There is a fair amount of assorted drinking in _Martin Chuzzlewit_. Revelry at Pecksniff Hall took, we learn, the form of red and white currant wine, of acid characteristics, the remains of the two bottles being subsequently blended, for the special malefit of Tom Pinch and young Martin. But the artful Pecksniff himself did not stir without the brandy bottle when going on a journey, and the family seem to have done themselves particularly well at “Todgers’s.” Whenever I feel more than ordinarily depressed in spirits, I overhaul my _Martin Chuzzlewit_ and read, once again, the report of the dinner at Todgers’s, which led to Mr. Pecksniff’s fall into the fireplace. John Westlock—about the most admirable young man in all Dickens’s novels—did not forget to do his friends well at Salisbury. “As to wines,” we are told, “the man who can dream such iced champagne, such claret, port, or sherry, had better go to bed and stop there.” The blackmailing of the captain of the _Screw_ by the proprietor of the _New York Rowdy Journal_ {216} took the form of champagne; and the merits of a sherry cobbler are fully recognized by Martin, who subsequently, however, fared badly in the way of wines and spirits whilst in the States. Eden, that alleged “prosperous city,” appears to have possessed neither pawn-shop, place of worship, nor drinking-bar; and the comparative delights of the “Dragon” on the return of Mark and Martin to Wiltshire are made delightfully apparent. As for the bad characters, Chevy Slyme loafed in a chronic state of eleemosynary drink, until he joined the police force, whilst Montague Tigg fared sumptuously on the best of liquor—including old Maderia—until knocked on the head by the villain Jonas, who also appears to have been a bit of a soaker, when he could get his drink for nothing. Mrs. Gamp’s wants were few and simple, but she insisted upon a regular supply, and got it. Leaving solid sustenance out, she stipulated for “a pint of mild porter at lunch, a pint at dinner, half a pint as a species of stay or holdfast between dinner and tea, and a pint of the celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old Brighton Tipper, at supper; besides the bottle on the chimney-piece, and such casual invitations to refresh herself with wine as the good breeding of her employers might prompt them to offer.” And she never exceeded the allowance of a shillingsworth of gin-and-water warm when she rang the bell a second time after supper. She must have cost as much to keep as a steam-yacht. The contents of Mrs. G.’s teapot, on the occasion of her historic quarrel with Betsy Prig, are alluded to, {217} vaguely, by the novelist as “spirits,” and were, I shall ever maintain, gin, and _not_ rum, as stated by other reviewers. The idea of putting rum on the top of “Newcastle salmon, intensely pickled,” and such a monstrous (to a _connoisseur_ in these things) salad as that furnished by Mrs. Prig, is barbaric.