Chapter 6: He Has A Hole Under His Nose

Chapter 6.
He Has a Hole Under His Nose, and His Money Runs Into It

This is the man who is always dry, because he takes so much heavy wet He is a loose fellow who is fond of getting tight. He is no sooner up than his nose is in the cup, and his money begins to run down the hole which is just under his nose. He is not a blacksmith, but he has a spark in his throat, and all the saloon-keeper's barrels can't put it out. If a pot of beer is a yard of land, he must have swallowed more acres than a ploughman could get over for many a day, and still he goes on swallowing until he takes to wallowing. All goes down Gutter Lane. Like the snipe, he lives by suction. If you ask him how he is, he says he would be quite right if he could moisten his mouth. His purse is a bottle, his bank is the saloonkeeper's till, and his casket is a cask: pewter is his precious metal, and his pearl is a mixture of gin and beer. The comfort of his soul is cordial gin. He is a walking barrel, a living drain-pipe, a moving swill-tub. They say "loath to drink and loath to leave off," but he never needs persuading to begin, and as to ending—that is out of the question while he can borrow. This is the gentleman who sings:

He that buys land buys many stones, He that buys meat buys many bones, He that buys eggs buys many shells, He that buys good ale buys nothing else.

He will never be hanged for leaving his drink behind him. He drinks in season and out of season: in summer because he is hot, and in winter because he is cold. A drop of beer never comes too soon, and he would get up in the middle of the night for more, only he goes to bed too tipsy. He has heard that if you get wet-footed a glass of whisky in your boots will keep you from catching cold, and he argues that the best way to get one glass of the spirit into each boot is to put two doses where it will run into your legs. He is never long without an excuse for another pot, or, if perchance he does not make one, another lushington helps him.

Some drink when friends step in, And some when they step out;

Some drink because they're thin, And some because they're stout.

Some drink because 'tis wet, And some because 'tis dry;

Some drink another glass To wet the other eye.

Water is this gentleman's abhorrence, whether used inside or out, but most of all he dreads it taken inwardly, except with spirits, and then the less the better. He says that the pump would kill him, but he never gives it a chance. He laps his liquor, and licks his chaps, but he will never die through the badness of the water from the well. It is a pity that he does not run the risk.

Drinking cold water neither makes a man sick, nor in debt, nor his wife a widow, but this mighty fine ale of his will do all this for him, make him worse than a beast while he lives, and wash him away to his grave before his time. The old Scotchman said, "Death and drink-draining are near neighbors," and he spoke the truth. They say that drunkenness makes some men fools, some beasts, and some devils, but according to my mind it makes all men fools, whatever else it does. Yet when a man is as drunk as a rat he sets up to be a judge, and mocks at sober people. Certain neighbors of mine laugh at me for being a teetotaler, and I might well laugh at them for being drunk, only I feel more inclined to cry that they should be such fools. O that we could get them sober, and then perhaps we might make men of them! You cannot do much with these fellows.

He that any good would win, At his mouth must first begin.

As long as drink drowns conscience and reason, you might as well talk to the hogs. The rascals will promise fair and take the pledge, and then take their coats to pledge to get more beer. We smile at a tipsy man, for he is a ridiculous creature, but when we see how he is ruined body and soul it is no joking matter. How solemn is the truth that "no drunkard shall inherit eternal life"!

There's nothing too bad for a man to say or do when he is half-seas over. It is a pity that any decent body should go near such a common sewer. If he does not fall into the worst of crimes it certainly is not his fault, for he has made himself ready for anything the devil likes to put into his mind. He does least hurt when he begins to be top-heavy, and to reel about: then he becomes a blind man with good eyes in his head, and a cripple with legs on. He sees two moons, and two doors to the saloon, and tries to find his way through both the doors at once. Over he goes, and there he must lie unless somebody will wheel him home in a barrow or carry him to the police-station.

Solomon says the glutton and the drunkard shall come to poverty, and that the drinker does in no time. He gets more and more down at the heel, and as his nose gets redder and his body more swollen, he gets to be more of a shack and more of a shark. His trade is gone, and his credit has run out, but he still manages to get his beer. He treats an old friend to a pot, and then finds that he has left his purse at home, and of course the old friend must pay the shot. He borrows till no one will lend him a cent, unless it is to get off lending him a quarter. Shame has long since left him, though all who know him are ashamed of him. His talk runs like the tap, and is full of stale dregs. He is very kind over his beer, and swears he loves you, and would like to drink your health, and love you again. Poor sot! much good will his blessing do to any one who gets it; his poor wife and family have had too much of it already, and quake at the very sound of his voice.

Now, if we try to do anything to shut up a boozing house, or shorten the hours for guzzling, we are called all sorts of bad names, and the wind-up of it all is, "What! rob a poor man of his beer?" The fact is that they rob the poor man by his beer. The ale-jug robs the cupboard and the table, starves the wife and strips the children; it is a great thief, housebreaker, and heart-breaker, and the best possible thing is to break it to pieces, or keep it on the shelf bottom upward. In a newspaper which was lent me the other day, I saw some verses by John Barleycorn, Jr., and as they tickled my fancy I copied them out, and here they are:

What! rob a poor man of his beer, And give him good victuals instead! Your heart's very hard, sir, I fear, Or at least you are soft in the head.

What! rob a poor man of his mug, And give him a house of his own, With kitchen and parlor so snug!

'Tis enough to draw tears from a stone.

What! rob a poor man of his glass, And teach him to read and to write!

What! save him from being an ass!

'Tis nothing but malice and spite

What! rob a poor man of his ale, And prevent him from beating his wife, From being locked up in a jail, With penal employment for life!

What! rob a poor man of his beer, And keep him from starving his child It makes one feel awfully queer, And I'll thank you to draw it more mild.

Having given you a song, I now hand you a handbill to stick up in the "Rose and Crown" window, if the landlord wants an advertisement. It was written many years ago, but it is quite as good as new. Any beerseller may print it who thinks it likely to help his trade.