for a little while, without immediately ordering
refreshment. The publican looks at you
reproachfully, as much as to say, " You are a pretty
fellow to come into my house and sit there
without having anything to drink." If you are
slow to take the hint in looks, he will soon
remind you of your duty in words, " Now, sir,
what can I serve you with?" Order an
Abernethy biscuit and a glass of water, and see how
he will look at you! He keeps biscuits merely
to oblige his customers, to accommodate the
women chiefly; and heart-cakes to beguile the
children, while father remains to have another
glass. Biscuits, as a transaction, per se, he
regards as an irregularity, only to be permitted
on rare and special occasions, and only then
under protest. As to water in its native purity,
without the admixture of something strong—
something that is worthy of exact measurement
and can be charged for— that is altogether
out of the question.  Monstrous! He can
scarcely bring himself to administer to the weary
urchin, who comes in to beg a "drink of water"
in the name of charity. He feels it beneath his
dignity to dispense such poor stuff. Throughout
all the branches of the trade there is a mad
dog's horror of water, as such. If you go to a
brewery and mention the word " water," you are
immediately fined for the offence in gin; if you go
to a distillery and mention the word " water,"
you are fined for the offence in beer. Say
"liquor," and you are safe. The publican has
no objection to aqua vitæ, or eau de vie; but call
it the water of life, and he will be more shocked
than if you used bad language.

It is curious how this antipathy to water,
how this constant effort to make the public
drink strong liquors and to debar them from
every other entertainment, pervades the whole
trade. Take the bar practice of the publican.
He erects a great glittering temple of Bacchus,
and by dividing it into uncomfortable pens,
carefully unprovided with seats, compels votaries
either to keep on sacrificing to the god or to go
away. At some halting-places in the City it is
written up, " Rest, but do not loiter." Here it
is, "Do not loiter, but drink." The minute
you have finished your glass it is whipped away;
not unfrequently it is whipped away before you
have finished it. You are made to feel that you
have no right to remain in the place another
moment, unless you renew your consumption.
The publican's look says plainly, " Don't be a
dog in a manger; if you won't drink yourself,
stand aside and let others drink."

Observe how the British temple of Bacchus
is adorned; what fine arts the High Priest
employs to excite the devotional feelings of his
flock. If you enter a similar temple in that
benighted and slavish country, France, you will
find many things designed to delight the eye
and surround your indulgence with an air of
elegance and comfort. There are chairs for
you to sit upon and little marble tables on
which to rest your glass; for here you are not
expected to empty liquor into yourself as from
one vessel into another; and the walls are
adorned with tasteful representations of fruit
and flowers, and birds of gay plumage; with
plaster casts, and statuettes, and other pleasing
devices; while the counter glitters with vases
full of real flowers, and elegant china dishes
heaped with ripe and tempting fruits. But
what do we find in Britannia, which is the pride
of the ocean, also the home of the brave and the
free? The temple is glittering enough, and costly
enough, truly; but you must stand up to your
devotions, and get through them in a thorough
business-like fashion. The walls are adorned
with pictures, whose frames alone are worth all
the French decorations put together—pictures
by those great masters Writer and Glazier, whose
maxims written in letters of gold proclaim the
virtues of Muggins's beer and Blotcher's gin,
Burnmouth's brandy, and Liverburn's rum.
Every panel contains a tablet of the law, which
has but one commandment: " Thou shalt drink."
Raise your eyes to the roof, and countless
inscriptions on the beams lead you to the
contemplation of that seventh heaven of delight to
which you will be elevated if you obey the
commandment and indulge in libations of Noseyman's
port, or Blowout and Shandy's
champagne of the finest brand. As for statuettes
—behold Darby and Joan, and Daniel Lambert in
ginger-beer bottle marble, with holes in their
heads for spills, thus combining the useful with
the beautiful. Fruit? Have you not the lemon
sacred to the goddess of rum, and the divine
gooseberry sublimated in champagne?

Let me say, before I go any further, that this
is not a teetotal article; and that I am not
writing with the view of inducing any one to
take the pledge. I set out with the admission,
that strong drink is a very good thing in its
way, and that to many thousands it is a necessary
thing. Still, I cannot admit it to be the
Alpha and Omega of all refreshment, and I
protest against the system which makes all
places, of so-called public entertainment, simply
and purely drinking-shops. The efforts of the
publicans are every day more and more directed
to this end. Some few years ago, almost every
public-house had its parlour and taproom, the
former devoted to the social foregatherings of
neighbouring tradesmen, the latter provided
with a fire and cooking utensils for the use of
the labouring classes. The old-fashioned public-house
parlour was the scene of right pleasant
social meetings, after the labours of the day.
Neighbours and cronies gathered together to
discuss the affairs of the parish, or the politics of the
nation, over a pipe and a pint or two of ale, and it
was the landlord's pleasure to occupy the chair,
and play host, and treat his customers as guests
and friends. It is true, that when the customers
were rather too long over their pints, the
waiter would come in and make a bungling
pretence of stirring the fire or turning up the gas,
by way of a hint; but it was a hint, that no one
was obliged to take. In most modern houses,
however, the parlour and taproom are done
away with altogether, or converted into bars,
where the customer must come, like a bucket