'Take back that card,' said the special (I was a witness of the scene), 'say that I represent' (he named one of the most influential of the London dailies), 'and that I insist upon an interview.' This time a sufficiently discourteous message came back; and the mighty personage, after loafing about for an hour or two, retired and wrote an article in which he described the people of the Black Country as savages, and revived a foolish old libel or two which at one time had currency concerning them. The old nonsense about the champagne was there, for one thing. I know the Black Country miners pretty well--I ought to do so, at least, for I was born in the thick of them and watched their ways from childhood to manhood--and I never knew a working miner who had so much as heard of champagne. Now and then a prosperous 'butty' (_Anglicè_, chartermaster) may have tried a bottle; but the working collier's beverage is 'pit beer.' The popular recipe for this drink is to 'chuck three grains of malt into the cut, and drink as much as ye like of it.' I remember the story of one wine party which met at the Scott's Arms at Barr. I dare say Mr. Henry Irving knows the house, for he is President of the Literary Society there. The tale was told me by the landlord. Three chartermasters sat at a table in the bar, and old Pountney overheard their whispered talk. 'Didst iver drink port, Jim?' 'No; what is it?' 'Why, port--port wine; it's a stuff as the gentlefolks is fond on.' 'I reckon it'll be main expensive, then.' 'Oh, we can stand it amongst the three on us. Got any port wine, landlord?' 'Yes, some of the finest in the county.' 'What's it run to?' 'Seven-and-six a bottle.' 'They figured it out,' the landlord told me, 'with a bit of a stump of an ode pencil on the top o' the table, and when they'd made up their minds as siven and sixpence was half a crown apiece amongst the three on 'em they ordered a bottle. I sent my man down the cellar for it, and I went out to look at my pigs. When I come back again there they was sittin' wry-mouthed an' looking at one another, wi' some muddy-lookin' stuff in the glasses afore 'em. “Gentlemen,” I says, “ye don't seem to like your liquor.” “Like it!” says one on 'em; “if this is the stuff the gentlefolks drinkin', the gentlefolks is welcome to it for we.” I turns to my man, and “Bill,” says I, “where did ye get this bottle o' port from?” “Why,” he says, “I got it from the fust bin on the left-hand side.” “Why, you cussid ode idiot,” I says, “you've browt 'em mushroom ketchup!”' III