of maraschino, and
 one-third of a wine-glass of brandy; add pounded ice, shake well, and
 strain; whisk the white of an egg to a stiff froth, and place it on
 the top; dust with pink sugar, and suck through a straw.

In France there is a somewhat similar potion known as

_L’Amour Poussée_,

which also figures under other names in different parts of the great
continent of America, and in the West Indies.

 Take a spiral glass (see that you get this) and fill it one-third full
 of maraschino; place carefully in it the unbeaten yolk of an egg.
 Surround this with {160} syrup of vanilla, and fill up the glass with
 old brandy. These ingredients _must not mix_; and in order to prevent
 this, pour them over the back of the bowl of a teaspoon into the glass.

_Brandy Scaffa_

sounds Amur’can, and is. Here again the ingredients must not be allowed
to commingle, and the egg-yolk is omitted.

 A quarter of a glass of raspberry syrup, into a spiral glass, and
 a like amount of maraschino and green chartreuse. Fill up—I always
 make this in an old-fashioned champagne-glass, and generally omit the
 raspberry syrup—with the best old brandy you can get.

_Corpse Reviver_

is the same sort of drink, with some difference in the ingredients.

 A spiral glass, filled with one-third maraschino, one-third brandy,
 and one-third curaçoa.

If the corpse came my way and I loved it, I should leave out the
maraschino. In

_Golden Slipper_

the egg-yolk reappears.

 Place the yolk of an egg in a spiral wine-glass, half full of yellow
 chartreuse. Fill up with Dantzicer goldwasser, and do not let the
 ingredients mix. This goldwasser is said to be the oldest liqueur
 known in Europe, having been introduced {161} into France by the
 Italians in the time of Catharine de Medici. Its origin is undoubtedly
 Italian, and the colourless liquor made in Dantzic, with the fragments
 of gold leaf floating therein, is a fiery imitation of the real thing.

One more short recipe to finish this chapter.

_Heap of Comfort._

 Put into a small tumbler the yolk of one egg, two-thirds of a
 wine-glass of sherry, one-third of a wine-glass of brandy, ten drops
 of curaçoa, and a teaspoonful of sugar. Add pounded ice, shake well,
 and strain into a coloured claret-glass. Dust over with nutmeg.

{162}

CHAPTER XV

STILL HARPING ON THE DRINK

 Sangaree — Slings — John Collins — Smashes — Sour beverages — Home
 Ruler — Burning brandy — A prairie oyster — A turkey ditto — About
 negus, for white-frock and black-mitten parties — Egg nogg — A doctor
 — A surgeon-major — A new locomotive — Rumfustian — Pope — Bull’s
 milk — A bosom caresser — The Colleen Bawn — Possets — Sir Fleetwood
 Fletcher.

“Sangaree” is generally associated with soft-shell crabs and “yellow
Jack”; nevertheless here are a few recipes for concocting the drink, in
its various forms.

_Ale Sangaree._

 Put into a large tumbler a teaspoonful of sifted sugar, and a
 tablespoonful of water to dissolve it. Add a small lump of ice, and
 fill up with a mixture of bitter and Burton ales. Dust with nutmeg.
 This drink may also be served hot, _without_ the ice; need it be added?

_Brandy Sangaree._

 Put into a small tumbler one teaspoonful of sugar, half a
 wine-glassful of water, one wine-glassful {163} of brandy, and fill
 up with crushed ice. Mix with a spoon, dash the top with port wine,
 and grated nutmeg.

_Gin Sangaree_

is made in exactly the same way, substituting Old Tom for brandy.

_Port Wine Sangaree._

 A small tumbler, a glass and a half of port, and a teaspoonful of
 sugar. Add crushed ice, shake well, strain into another glass, and
 dust with nutmeg.

_Porteree_

is made like ale sangaree, with the substitution of porter for ale. And
in

_Sherry Sangaree_

the wine of Spain takes the place of the wine of Portugal.

_Slings_

can be made with brandy, gin, or whisky. The Americans mix a
wine-glassful of the spirit with half a wine-glassful of water, a
teaspoonful of sifted sugar, and a lump of ice. In England soda-water
is mixed with the spirit. What we call a gin-sling is known in the
United States as a

_John Collins_,

but in certain regimental messes this “John” used not to be considered
properly attired without {164} the addition of a little curaçoa—the
quantity varying with the effect it was intended to produce upon the
unsuspecting guest. Occasionally, at about sunrise, boiling water was
substituted for soda-water.

_Brandy Smash._

 Put into a small tumbler half a tablespoonful of sifted sugar, one
 tablespoonful of water and a wine-glassful of old brandy; add crushed
 ice, and shake well. Put in a sprig or two of mint, with two slices of
 orange on the top, and drink through a straw.

_Champagne Smash._

 Small tumbler, tablespoonful of sugar; ice, and fill up with
 champagne. Add mint, as in above recipe, and serve with a straw.

_Gin Smash._

 Small tumbler, teaspoonful of sugar, half a wine-glassful of water,
 and a wine-glassful of gin. Add ice, mint, and a slice or two of
 orange. Serve with a straw.

_Whisky Smash_

is made in the same way, substituting whisky (Irish or Scotch) for gin.

_Santa Cruz Smash._

 Put into a small tumbler one teaspoonful of sugar, half a
 wine-glassful of water, and a wine-glassful of Santa Cruz, or white
 rum. Add crushed ice, and mint. Serve with a straw. {165}

_Apple Jack Sour_

is but seldom called for in this tight little island.

 In America it is made in a large tumbler, with half a tablespoonful
 of sugar, the juice of half a lemon, a squirt of Seltzer water from a
 syphon, and a wine-glassful of old cider brandy. Nearly fill the glass
 with crushed ice, and ornament with any fruit in season.

_Bourbon Sour._

 Small tumbler, one teaspoonful of sugar, the juice and rind of a
 quarter of a lemon, one wine-glassful of Bourbon whisky. Add crushed
 ice, shake well, and strain.

_Brandy Sour_

is exactly the same potion, with the substitution of brandy for Bourbon
whisky. And

_Whisky Sour_

is the same, made with whisky.

At the Bengal Club, Calcutta, the

_Gin Sour_

has attained to renown.

 A large tumbler is used, the juice of six limes is squeezed therein,
 care being taken to remove the pips. A wine-glassful of Old Tom is
 added, then a liqueur-glassful of raspberry syrup, three quarters of
 a liqueur-glassful of orange bitters, a wine-glassful of water, and
 three drops of Angostura bitters. Nearly fill the tumbler with crushed
 ice, and shake. {166}

_Sherry Sour._

 Put into a small tumbler one teaspoonful of sugar, the juice and rind
 of a quarter of a lemon, one wine-glassful of sherry, and nearly fill
 the tumbler with crushed ice. Shake, strain, and dash with strawberry
 syrup.

_Home Ruler_

was a favourite drink at the bars of the House of Commons, during the
reign of the Uncrowned King.

 The yolks of two eggs, well beaten, were placed in a large tumbler, a
 little sifted sugar was added, and a small tumblerful of hot milk was
 gradually stirred into the mixture. Last of all a large wine-glassful
 of “John Jameson” was added.

A curious recipe comes from Switzerland, an elaborate method of

_Burning Brandy_,

or any other spirit but gin.

 Cut the top off a lemon, and hollow out the interior with the
 handle-end of a spoon. Place the empty cone thus formed by the skin
 on the top of a large wine-glass. Fill the cone with brandy, rum, or
 whisky; take a fork, balance a piece of sugar on the prongs, set the
 spirit alight, and hold the sugar over the flame until it has melted
 into the cone. Then take a skewer, and pierce a small hole in the base
 of the cone. When all the spirit has trickled into the glass, throw
 the cone away, and drink the result. {167}

“This process,” says my informant, writing from Davos, “sanctifies good
liquor, and makes inferior ditto distinctly welcome.”

A

_Prairie Oyster_

serves as a valuable restorative of vital power. The origin of this
popular pick-me-up is said to be as follows:—

“Some years since three men were encamped on Texas Prairie, 500 miles
from the sea-coast, when one of them was sick unto death with fever,
and was frantically crying out for oysters; he was quite sure that
if he could only have an oyster or two he would be cured. After much
thought as to how they were to procure what he wanted, one of them,
having procured some prairie hens’ eggs, not far from the camp, broke
one, and putting the yolk into a glass, sprinkled it with a little salt
and pepper, adding a little vinegar, and gave it to his sick companion,
who declared it was just the thing he wanted; and from that hour he
began to get better, and eventually got quite well.”

_Turkey Oyster_

is the yolk of a turkey’s egg treated after the above fashion, and is
said to be “greatly in vogue with athletes.” But if the athlete be wise
he will not omit to swallow the _white_ of the egg as well.

The name “negus” is suggestive of a children’s party—as well as of the
east coast of {168} Africa; ’tis a comparatively harmless beverage,
said to have been invented by one Colonel Negus.

_Port Wine Negus._

 Put a pint of port wine into a jug, and rub a quarter of a pound of
 sugar, in lumps, on the rind of a lemon; then squeeze the juice of
 the lemon and strain it, adding the sugar and lemon juice to the port
 wine, with a little grated nutmeg. Add to this a quart of boiling
 water, cover the jug, and when cool the beverage will be fit for use.

_Sherry Negus_

is made with an extra quarter of a pound of sugar; and a wine-glassful
of noyeau or maraschino may be added.

_Egg Nogg_

is a bile-raiser, which is made in a large tumbler, and therefore comes
under the heading of “Long Drinks.”

 Beat up an egg with a tablespoonful of sifted sugar; add one
 tablespoonful of boiling water, one wine-glassful of brandy, and one
 wine-glassful of rum. Fill up the tumbler with boiling milk, mix well,
 and dust with nutmeg.

_Sherry Egg Nogg_

 One egg beaten up with a tablespoonful of sugar in a large tumbler,
 two glasses of sherry; fill up with boiling milk, mix, and dust with
 nutmeg.

“In another place,” I gave the recipe for {169}

_A Doctor_,

which is a cold edition of the above, and may also be made with brandy
or whisky. In

_A Surgeon-Major_,

which is a still more valuable—and more expensive—restorative, two
eggs are used, and the tumbler is filled up with the choicest brand of
champagne kept on the premises.

_Blue Blazer_

is a “grateful, comforting” drink in cold weather. And it is advisable
that the nerves of the mixer be in thoroughly good order, and that he
(or she) be steady of hand.

 Put into a silver cup, which has been previously heated, a
 wine-glassful of Scotch whisky (proof) and one wine-glassful of
 boiling water; set on fire, and have ready another cup, also heated,
 and pass the blazing liquid from one cup to the other, three or four
 times. Serve in a small tumbler with a little sugar and lemon.

If a good dispensing chemist be within easy reach, the searcher after
the hidden truth may try a

_Locomotive._

 Beat two eggs with a little honey in a jug, add a pinch of ground
 cloves and a liqueur-glass of curaçoa; then add, beating all the time,
 one pint of burgundy made boiling hot. Dust with nutmeg. {170}

_Rumfustian._

 Beat up in a large tumbler or jug the yolks of two eggs, with a
 tablespoonful of sugar; then take half a pint of Burton ale, one
 wine-glassful of gin, one wine-glassful of sherry, a little spice, and
 the rind of a quarter of a lemon. Let the ale, wine, and gin, mixed
 together, come to the boil, then pour into the egg mixture, whisking
 rapidly; serve hot, with a dash of nutmeg atop.

_Pope_

 is a compound of burgundy and brandy (not too much brandy, please)
 with a little sugar added, poured over two Seville oranges, roasted
 and cut into quarters. The mixture is then boiled and strained. But,
 personally, I am not partial to this pope, which is even nastier when
 made with champagne.

_Bull’s Milk._

 Put into a large tumbler one teaspoonful of icing-sugar, with half a
 pint of milk, one-third of a wine-glassful of rum, and two-thirds of
 a wine-glassful of brandy; add crushed ice, shake well, strain into
 another glass, and dust with cinnamon and nutmeg.

_Brandy Champirelle_

is another importation from the land of the stars and stripes.

 Take a small tumbler and bestow therein one wine-glassful of brandy,
 six drops of Angostura bitters, a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, and
 some crushed ice. Shake well, and strain. {171}

_Black Stripe._

 Mix in a small tumbler one wine-glassful of Santa Cruz, or white rum,
 one tablespoonful of golden syrup, and one tablespoonful of water;
 fill the tumbler with crushed ice, and shake well. For a winter drink,
 substitute boiling water for ice, and grate a little nutmeg atop.

_Bosom Caresser._

 Small tumbler, one wine-glassful of sherry, half a wine-glassful of
 brandy, the yolk of an egg, two teaspoonfuls of sugar, and two grains
 of cayenne pepper. Add ice, shake well, strain, and dust with nutmeg
 and cinnamon.

_Colleen Bawn._

 Small tumbler, one egg beaten with a teaspoonful of sugar, one-third
 of a wine-glassful of yellow chartreuse, and like quantities,
 respectively, of benedictine and rye whisky; shake well, strain, and
 dust with cinnamon, nutmeg, and pink sugar.

Although the word “Posset” suggests a bad cold in the head it may be
noticed _en route_, with other potions. It is a medicated drink of some
antiquity; for among the numerous English authors who in some way or
other speak of it, the divine William has made one of his characters
say: “We’ll have a posset . . . at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.”

And Sir John Suckling, who died in 1641, says in one of his poems:—

 In came the bridesmaids with the posset. {172}

Dr. Johnson describes posset as milk curdled with wine and other acids;
we may therefore infer that the preparation of sherry and curd which we
call

_White Wine Whey_

is the Milk Posset of our ancestors.

 Put one pint of milk into a saucepan, and when it boils pour in a gill
 of sherry; boil it till the curd becomes hard, then strain it through
 a fine sieve. Rub a few lumps of sugar on the rind of a lemon and put
 them into the whey; grate a small quantity of nutmeg into it, and
 sweeten to taste.

_Pepper Posset._

The better to promote perspiration, whole peppercorns are sometimes
boiled in the whey. A Pepper Posset was known to the learned and
ingenious John Dryden, as will appear from the following lines written
by him:—

 A sparing diet did her health assure;
 Or sick, a pepper posset was her cure.

_Cider Posset._

 Pound the peel of a lemon in a mortar, and pour on it one quart of
 fresh-drawn cider; sweeten with lump-sugar, add one gill of brandy and
 one quart of new milk. Stir the mixture well, strain it through a hair
 sieve, grate a little nutmeg over it, and it is fit for use.

In a former chapter a recipe for {173}

_Sack Posset_

has been given. And here is what Sir Fleetwood Fletcher wrote on the
same subject:—

 From fam’d Barbadoes, on the western main,
 Fetch sugar, ounces four; fetch sack from Spain
 A pint; and from the Eastern Indian coast
 Nutmeg, the glory of our northern toast;
 O’er flaming coals let them together heat
 Till the all-conquering sack dissolve the sweet;
 O’er such another fire put eggs just ten,
 New-born from tread of cock and rump of hen;
 Stir them with steady hand and conscience pricking,
 To see th’ untimely end of ten fine chicken:
             [Sir Fleetwood! Sir Fleetwood!]

 From shining shelf take down the brazen skillet,
 A quart of milk from gentle cow will fill it;
 When boil’d and cold, put milk and sack to eggs,
 Unite them firmly like the triple league,
             [What, again?]

 And on the fire let them together dwell
 Till miss sing twice—you must not kiss and tell:
 Each lad and lass take up a silver spoon,
 And fall on fiercely like
 a starv’d dragoon.

{174}

CHAPTER XVI

“APPLE SASS”

 Ancient British seider — Conducive to longevity — The best made in
 Normandy — Which develops into champagne — And other popular and
 salubrious wines — Non-alcoholic cider — A loathsome brew — German
 manufacturers — Medical properties of apple juice — Away with
 melancholy — The mill and the press — Pure wine — Norfolk cider
 — Gaymer’s gout-fuge — Revival of the industry — Old process of
 cider-making — Improving the flavour — Boiled cider — Hippocras —
 Juniper cider — An ancient cider-cup.

According to some chroniclers the ancient Britons made cider—or
“seider” as the poor ignoramuses wrote it—but it must have been nasty
stuff according to our civilized ideas; for until the Romans came to
visit us the apple was not cultivated in Britain, nor, indeed, any
fruit or vegetable. Our blue forefathers were not particular as to what
they ate or drank; and I should think the fermented juice of wild or
“crab” apples must have corroded the throats of the hardiest.

It is claimed for cider, and perry, that no fermented drinks do less
hurt to the imbiber; although one authority states that the man who
{175} drinks too much of either invariably falls on the back of his
head, which sounds rather dangerous. Whether the drinking of cider in
moderation conduces to long life deponent sayeth not; but no less an
authority than Lord Bacon evidently thought so; and in his _History
of Life and Death_ he tells of eight men dancing a Morris-dance,
whose ages, added together, were 800 years, “tennants of one Mannour”
belonging to the Earl of Essex, and habitual cider-drinkers. But the
lengthening of the days of the imbiber depends, in all probability,
upon the brand of cider. I have tasted some varieties which were
capable, apparently, of shortening life, rather than of prolonging
it; and in parts of Somersetshire, even at the present day, the
locals—case-hardened and poison-proof to a man—swill a horrible
decoction, which would probably kill off an alien, at long range, most
speedily and effectively.

Cider was called “cidre” and “sithere” by fourteenth century writers;
and the word is said to be a corruption of the Greek _sikera_, used
in the Septuagint to translate the Hebrew _shekar_, usually rendered
“strong drink” in the Old Testament.

“The name of _Cider_,” says one of these old writers, “if from
_Sikera_, is but a general name for an inebriating or an intoxicating
drink, and may argue their ignorance in those times of any other name
than _Wine_ for that liquor or juice in the Saxon or Norman language,
either of those nations being unwilling (it’s probable) to use a
British name for so pleasing a drink, they not affecting the Britains,
made use of few of their {176} words; but since that, that wines have
been imported from foreign parts in great quantities, the English have
been forced to make use of the old British name SEIDER, or _Cider_, for
distinction sake, although the name _vinum_ may be as proper for the
juice of the apple as the grape, if it be derived either from _Vi_ or
_Vincendo_, or _quasi Divinum_, as one would have it. Also the vulgar
tradition of the scarcity of foreign wines in England, viz. that Sack,
which was then imported for the most part but from Spain, was sold in
the apothecaries’ shops as a cordial medicine; and the vast increase
in vineyards in France (Ale and Beer being usual drinks in Spain and
France in Pliny’s time) is an argument sufficient that the name of
_Wine_, might be attributed to our British _Cider_, and of vineyards to
the places separated for the propagating the fruit that yields it.”

As a matter of fact the best cider in the world is made in Normandy.
And for what purpose do the Normans make it? To send to the Champagne
country to be sold to the unsuspecting tourist as the sparkling wine of
that district. This is solid truth. Hundreds of millions of gallons are
made in Normandy with the most scrupulous care, under the supervision
of experienced chemists, and the bulk is eventually sold as champagne.
And not only champagne, but claret, white wines, and even honest,
manly, beautiful, unsophisticated, good old Portuguese port, owe their
being in some instances to Normandy apples; the rich colour of the
port being added by log-wood, beet-juice, {177} and the root of the
rhatany. In fact, genuine port can be so closely imitated as to deceive
many a good judge; and it really seems wonderful that the British
farmer does not go in for making port wine, with apples so plentiful
and cheap, and beet, mangels, and elderberries so easy to cultivate. In
fact, given the time, and the materials, I am convinced that I could
produce an excellent ’98 wine for laying down, for hospital purposes,
public rejoicings, or _miladi’s boudoir_.

Cider, like all other useful drinks, can be, and is, imitated; and
Bands of Hope and other well-meaning but misguided associations are