This is a world of compensations. Therefore it is of no use shut­ting our eyes to the fact that for every minute of inju­di­cious, over-estimated revelry, of devotion to the rosy god, passed at night in the best of society, with boon com­pan­ions, we are liable to an hour’s dis­tur­bance, worry, agony of mind, head­ache, remorse of con­science, “jim-jams,” “Kat­zen­jam­mer” (the equiv­a­lent for “hot coppers”)—call it what you will, next day. Some suf­fer for over-indulgence more than others. There be so-called “seasoned casks” who claim that no amount of debauchery can affect them for the worse, as long as the {199} liquor be good, and not swal­lowed too quickly. But, although these may “come up smiling” next day, on making their first public appearance, the col­lapse, the down­fall is only post­poned. With­out being able to explain these things medically, it is certain that Alcohol—which is, as previously explained, the Devil in Solution—will destroy in the end, if you abuse her, although her methods of destruc­tion may dif­fer, according to the capacity, or con­sti­tu­tion, of her victims.

And let not the over-estimator expect any sympathy from the world, or any part of it, whilst he is experiencing the “remorse of conscience” stage. Katzenjammer patients are sternly and forcibly refused admission to any public hospitals, even if in extremis; for mercy, charity, and the medical faculty have refused hitherto to recognize the fact that alcoholism is a disease. And he who is “jumpy” and nervous of a morning has just as much chance of obtaining condolence from friends or relatives as has the casual sufferer from gout. Both disorders are, in fact, excellent provocatives of badinage and laughter.

I remember hearing of an accountant in Cape Town, a hardened and determined “night bird,” a frequenter of hostelries, a boon companion—in short, a sot. He was called as a witness in an intricate case in the High Court, one morning, whilst suffering terribly from nerves. It was heart-rending to watch his agony. His features twitched, his eyes rolled, and his hands shook as though afflicted with palsy on the higher scale. The ledgers which {200} were occasionally handed up to him by the usher, for reference, slipped from his grasp, and documentary testimony flew all over the counsels’ wigs. At length the notice of the judge was attracted to the state of things.

“What is the matter with that witness?” asked his lordship. “Is he trifling with the court?”

“M’lord,” said counsel for the plaintiff, “I am instructed that the witness is what may be called a free-liver, and that it is often necessary for him to swallow a dram in the morning, before proceeding to business. I am also instructed that the witness overslept himself this morning, and had no time to procure the necessary dose, before appearing as a witness before your lordship.”

“Tut, tut!” exclaimed the judge. “This is wasting the time of the court. Let him be removed at once to the waiting-room and dosed with old brandy.”

He was a practical judge; and in five minutes’ time that accountant had pulled himself together.

And an even more painful case than the above is within my memory. A certain newspaper-proprietor was in the habit of paying the weekly wages of his staff himself, each member having to sign a receipt for the reward of merit. The fashion-editor—a hardened libertine—turned up one Saturday, before his chief, absolutely incapable of signing his name, or any part of it. His gait was all right, as was his speech; but the pen slipped through his fingers as though it had been a well-oiled icicle. The {201} chief called the next case, the while some of us poured over-proof rum down the throat of the fashion-editor at an adjacent hostelry. He sub­se­quent­ly trousered his salary, and signed the receipt, sat­is­fac­tor­i­ly, after pleading that he was suffering that morning from “shock.”

The chief looked somewhat incredulous.

“Is he an inebriate?” he asked, as soon as the invalid had left the office.

“Oh! dear no, sir,” replied the acrostic-editor, “he’s almost a teetotaller.”

And the incident was finished.

But what is really the best thing to be done under such sad circumstances? Should the invalid resort to the old remedy, and take at once that “hair of the dog” who bit him overnight? Not invariably. For instance, should British port, or brandy of the desiccated-window-sill (vide a former chapter) have been the causa teterrima of the trouble, nobody, however shaky, would revert to such remedies, the first thing after waking. And frequently it is difficult for the waker to remember which dog it was that assaulted him. I once visited a young friend in his chambers, at the hour of noon, and found him with a sad countenance, seated in an easy-chair faced by a perfect army of assorted bottles. I was about to administer a mild reproof, but he stopped me.

“It’s all right, dear old chappie, I’ve been taking a hair of the dog—you know. But I met such a lot of dogs, jolly dogs too, last night, that I’m hanged if I can remember which of ’em bit me!” {202}

The ancients cooled their coppers, for the most part, with ale, either small or large. And I am led to the belief that cider, or some preparation of apples, was also used as a pick-me-up, if “mel­an­choly vapours”—a complaint for which Gervase Markham specially rec­om­mend­ed cider as a specific—meant the same thing as alcoholic remorse. Search as I may I can find no recipe, no prescription, in old books for “hot coppers.” Can it be that the ancients, who as previously pointed out, were not teetotallers, deceived themselves in protesting before men that they had no sin?

But this is an alleged preventive of the act, and not a chaser of sorrow from the brow of the unwise partaker.

“To quicken a man’s wits,” writes the same Mr. Markham, “spirit and memory, let him take Langdebeefe”—can this mean langue de boeuf?—“which is gathered in June or July, and beating it in a cleane mortar; Let him drinke the juyce thereof with warme water, and he shall finde the benefit.”

Probably the most useful part of this prescription was the warm water; still it can hardly be regarded as a restorative. {203}

Other recipes are before me, for “drawing out bones broken in the head,” and “for the falling of the mould of the head”; but these, apparently, have no concern with the question at issue. But to continue the search—eureka!

This I take to be a bona fide pick-me-up of two hundred years ago; and if “carduns” be the old spelling of “cardamom” ’tis very much the same mixture that the chemist will place in the trembling hand of the over-estimator, enquiring at the same time, “Would you like a lozenge after it, sir?” And the omission of sal volatile or chloric ether in the prescription leads to the belief that those drugs were joys unknown to the reveller of the seventeenth century.

The most aggravating part about the aftermath of revelry is that it takes, just as it likes, directly opposite forms. Two sinners may jump the same stiff course—by this sporting metaphor is meant imbibe the same amount and description of alcohol—after dinner, and, whilst A may wake with a double-breasted headache, a taste of sewage in the mouth, and a tongue as foul and furry as a stoat’s back, B will commence the day with a {204} dreadful sinking at the base of the stomach, palpitation of the heart, and a desire to eat anything solid within reach. A prays faintly for burnt brandy, or death, and could not swallow even a devilled biscuit, were you to promise to make him a director of a gold-mine for performing that feat; whilst B is “dead off” brandy, but is capable of washing down ham and eggs and chops unlimited, with a gallon or two of coffee. Any medical man will doubtless give a reason for this discrepancy, which is quite beyond my powers of elucidation.

First and foremost, bear in mind that this appetizer must not be made in the kitchen. It comes under the heading of “parlour cookery,” and can even be man­u­fac­tured in the bedroom of the sufferer.

A hot-water plate is necessary for the operator, or, better still, a slop-basin filled with water as near the boiling point as possible, with a plate placed atop. Melt on this plate a piece of butter about the size of a walnut, and when the butter is oiled stir therein with a fork the beaten yolk of one egg. Keep on the stir, and add, gradually, a dessert spoonful of essence of anchovies. Add cayenne, according to your disposition, or indisposition, and then you will be ready for a nice strip or two of delicately-browned toast, brought up hot from the kitchen fire. Soak the toast in the mixture, and eat as much as you can.

Above is the estimate for one invalid. It is essentially a pick-me-up for a bachelor—benedicts never require these things—and if, whilst in barracks, or chambers, Jack, Tom, and Harry should call, the proportions of the ingredients must, of course, be increased. A glass or two of the Boy will be found to go down excellent well with this toast, the secret of which I learnt long years ago, in British India. It is not a dish for the dinner-table.

Beat the yolks of sixteen eggs and twelve tablespoonfuls of pulverized loaf-sugar to the consistency of cream; stir into this two-thirds of a grated nutmeg, and then pour in half a pint of good old brandy, or Jamaica rum—or both n.q.—and three wine-glasses of Madeira. Have ready the whites of the sixteen eggs, whipped to a stiff froth, and beat them well into the above mixture, and then stir in six pints of new milk, as fresh as possible from the cow.

One of the best restoratives is that which is frequently given by the trainer of an athlete, or boxer, should his charge feel the effects of overwork. It consists of the heart of a good loin chop, free from fat, and neither underdone nor overdone, on a very hot plate, with a glass of port wine poured over the meat. Another familiar strengthener is prepared in the following way:—

Put a tablespoonful of old brandy into half a pint of good beef-tea. And by beef-tea I mean the juices of the meat extracted at home, and not by the employÉes of advertising firms. “Breakfast delicacies” and tinned preparations are only for the unwary. This may be taken either hot or cold. {207}

To a pint bottle of orange wine add ten grains of sulphate of quinine, cork well, and let it stand for a few days. Take a wine-glassful at a time, either with or without a dash of soda-water.

A favourite restorative of the working man, who has been propounding abstruse political problems in the tap-room all night, is a red-herring, eaten raw, with the aid of his clasp-knife. This he will wash down with some sort of ale, or with a mixture of gin-and-peppermint, according to the state of his feelings. That old, heroic soberer the Pump, is not much used for that purpose, nowadays.

I have already alluded in another chapter to a Prairie Oyster. A Worcester Oyster is made in the same way, with the substitution of Worcester sauce for vinegar.

Into a wine-glass half full of curaÇoa pop the unbroken yolk of a bantam’s egg, and fill the glass up with maraschino. I think I should prefer the “Twist” of the workers in the Borough hop-market.

Ten drops of Angostura bitters in a wine-glass, filled up with orange-bitters. One wine-glassful of old brandy, one ditto cold water, one liqueur-glassful of curaÇoa, and the juice of half a lemon. This, I should say, ought to be mixed with a swizzle-stick.

One ounce of Seville orange-peel, half an ounce of gentian-root, a quarter of an ounce of cardamoms. Husk the cardamoms, and crush them with the gentian-root. Put them in a wide-mouthed bottle, and cover with brandy or whisky. Let the mixture remain for twelve days, then strain, and bottle off for use, after adding one ounce of lavender drops.

A hot-pickle sandwich may be made with two thin, crisp slices of toast, with chopped West-Indian pickles in between. There are also many excellent sandwiches made for restorative purposes, by the nymphs who enliven the various Bodegas by their abilities and pretty prattle. And of those sandwiches commend me to the one labelled “Rajah.”

But, after all, fresh air and exercise are the best of all restoratives; and most of the above recipes are adduced in the interest of the jaded Londoner, or the dweller in cities, to whom a ride, or a walk, save on Sundays and Bank holidays, {210} is a rarity. Get on your hack and gallop a dozen miles to covert. By the time you have mounted your first hunter, you will have forgotten all about the dog which may have bitten you on the previous night, and will also have forgotten a stern resolution made, whilst shying at your breakfast, never again to put whisky, however old, atop of claret. And by the time you have jumped three ox-fences, and a great yawning drain big enough and deep enough to bury the whole field, you will have recovered every bit of that “nerve” about which you had just a suspicion of a doubt, just before mounting your hack. God grant that nerve may be with you always!