It has long been more or less proverbial that Americans cannot drink without getting drunk; and yet the Americans are not counted an intemperate people, because probably a smaller proportion of them drink than of any other great nation. And it may not be altogether fanciful to suggest that it is also because the word intemperate is not applied to the absence of temperance in cases where people do not drink at all. And yet, in etymology and common sense, a man on the negative side of a temperate use of alcohol is as intemperate as a man on the positive side.

Those who deny that any use of alcohol is desirable run counter to the vast preponderance of all recorded opinion and sentiment—even as eloquently expressed in poetry and song. They may nevertheless be right, as were those who, not so long ago, were in the minority regarding war. But this minority opposed a fact unescapable in the then condition of human nature; and the present minority regarding alcohol are opposing a fact unescapable in the present condition of human nature. Whatever may be best for the future, it is undeniable that at the present time men will drink alcohol, and the only practical questions concern the circumstances most apt to make their drinking of it innocuous, and even beneficial, if there is any warrant for the widespread and time-honored opinion that, like every other thing claimed to be good, alcohol is good only when used under certain circumstances and in certain measure.

The temperance of the continental peoples, with their light wines, is a commonplace. The English native supply of alcoholic beverages is more like ours, and the climatic conditions more, on the whole, like those of our most thickly populated regions. Probably a much larger proportion of the English people "drink" than of our people, and they probably do it with results better, or at worst, less disastrous than those to such of our people as do it at all. A contrary impression, however, is widespread in consequence of confusing England with Scotland. But the conditions and the results are very different.

So are those of England as compared with ours, and it may be well to compare the mood and manner of their drinking with ours. Society must always frown upon the morose and solitary drinker—the man who drinks merely for the purpose of injecting alcohol into his system. Drinking should be regarded only as a means, not as an end. It is not good in and for itself; it is good only as an aid toward loftier things. The great virtue of drinking, granting it virtue, is that it may ease the perilous and delicate ascent to human intercourse, or, to change the metaphor, alcohol is the best of social lubricants. Other things equal, it is easier to get acquainted with a man who does not scorn the temperate wine, than with one who does. With the latter, a ready element of mutuality is absent, and you have to beat about for some simple and casual means of give and take. But an incidental compotation, though it is accused, not unjustly, of being dangerous to the weak, to the normal and preponderant proportion of humanity, serves as a letter of introduction; and "What will you have?" is but the first question in that mystic catechism which may lead to "What gifts of sympathy and kindliness may we exchange?"

The justification for drinking of course asserts itself most clearly at home around the hospitable board, or in the comfortable corner of the club, where conversation is paramount, and an occasional sip serves merely as a comma or semi-colon in the talk. Under such ideal conditions, wine eases the fluency of conversation, brightens the wit, humanizes the humor, and mystically charms away that native diffidence which is a bar to confidence and sympathy. One does not readily deal lies to one's host at dinner over a glass of wine; and our little shifts and poses, our false evasions and our falser modesties, melt away to the limbo of things forgotten when we exchange a friendly high-ball at the club. But unfortunately a very small proportion of the whole community can afford good wine at dinner, and hardly a larger number can enjoy the amenities of a club. For social drinking the vast majority of men must frequent the public bars, and adventure on a chat with whoever is about. It follows that the atmosphere of the public bars must exert an inevitable influence over most of the men who drink at all. A man is moulded by the clubs that he frequents; the public bar is the only available club for the small tradesman and the manual laborer, the homeless and the friendless and the poor; and the great saloon-frequenting class must necessarily become inoculated with the social tone of the saloons that they frequent. If one reeks with foul language, its patrons will become imbued with the habit of profanity; but if its atmosphere be genial and genteel, its patrons will maintain, or else adopt, the amenities of more graceful intercourse. The social influence of the public bar is subtle and insinuating in its effect upon the individual and unavoidable in its effect upon the whole community; it may be an influence for evil or for good; it may even ultimately save or damn a nation. There arises from this circumstance a weighty problem, which demands more careful consideration from our sociologists than it has yet received.

The proposition, simply stated, is just this: Whatever serves to lift the tone of social drinking serves strongly to refine the nation; and whatever tends to debase the tone of drinking in saloons and public-houses tends to degrade the social atmosphere of the community at large. It follows that one of the easiest and most effective ways to clean up the slums of any of our cities would be to exercise a sympathetic and paternal supervision over their saloons. Some such idea as this was in the mind of the late Bishop Potter of New York when he inaugurated the so-called Subway Tavern.

At the present time the average American saloon, particularly in our southern and middle western states, is a vile place, and exerts a pernicious influence over the largest class of the community. As a result, a strong movement has been instituted to abolish the saloon. The states that have adopted prohibition have done it not so much with the idea that social drinking in itself is bad, as with the idea that the average saloon is bad, and that prohibition is the only means of undermining the influence of the average saloon. But might it not be wiser to realize that the saloon might be made an instrument for good, and not for evil, if, instead of being abolished, it should be tactfully reformed? A decent and respectable saloon may radiate decency and respectability throughout its neighborhood; and men who learn to drink genially and temperately with their fellows are not likely to descend to vulgar rowdyism in other ways of intercourse, or, still worse, to "booze" at home. After hours, many, probably most, workingmen will drink; we surely have no human right to decree that they shall not; but we may exercise the human grace of helping them to drink socially and decently instead of alone and vilely. At present the rudeness of our average saloon spreads like a contagious disease to the homes of all the men who breathe its evil air. If we could make our saloons less vulgar and more clubable, if we could lift the tone of public drinking among our less fortunate classes, we should spread abroad a sense of the amenities, a wholesome social feeling, and a glimmer of the finer graces of gentility.

There is much virtue in this "if"; and it must not be supposed that the condition it suggests is unattainable except in the idle dreams of an idealist. We have before us an example of precisely what we need, in the average English public-house. The world-engirdling empery of England is vested in the wholesomeness and sturdiness of her middle and lower classes; and if you need evidence to convince you that England is still dauntless and undefeatable among the nations, you have only to observe these classes in their clubs,—the ordinary English public taverns. In Salisbury, for instance, there is a venerable hostelry that is called the "Haunch of Venison." I do not hesitate to advertise it by its actual name; for it deserves and demands a visit from every American whose interest in the solitary contemplation of cathedral architecture has not made him forget that man is, first of all, a social being. If he will proceed almost any evening to the tiny smoking-room upon the second floor (ducking his head beneath the mediÆval rafters if he be above the middle height), and will join casually in the conversation of the company he meets there, he will discover something about the social possibilities of the public tavern that he has never learned at home. The company consists of small tradesmen of the town who have bolted up their shutters and gathered for a genial glass or two of "bitter" before resigning to the night. The talk deals earnestly with politics; protection and free trade are weighed logically one against the other, the measures of Mr. Lloyd-George are discussed in the spirit more of the economist than of the partisan, the German menace is given its meed of attention, and the boy scout movement is explained to the visitor from overseas. A round of drinks is ordered quietly; and the American is asked about the tariff and the growth of monopolies in his own country, the rate of wages and the cost of living, and the policies of Mr. Roosevelt. Then the visitor assumes the part of host, and shifts the talk to English architecture, touching upon old houses in the neighborhood, the timber rafters of the room in which the company is gathered, the excavations at Old Sarum, the mood of Stonehenge underneath the setting sun, and the high-aspiring composition of the great cathedral. The proprietor of the tavern has looked in, spoken to nearly everybody by name, and offered another round of drinks with the compliments of the house. His charming wife joins the talk without embarrassment to anyone, and becomes a sort of sister to the company. So the evening proceeds, until at the closing hour of eleven the company disperses with hand-shakings and good wishes for the night.

And remember that this is a public-house, in the market-place of a little city, open to anyone who wishes to spend two-pence for a glass of ale. It is not a hotel; it is not aristocratic; you will not find the name of it in Baedeker; it is just an ordinary bar that gleams a welcome to the lax-jointed laborer in the street. And the "Haunch of Venison" at Salisbury is not to be considered as unique, but is rather to be taken as typical of the English public-house. In Canterbury, for example, there is a bar-room, the name of which I dare not mention lest I increase unduly the annual historic pilgrimage to that cathedral capital; but I am willing to say for the benefit of future American investigators that it may be entered either from the Parade or from the little square adjacent to the ancient gate of the cathedral precincts where the monument to Marlowe is erected. From the main entrance, in the Parade, you proceed through a bar-room to a cosy little smoking-room beyond. There is a goodly company of young clerks and salesmen and minor officials of the town, interested in cricket, the growing of hops, the suffragette movement, the state of business, and the proposals to reform the House of Lords. But I have led you thither mainly that you may meet the daughter of the proprietor, who trips in with a tray of drinks and sandwiches. She is a glowing girl of seventeen, exceedingly alive, pretty and witty, jolly and jocose. She has rather an Italian look, with black eyes and black and billowy hair, and is dressed in the deep blue that Raphael loved. She knows everyone by name, except yourself, to whom she is speedily introduced. She greets you with a deft remark and a delicious gurgle of young laughter. When she leaves the room, it is as if Puck or Peter Pan had darted away to tree-tops. You recall the harmony of her nicely modulated speech and rich contralto laughter; and you are not surprised when a young tradesman tells you that she has been studying singing for eight months in London and is already a favorite at local concerts. Again she romps into the little room, and the sense of life enlarges. She has brought her mother this time, who wishes to meet the newcomer to that nightly company; and at once you are reminded of Whitman's saying about women,—"The young are beautiful: but the old are more beautiful than the young." The mother reveals the same abundance of essential energy, but softened, modulated, and matured. Her face is a sweet memory of years that were: it has lost that impudence of smiling and tossing the chin at what is yet to be. But then the daughter laughs again and overwhelms you with the joy of youth. And this is a place that you came upon by chance, seeking a whiskey and soda!... How different, how wonderfully different, from the casual American saloon!

The main reason for the difference in tone between the American saloon and the English public-house is that the latter is hallowed by the familiar presence of women. In England the male bartender is practically unknown, and drinks are served almost universally by bar-maids. It is part of the inalienable birthright of women that they can always set the social tone of any business that they engage in, and without effort can compel the men with whom they come in contact to ascend or to descend to meet them on the level they have set. In New York, for instance, the same man who is flippant with the manicure-lady is respectful to the woman usher in the opera-house: instinctively, and without conscious consideration, he meets any business-woman in the mood that she expects of him. To the women and not to the men is it granted to control the tone of any association between the sexes: bad women can debase a business, good women can uplift it, whereas the men with whom they are engaged would of themselves be powerless to lower or to elevate its tone. The way in which stenographers and shop-girls are treated depends on the stenographers and shop-girls much more than on the men with whom their occupation throws them. This, as everybody knows, is a law of human nature. In England, custom has, for many generations, decreed that women shall control the tone of social drinking in the public bars; and it must be registered to the credit of the host of honorable women who have served as bar-maids that the tone of public drinking in England has been lifted to a level that has not been attained in any other country.

Of English bars and bar-maids I think that I may speak with a certain authority. In the course of four visits to England during the last decade, I have traveled over nearly all the country; I have slept in every county in England except two, and wandered from town to town with an insatiable interest; and since I care more about people than about any other feature of the panoramic world, I have rarely in my rambles let slip an opportunity to pass an evening in a public-house and listen to the chat. To attempt a similar experience in America would be to discard it with disgust after three or four wasted evenings; but in the bars of England there is nearly always someone who is worthy to repay the task of seeking.

Of English bar-maids as a class I may say with certainty that they are almost uniformly chaste and—in the literal sense of that reverent adjective—respectable. Most of them are mature women,—the average age, I should say, being rather above thirty than below it; many of them are married; they have seen much of men and know how to keep all sorts and conditions in their proper places and in the proper mood. Yet they exercise this high command without any affectation of austerity. They are easily affable and pleasantly familiar with all who come. Many of them are endowed with a genuine and contagious jollity,—a merriment that is not assumed but which has arisen naturally from continuous converse with men of many humors. Their business introduces them to all the world; you step in from the street and know them; they talk with you frankly from the start, without any preliminary dodges and retreatings: and yet no one abuses their easy familiarity. They are addressed with deference as "Miss"; and the casual loiterer from the street takes leave of them as if he were saying good-evening to a hostess. In my entire experience of English bars—setting aside only a few in the tragic East End of London—I have never heard an obscene story told, and I have never heard the name of God taken in vain. The conversation is necessarily refined, out of respect for the women who stand within hearing. Furthermore, because the bars are tended by women, there is an accepted rule in every public-house of any standing that no drink shall ever be served to any customer who is at all intoxicated. A drunkard who would resent a refusal from a man accepts it without rudeness from a girl; and the result of this system is that (barring the slums, for whose degradation alcohol is not alone responsible) you can ramble from one end of England to the other without finding a drunken person in a single bar.

But you will notice at once a tragic change if you cross the border into Scotland. In Scotland, bars are tended by men, as in America; and their social tone is immeasurably lower than that which is maintained in England. They are noisy and riotous; the common conversation is heavily underscored with profanities and obscenities; and drunkenness is so prevalent as to seem an habitual detail. Of course, other causes than the absence of bar-maids contribute to the foulness of the Scottish public-houses. The austere and irksome law which makes it impossible to buy a drink after ten o'clock on any week-day evening and shuts up every bar in the country throughout the whole of the unbearable Scottish Sunday leads, naturally, to excessive and sodden drinking. It is tragic, on a Saturday evening in Edinburgh or Glasgow, to watch the hampered laborer and tradesman swilling liquor against the ticking of the clock in a rash attempt to swallow enough before the terminal hour of ten to carry them through the intolerable Sabbath. This is a dark picture, for which the fanatical austerity of the Scottish law must, in the main, be held responsible. It would be impossible to imagine English bar-maids in such a setting; and yet one cannot help wondering whether they might not alleviate that sodden atmosphere if they could be introduced in Scotland.

And similarly, one wonders what would happen if we should introduce them in America. The tone of our saloons is now prevailingly so low that it seems likely that if bar-maids were employed sporadically here and there they would be met with insults and be obliged either to resign or else to debase themselves. To our shame it must be said that, as a nation, we do not know how to treat women when we encounter them suddenly in what is to us an unaccustomed situation. The English, because they are many centuries older than we are, evince a traditional respect for women of all classes and in all circumstances that to us is not native and instinctive. The waitresses in our cheap restaurants are usually vulgar and we treat them vulgarly. It would doubtless take us a long time to educate ourselves up to bar-maids of the English type; but if we could successfully adopt the English custom, we should go far toward solving the problem of the American saloon, and should relegate the question of prohibition to the lumber-room of issues that are dead.

Thus far I have spoken only of the ordinary run of English bar-maids,—the affable and wholesome type that you may encounter everywhere. But those who linger in the memory are the exceptional among them, who have made the bar-rooms over which they have presided memorable among the really worthy places which one has discovered in the world. The English bar-maid of the better class creates an atmosphere of hospitable homeliness—in the historic sense of that sweetly connotative word—which is a boon to everyone who comes within its influence. You have arrived in a certain city after dark, a stranger in a strange environment; you have wandered about the moon-silvered solitude of the hushed cathedral close, wondering at a majesty half glimpsed and half imagined; you have mingled with the chattering multitude in the market-place, profoundly lonely among many who knew and cared about each other; and at last, in a hospitable bar-room, you meet without formality a woman who is glad to talk with you and who mystically, for an easy half an hour, makes you feel at home. How much of good may subtly be effected by a system that makes the homeless feel at home I leave the reader to imagine. Surely whatever soothes away the loneliness of the lonely may serve as a specific against the darker moods and a preventive of vice and even crime.

To the untraveled American, who knows only the saloons of his own country, it may seem incredible that a common bar-room should ever feel like home. But there is a passage in Ruskin which poetically explains this possibility. In his second lecture in "Sesame and Lilies," he has been saying that a true woman, wherever she goes, carries with her the sense of home; and he adds, with a fine poetic flourish:—

The stars only may be over her head; the glow-worm in the night-cold grass may be the only fire at her foot: but home is yet wherever she is; and for a noble woman it stretches far round her, better than ceiled with cedar or painted with vermilion, shedding its quiet light far, for those who else were homeless.

Even if Ruskin in this passage, as all too often in his writings, may be accused of an excess of sentiment [one wonders, for instance, if he has ever actually slept upon "the night-cold grass" and arisen without rheumatism to write eloquent prose about it], we may yet discern beneath his ecstasy of phrasing the existence of a solid and indisputable truth. Merely to meet a woman who personifies the sense of homeliness is to feel yourself at home.

And this comfortable sense of homeliness you may find in many an English bar-maid. If you wish to investigate upon your own account, you might try Bolland's Restaurant in Chester, or the Yates Wine Cellar in Manchester, or the Nelson in Gloucester, or the Crown in Salisbury, or—but I am not writing a guide-book to the bars of England, and, besides, every traveler is likely to fare best if he is left to his own devices. Of all the English bar-maids I have known, one (as is but natural) recurs preeminent in my recollections. I think that I shall tell you her name, because so many poems echo in it; but I shall not tell you more precisely where she may be found than to say that she is one of many who serve drinks in the bar of one of the great hotels that are clustered near Trafalgar Square. I think it was I who discovered Eileen; but I introduced her very soon to several of my friends in London, and thereafter (forsaking the clubs to which we had formerly reverted for a talk and a night-cap after the theatre) we formed a habit of gathering at midnight to meet Eileen and to chat amicably within the range of her most hospitable smile until the bar closed at half past twelve. Assuredly, in that alien metropolis, she made us feel at home; and we escaped out of the cacophonous reverberation of the Strand into the quietude of her presence like men who relax to slippered ease within the halo of a hearth. "She had a weary little way with her that made you think of quiet, intimate things,"—as one of us said at the outset of one of the many sonnets she inspired. There is a sweet weariness that reminds you of lullabying mothers and the drooping eyelids of little children drifting into dreams; and this was, I think, the essence of her. Her voice was like the soothing of a cool hand upon a tired brow. She was very simple in her dark dress and dark hair; and there was something maiden-motherly in her smile. You saw her most clearly when her frank eyes looked directly at you and deepened with a gleam of gentleness, and her lips parted tenderly to answer to the light within her eyes. Her hand, when she gave it to you in good-night, was like a memory of her voice; it had the same softness as of a whisper, it suggested the same sense of insuperable peace. I grew to know her very well, and could tell you her history if I would,—how she was brought up in the country, one of many children; how, when her sisters married and she did not (because the men who came were none of them the right one), she had to earn her living and began as a bar-maid in a railway station in the Midlands; how she came up to London and grew to be (though this she won't admit) a light in her particular occupation; of the long hours and the scanty leisure of her labor; of the compensation in the occasional people who come in and make an hour live with talk that is illumined and sincere, and in the occasional half-holiday rambles with a married sister over Hampstead Heath; of what is worth while in such a life and what is not; and of how it is that the eyes, though weary, can still sincerely smile with that glow as of a fireside, and the voice will evermore grow gentler through the years.

But my purpose is merely to help you to estimate her effect on us, who used to gather from the four quarters of London at the midnight hour for the sense of being near her; and, more generally, to estimate the effect of many women like Eileen, set in a position of publicity, upon the community at large. To gather for a social glass in such an atmosphere is to justify the best that poetry has claimed for the fruit of the vine. As Browning's Andrea del Sarto stated,—"So such things should be."