Alcohol in the Early Modern World: A Cultural History 9781472569783, 9781474206013, 9781350199613

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ALCOHOL IN THE EARLY MODERN WORLD

Also Available from Bloomsbury The Bloomsbury Handbook of Food and Popular Culture, edited by Kathleen LeBesco and Peter Naccarato T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in the Greco-Roman World, edited by Soham Al-Suadi and Peter Ben-Smit Alcohol in the Age of Industry, Empire, and War, edited by Deborah Toner

ALCOHOL IN THE EARLY MODERN WORLD A CULTURAL HISTORY

Edited by

B. Ann Tlusty

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2021 Copyright © B. Ann Tlusty and contributors, 2021 B. Ann Tlusty has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. Cover design: Terry Woodley Cover image: “Peasants at an Inn,” Adriaen Jansz van Ostade / Bridgeman Images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

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CONTENTS

List of Figures

vi

Introduction  B. Ann Tlusty 1 1 Production  Thomas Brennan 21 2 Consumption  Phil Withington 41 3 Regulation  Matthew Jackson 61 4

Commerce, Business, and Trade  Andrew McMichael 79

5

Medicine and Health  B. Ann Tlusty 97

6

Gender and Sexuality  Mark Hailwood 117

7

Religion and Ideology  Marc R. Forster 137

8

Cultural Representations  Beat Kümin 159

Bibliography 179 Contributors 200 Index 202

FIGURES

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Wider den Saufteufel, 1557, Matthäus Friderich (frontispiece). This satirical sixteenth-century temperance tract describes a visit by the Boozing Devil to deliver a supportive missive from Satan to drinkers, particularly encouraging the elite custom of reciprocal rounds of pledging healths that typically led to drunkenness. Culture Club/Getty Images 3 “Brandy Seller,” 1737, Anne Claude Philippe de Tubières, after Edme Bouchardon. Metropolitan Museum of Art 4 Soldiers dancing with peasants in a tavern during the Thirty Years’ War. Hans Ulrich Franck, “Der Soldatentanz,” 1656 5 Dirck Hals, “Merry Party in a Tavern,” 1628. Hermitage 6 Nicolas Tournier, “Réunion de buveurs” (Gathering of Drinkers), 1619–26 9 “The Marriage at Cana,” 1596–7, Martin de Vos. From the innkeepers’ altar at the Antwerp Cathedral, celebrating the first miracle of Christ. World History Archive/Alamy Stock Photo 10 Collection of taxes on wine and spirits coming into the city of Paris. 1707. Archives Charmet/Bridgeman Images 12 An innkeeper attempts to quiet a brawl on his premises. English, 1675. Hulton Archive/Stringer 14 Women in colonial South America making and serving cauim to men, from “America” by Jodocus Hondius. Amsterdam, 1606. Cauim was made by chewing and spitting out a starchy vegetable, normally maize or manioc. The enzymes in human saliva aided in the fermentation process 16 German brewer, sixteenth century. Jost Amman, Das Ständebuch, [1568] 1934, 43r 24 Vine workers in Italy, sixteenth century. The Four Seasons: “Autumn.” Jacobo Bassano (workshop). Bonhams, London/Bridgeman Images 28 Distilling in eighteenth-century France, 1763. From the Encyclopédie (Denis Diderot), Planches 3:179 35 Hogarth, “Gin Lane.” Engraving, London, 1751 51 Hogarth, “Beer Street.” Engraving, London, 1751 52 Oaths taken by city officials responsible for controlling quality and measure of wine in Germany, sixteenth century. StAA, Schätze 194a, Stadtbuch, 1583, fol. 5v 63 “Wine measures, about 1800,” France, pewter, bequeathed by Lt. Col. G. B. Croft Lyons. V&A, Musuem no. 550 & A, B, E-1926 63

Figures

3.3 3.4 3.5

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City official recording wine as it is brought to the wine market for sale. StAA, Schätze 194a, Stadbuch, 1583, fol. 4v 66 “Undated Plan of the George Inn, Castle Street,” Bristol Record Office, SMV/6/4/9/2, eighteenth century 67 Jean Lapene of Bordeaux city is licensed in 1765 as a maitre hotelier et cabaretier following evidence of his “good life, manners, sufficiency, capacity & experience [. . .] & produced certificate of his Catholicism.” AMB, FF 72, January 28, 1765 70 An anonymous chiseled wood engraving depicting the good example set by a Swiss cabaret keeper working in France. “Le Suisse” refuses his wine to two poorly dressed beggars, forcing them out into the street by their necks, because they dared to drink in his shop without settling their tab. In the top left of the engraving is the publican’s reply, “il fault sans dilaye payer lescot content ou je feray justice” (One must pay the score happily without delay or they will face my justice). Anon. “Le troisiesme livre des proverbes contenan la vie des Geux (1660)” in Recueil. Collection Michel Hennin. Estampes relatives à l’Histoire de France. vol. 45, pièces 4029–34 (1660–2) Paris: I. Lagniet au fort l’évêque, 1863 73 Slaves making sugar. Joan Blaeu, Atlas maior, sive Geographia Blaviana (Amsterdam, 1662), vol. 11, between pp. 243 and 245. By permission of the Special Collections department, University of Virginia Library 85 Pulque god, sixteenth century. The dots above the pot represent fermentation. Bernardino de Sahagún, General History of the Things of New Spain: The Florentine Codex, vol. 1 fol. 40r. Florence, The Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, ms. Med. Palat. 218, c. 52r. Reproduced with permission of MiBACT 87 The four humors, depicting four different types of drinkers distinguished by the four complexions; the pleasant sanguine, the hot-headed choleric, the vomiting phlegmatic, and the melancholic behaving madly. Illustration produced to accompany a reprint of Hans Sachs’s 1528 poem, An Amusing Tale: The Four Remarkable Properties and the Effect of Wine. Illustrated broadsheet, Nürnberg, 1622. By permission of the Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel, IE 87. Image from Harms 1985-89, 1:82; for Sachs’s poem in English see Kümin and Tlusty, 426–31 98–99 Distilling oven accompanied by learned men discussing the effect of astrological signs and cosmic forces on the process of producing distilled medicines. Brunschwig 1512, fol. 144r. National Library of Medicine, Washington D.C 102 Production of grape wine and chrysanthemum liquor for medicinal purposes in China during the Ming period (1368–1644). Anonymous, from Shiwu bencao (Materia dietetica). According to the text, “Chrysanthemum liquor clears wind from the head, increases the

vii

Figures

acuity of the ears and eyes, alleviates paralysis, stimulates the appetite, invigorates the spleen, warms Yin and raises Yang, and eliminates a hundred illnesses. Grape wine replenishes Qi and regulates the centre; however, it is rather heating in thermostatic character.” Wellcome Library, London 5.4 Examination of an apothecary, early eighteenth century (oil), French. Archives Charmet/Bridgeman Images 6.1 Wives often reminded their husbands that drinking was at odds with being a respectable patriarch. Woodcut detail from A Statute for Swearers and Drunkards, Pepys Ballad 1.214–15 6.2 Men were warned that excessive drinking “unmanned a man” and would reduce them to the level of beasts. Woodcut detail from LookingGlass for Drunkards, Pepys Ballad 4.258 6.3 Dutch Golden Age painters such as Cornelis Bega often placed women in their tavern scenes, in this instance indicating that they served as important sites of courtship. Cornelis Bega, “Young Couple in a Tavern,” 1661. Hallwylska Museet, Stockholm. Heritage Images/Getty 7.1 Images linking Christ to grapes and vines, which symbolize rebirth through the Eucharist, were common throughout Europe. Hieronymus Wierix, Antwerp, “Christ in the Wine Press.” Engraving (before 1619). Metropolitan Museum of Art 7.2 Peter Bruegel the Elder, “Fight between Carnival and Lent.” 1559. Photo by Leemage/Corbis via Getty Images 8.1 and 8.2 The board advertising the inn at Kandersteg in the Bernese Alps, dated 1789 (on the left), features an officer on horseback, suggesting superior quality and elite patronage, and the caption “One stops at the rider” (the name Rÿtter, probably deriving from an eponymous seventeenthcentury publican, also translating as “knight”); while the inscription on the slightly earlier sign of the Red Bear at Freiburg im Breisgau (BadenWürttemberg/Southern Germany, documented since 1311) stakes one of the better claims among the countless establishments purporting to be “Germany’s oldest inn.” Pictures: Beat Kümin 8.3 and 8.4 Left, the label for Barbados Cream Liqueur, made by Robin, Distiller, Au Caffé Militaire de La Tour du Pin, c. 1780. Etching and engraving on paper; 80 x 70mm; courtesy of Waddesdon, The Rothschild Collection (The National Trust) Bequest of James de Rothschild, 1957; acc. no. 3686.3.19.50. Photo: University of Central England Digital Services; right, this elaborately carved wooden wine menu of an upmarket German inn from the early seventeenth century features regional choices (e.g., from the Rhine/Mosel valleys) and foreign denominations (Champagne, Malaga, etc.) as well as dry and sweet varieties. Weintafel HG 10565, reproduced with permission from Mitteilungen aus dem germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nuremberg (1894), p. 58. Discussed in Bösch 1894, 57–60 (online at: http:​/​/www​​.lexi​​kus​.d​​e​/bib​​lioth​​ek​/Zw​​

viii

104 112

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141 142

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Figures

8.5

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ei​-We​​intaf​​eln​-d​​es​-17​​-Jahr​​hunde​​rts​-i​​m​-ger​​manis​​c​hen-​​Museu​​m​-Nue​​ rnber​​g; accessed 2/6/2020) A socially mixed group of male revelers—peasant, clerical, and seigniorial—drinking alongside a number of women outside a rural tavern in southern Germany. Extract from one of the Kermis woodcuts carved by the Beham brothers in Reformation Nuremberg (c. 1534–5): Geisberg ed. 1924–30, plates 150–3. Dates, attributions and variants of Barthel and (Hans) Sebald Beham’s Kermis woodcuts are discussed in Stewart 2002, 95–115; cf. for example, the reproductions of “Large Kermis” by Sebald Beham c. 1530 (Figures 3–4; pp. 100–1). For general methodological guidance see Burke 2001 “Mr Peeckelhaering,” a print of Jonas Suyderhoef (d. 1686) after a painting by Frans Hals (c. 1628–30). The “pickled herring” character, who—according to the caption—always enjoys a fresh mug of beer because of his permanently dry throat, represented intemperance and self-indulgence in Renaissance comedy and art. Intriguingly, Jan Steen—a prolific tavern artist and indeed publican himself—bought the Hals painting and included it in the background of some works of his own, for example, Doctor’s Visit of 1662. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum: http:​ /​/hdl​​.hand​​le​.ne​​t​/109​​34​/RM​​0001.​​COLLE​​​CT​.18​​1410 (accessed 2/6/2020) According to its inscription, this Bohemian Reichsadlerhumpen (imperial eagle tankard), a gilded and enameled drinking vessel of 27 cm height, dates from 1571. It features the so-called Reichsquaternionen, a symbolic representation of the Holy Roman Empire which became widespread from the fifteenth century. Below the double crown and flanking the crucified Christ, the affiliated estates of electorates, secular/ ecclesiastical principalities, cities, and even villages appear with four members each, a number and selection which owed more to the desire of symmetry and harmony than the infinitely more complex political reality. British Museum, Online Collection, no. S.836 Inca drinking cup (qero) from the colonial period (wood and lacquer, 20.3 × 17.5 cm, eighteenth century). Sean Pathasema/Birmingham Museum of Art, Wikimedia Commons: http://commons​.wikimedia​ .org​/wiki​/File​:Cup_(Qero).jpg (accessed 2/6/2020) By offering her husband H[e]inrich a drink, Mrs Johansen symbolizes marital bonds of love and friendship. Sharing a measure of beer or wine at a public house was in fact a very common “leisure” activity for early modern couples, both before and after their wedding. Glass panel of 1635 reproduced with permission. © St. Annen-Museum—Fotoarchiv der Hansestadt Lübeck, Germany.

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INTRODUCTION

B. Ann Tlusty

The cultural history of alcohol in any period provides interesting windows into many larger historical questions while illuminating a world of details about daily life in a past era. For this volume, the authors have collectively targeted the period encompassing roughly the sixteenth through the mid-eighteenth centuries, qualified by an acknowledgment that the term “early modern” is relative to the subject matter and is typically defined by historical processes rather than by specific dates. Thus the chronological boundaries are suggestive only, and their application varies by chapter depending on the geographical focus and specific approach of the author. The profound religious, political, and intellectual shifts that characterize the early modern period both affected and were affected by related changes in the production, regulation, distribution, and cultural uses of alcohol throughout the world. In Europe, this dynamic phase of history was defined by a gradual process of challenging and fragmenting the pervasive, church-dominated worldview that dominated during the Middle Ages and recreating it in a very different form. Increasing criticism of the kind of dependence on received knowledge that had characterized medieval learning led to an era of experimentation and exploration, resulting in transformative advances in science and technology.1 In the course of the scientific and geographical discoveries that resulted, the limited, medieval cosmos was deconstructed and replaced by a universe with unlimited potential, a development that had implications for social hierarchies as well. The redefinition of the medieval worldview also brought with it a fragmentation of religious views, while expansion of the known world led to an exchange of both products and ideas. Of particular importance to the shift in the way that Europeans pursued and disseminated knowledge was the introduction during the mid-fifteenth century of printing with movable type. The new technology led to an information revolution that was not limited to the educated classes but reached a broad segment of society. The Humanist movement associated with the European Renaissance encouraged lay education as a path to virtue and a means of gaining the necessary skills for active engagement in civic life. Although the ideas of the humanists affected mainly urban elites in the early stages of the Renaissance, print culture began to explode in the sixteenth century, with texts in the vernacular quickly outpacing traditional Latin texts and reaching a wide audience. Recent scholarship suggests that literacy levels in early modern Europe have generally tended to be underestimated, particularly for the towns.2 The fact that town police ordinances and mandates were sometimes printed in numbers high enough to distribute to every household in the city, for example, provides evidence that a large number of townspeople could read.3 General literacy was promoted during the early modern period by Reformation theologians who encouraged all Christians to learn to read the Bible and catechism. The ability to read was also increasingly important to peasant and artisan householders who often found themselves engaged with a government bureaucracy that was becoming more and more dependent on written records.4

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

As literacy rates increased and the technologies associated with printing and papermaking advanced, printers began to meet the demands of the growing market with a range of printed material including polemic tracts, popular ballads, sensational broadsheets, and trade manuals of all kinds. Among the last of these was a significant body of literature on the technologies of wine-making, brewing, and distilling. The resulting improvements and standardization in production methods were part of a larger process of professionalization that affected all trades, including the alcohol trades, throughout Europe. The advent of mass production of printed texts aided campaigns against alcohol, too. A large body of anti-drinking tracts and sermons appeared in print during the sixteenth century, particularly in Germany and England. This literature, along with various laws aimed at curbing drunkenness and the drinking customs that encouraged it, constituted a coordinated sobriety movement.5 The movement was propagated above all by religious authorities concerned with establishing godly communities, and thus it reached its peak during the years of Reformation and post-Reformation politicking (Figure 0.1). A second wave of alcohol panic was inspired by the so-called gin craze of the eighteenth century, which was attacked less from the standpoint of godly law than from that of Enlightenment reason. Earlier generations of historians have characterized these movements as part of a top-down attempt by authorities to establish greater social and religious discipline in their domains by suppressing the unruly culture of the populace. As is evident in several of the chapters in this volume, however, more recent work suggests a less simplistic model. Historians now recognize that social control came from below as well as from above—the most effective enforcer of appropriate drinking behavior was usually the tavern company itself—and also that elite culture was hardly more sober. Indeed, pro-drinking tracts that celebrated the role of alcohol as conducive to masculine wit and good fellowship, often aimed at the educated classes, also proliferated during the early modern period and were more likely to find an enthusiastic readership than the dry moralizing of the critics.6 The attention paid to alcoholic drinks by sober moralists and drinking advocates alike during the early modern period may have been based on more than ideology. There is much evidence in support of the conclusion that early modern Europeans did in fact drink large amounts of alcohol.7 Their motivations for doing so naturally varied, but among them were certainly the simple facts that for most people, beer and wine were available, affordable, and enjoyable, and served both basic nutritional needs and the aims of sociability. Not surprisingly given the high demand for drinks, drink vendors existed in a great variety of forms, ranging from full-service inns that offered a range of drinks along with hot meals, banquet rooms, and accommodations for guests and their horses, to street vendors and itinerate peddlers who sold beer or brandy for home consumption (Figure 0.2). Those establishments able to provide space to seat guests as well as drinks, however, provided much more to their clientele than opportunities to drink. Historians agree that most of the drinking that went on in early modern public houses occurred not in order to attain oblivion or to supplement caloric intake, but in pursuit of sociability and the reinforcement of cultural identities.8 Although people of nearly all walks of life spent leisure time there,9 sociable behavior that took place in taverns was not limited to leisure activities. Public houses hosted many public and professional gatherings including meetings of crafts, guilds, and political parties; elections and court proceedings; planning meetings for political protests and rebellions; and a variety of other assemblies. With few other public institutions available 2

Introduction

Figure 0.1  Wider den Saufteufel, 1557, Matthäus Friderich (frontispiece). This satirical sixteenth-century temperance tract describes a visit by the Boozing Devil to deliver a supportive missive from Satan to drinkers, particularly encouraging the elite custom of reciprocal rounds of pledging healths that typically led to drunkenness. Culture Club/Getty Images.

to the general populace, public houses also served as newsrooms, post offices, book shops, employment offices, salesrooms, business offices, advertising agencies, reading rooms, funeral parlors, playhouses and music halls, military recruiting centers, quarters for soldiers and jails for criminals, lost and found depots, community centers, wedding halls, curiosity cabinets, and even hair salons.10 As argued by Hans Medick, early modern inns and taverns offered opportunities for public discourse and exchange to the lower and middling classes well before the development of the bourgeois “public sphere” defined by Jürgen Habermas.11 More recently, Beat Kümin has not only demonstrated the importance of the public house as a social and political site where public opinions were shaped and political decisions made, but has 3

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Figure 0.2  “Brandy Seller,” 1737, Anne Claude Philippe de Tubières, after Edme Bouchardon. Metropolitan Museum of Art.

also highlighted their centrality to local, regional, and international travel and communication networks12 (Figure 0.3). Whatever public houses may have been to their customers (and there is considerable debate about that to be found among modern historians as well as among early modern theorists), they were places of business first and foremost.13 Publicans were of course as varied as their establishments; but on the whole, they emerge as remarkably nimble entrepreneurs. The degree of versatility and creativity demonstrated by publicans in meeting the shifting demands of their customers placed them at the forefront of consumer society. Indeed, Phil Withington locates the perennial demand for alcohol at the vanguard of the early modern process of commercialization and the rise of “consumption” as an economic descriptor.14 As caterers to travelers and commercial leisure, Kümin suggests, public inns experienced a “golden age” during the eighteenth century, losing their central position only as the modern era ushered in rival entertainment centers such as theaters, sports facilities, and other specialized buildings. 4

Introduction

Figure 0.3  Soldiers dancing with peasants in a tavern during the Thirty Years’ War. Hans Ulrich Franck, “Der Soldatentanz,” 1656.

Alcohol and Intoxication Regardless of what other services they offered, all early modern publicans were purveyors of drink, by which is meant specifically alcoholic beverages. In this volume, we use the terms alcohol and alcoholic beverages to mean all drinks containing alcohol. The fact that this needs to be explained, particularly in the context of the early modern period, requires some clarification. The word alcohol first began to appear in relation to drinks during the period considered here, although it was not yet used outside the scientific community, nor was it applied to drinks such as wine or beer. Instead, alcohol meant “essence” and referred explicitly to distilled spirits, initially only that distilled from wine (brandy).15 A frequent issue of debate among scholars examining the history of drink is the question of when people began to understand drinks in terms of their alcoholic content, often coupled with the related question of associating chronic drunkenness and its effects with physical addiction to alcohol. Typically this debate takes the form of a critique of reference to alcoholism, at times questioning even use of the word alcohol, when examining drinking culture prior to the modern era. Regardless of the terminology used to describe early modern drinks, however, it is apparent that wine, beer, cider, pulque, brandy, rum, gin, malavu, and the other beverages discussed here did in fact contain alcohol, and 5

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

alcohol by any name is an intoxicant. It is the entire array of intoxicating, alcohol-based drinks, then, that are understood by the authors of this volume under the term “alcohol.” Intoxication, as we know from prior work not only by historians but also by archaeologists, anthropologists, biologists, and scholars in other fields of study, is a sensation that is universal, able to be experienced by all humans and all or most nonhuman animals. Because intoxication is, as Andrew Sherratt put it, “integral to the constitution of culture” and “fundamental to the nature of sociality,”16 it is as worthy of study as any other aspect of human life.17 The intoxicating effects of alcohol inspired a broad range of imagery during the early modern period in Europe, some of which was obviously intended as a condemnation of drunkenness, but much of it extolling the ability of drink to induce merriment, create bonds of love and friendship, return drinkers to a state of childlike or bucolic innocence, or even to transcend earthly concerns and convene with the divine. Many depictions of intoxicated drinkers are characterized by ambiguity, seeming at once to mock their intoxicated subjects while at the same time inviting the viewer to partake of their joy18 (Figure 0.4). This is not to suggest that the history of intoxication is synonymous with the history of alcohol. Alcohol is only one of a wide array of available intoxicants, and it is also not the case that everyone who drinks alcohol becomes intoxicated or seeks to do so. Alcohol was, and still is, consumed for a variety of reasons, including for nutrition and for health, in religious ceremonies, as a form of sociability, and in many other medical, cultural, political, and legal contexts. Certainly intoxication can be a goal of drinking, and it can also be habit-forming, so that the early modern period had its share of habitual drunkards. But the idea that people

Figure 0.4  Dirck Hals, “Merry Party in a Tavern,” 1628. Hermitage. 6

Introduction

drink mainly to get drunk, often described in the historical context as a means of escaping the hardship of economic insecurity, has been largely dismissed by modern scholars. While the modern word alcohol refers to a substance that has always existed, the more value-laded term alcoholism refers in its current use to a construct of physical addiction that had not yet been identified at the outset of the early modern period. Although symptoms now associated with alcohol addiction were under scrutiny by both medical and religious theorists by the seventeenth century, leading to some debate among historians about the origins of viewing addiction as a disease, the words alcoholic and alcoholism did not appear in respect to an addicted drinker until the nineteenth century.19 Thus the term alcoholic in this volume is used to refer to drinks, but not to drinkers. The study of drink, of course, also covers much more ground than the relationship between an intoxicating substance and the bodies that consumed it, or even the spaces in which it was produced, sold, and drunk. The pervasiveness of alcoholic beverages as consumer products during the early modern period, for all the reasons noted above and more, created a great deal of demand for suppliers. For this reason this volume is also a study of the trade networks that grew up around the transport and sale of alcoholic beverages; the government institutions that regulated and taxed them; the belief systems that celebrated and condemned their use; and the many other factors that affected the cultural identities of drinkers and intoxicating drinks. Themes and Approaches Many worthy studies of early modern alcohol use and tavern life have appeared during the last thirty years,20 leading both to a process of refinement of earlier findings by the recognized founders of the field and to a growing appreciation for the vast variety of options for social and public drinking provided by early modern purveyors of drink. The results are that we know a great deal more about drinking patterns and cultural practice among early modern drinkers than we did a few decades ago, but also that we are increasingly faced by new avenues of research that challenge existing paradigms. Naturally no claim can be made for complete coverage of all of these research currents in a volume of this size. Instead, each of the contributions that make up this volume provides selected coverage of a topic that is informed by the individual author’s approach. At the same time, there are a number of overarching themes that connect the different chapters and the literature at large. The list of themes provided here is not meant to be exhaustive but only to suggest some potential avenues for further investigation and note fruitful entryways for considering the volume as a whole. It is nearly universally the fact, for example, that sharing a drink with someone is a symbol of social solidarity, establishing or maintaining a sense of identification with the drinking partner.21 This was certainly true during the early modern period. Because drinking together implied trust and created a bond, people were careful about choosing their drinking partners. This meant that drinking groups were often socially segregated in some way, and tended to be more so in places and periods where social hierarchy was clearly delineated and heavily enforced by those at the top, for example, in Europe during the seventeenth century. Choices of spaces, drinks, and drinking behaviors could be affected not only by social hierarchy and ties of friendship but also by more general categories of identity, including religion, gender, race, ethnicity, or nationality. This is not to suggest that persons of different 7

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

identities would not drink together. On the contrary—early modern sources are full of evidence that, depending on the circumstances, Protestants drank with Catholics, women drank with men, Jews drank with Christians, and foreign travelers and dignitaries regularly joined the tables of their local hosts. But even in a common drinking bout, individual experience was always filtered by the social and cultural factors that differentiated the drinking self from the drinking other. Literary archetypes and sometimes actual practice suggested, for example, that women should drink less than men; that Jews should drink less than Christians; and that Muslims should not drink at all. According to the observations of elite travelers from England and France, Germans and Russians drank more than the English and the French, or at least they got more visibly drunk. Such descriptions naturally implied a value judgment, a tendency which, in the case of national identity, could extend to specific types of beverages as well. English authorities initially resisted the use of hops as a foreign adulteration, for example; one sixteenth-century physician noted that while hopped beer might be good for fat Dutchmen, it was bad for healthy Englishmen. A century later, another English polemicist suggested that drinking wine was downright unpatriotic, as it could lead to the Frenchification of British drinkers.22 In 1777, Frederick II (The Great) of Prussia famously stated his belief that Prussians should stick to beer, as Frederick himself and his ancestors had done, because coffee drinkers would not make good soldiers.23 Alcohol choices apparently shored up social hierarchies as well as national identities, for early modern sources are rife with references to elite wines, artisan beer, and gin as the refuge of the underclasses. Some of these claims, as well as those by some historians that beer tended to be the drink of choice in Protestant areas while Catholics preferred wine (or, conversely, that beer drinkers were more likely to embrace Protestantism than those in wine-growing regions), may be more trope than reality, although sumptuary laws in some areas did restrict certain wines to privileged drinkers. Either way, the drinking choices made by those belonging to any group viewed as different, whether defined by religion, nationality, race, social status, or otherwise, provided a handy basis for creating distance and expressing superiority.24 Alcohol communities thus supported group identity and served to separate the self from the “other” (Figure 0.5). As a result, just as it was common to drink “to” someone or something in a show of solidarity, it was equally possible to drink “against” someone. For an individual, this could take the form of a curse or a threat, such as drinking a toast to another’s misfortune or swearing on a drink to exact revenge on an enemy. Communal drinking could also be used as a weapon. Drinking together might demonstrate unity among one group of drinkers while serving as a direct challenge to a rival group. In both England and Germany in particular, pledging healths was a required marker of national and confessional loyalty. Among loyalists in seventeenthcentury England, for example, drinking healths to the king and to one’s own party was a political signifier that united Tories against Whigs in a kind of oppositional camaraderie. Similarly, calling for a toast to rival military commanders or rulers during the Thirty Years’ War in Germany could escalate minor disputes into international incidents. Refusal to join in a toast could thus be more than just a social insult. In some cases it rose to the level of a political threat.25 Socially, despite the inclusive nature of many public houses, as institutions, they probably supported division and stratification more than they did social leveling. The very fact that shared drinking bouts implied social acceptance created boundaries of identity that were more often 8

Introduction

Figure 0.5  Nicolas Tournier, “Réunion de buveurs” (Gathering of Drinkers), 1619–26.

exclusive than inclusive. In some cases, social hierarchies were maintained by the existence of more or less exclusive or pricey establishments; but other divisions were less formal, created simply by the arrangement of seating or individual choices of drinks or drinking companions. Even in the German inns of Wittenberg where “gentlemen, Plebeans and very Coachmen [sat] at the same table,” as described with some apparent surprise by English traveler Fynes Moryson during the 1590s,26 exposure to different social groups did not always mean acceptance. Instead, patrons from different social strata sharing space and alcohol could provide opportunities for conflicts over competing agendas that thwarted common discourse.27 At least in urban areas, this fact eventually contributed to a process of social and economic stratification of public houses that catered to an increasingly differentiated clientele.28 At the same time, however, the same intoxicating qualities that enhanced bonds of trust and friendship among drinking companions had the potential to introduce disorder into established social and cultural hierarchies. The fact that bonds were formed through alcohol communities also provided opportunities for slippage, raising challenges to the norms of social and gender status. Such challenges were sometimes intentional, with drunkenness providing a convenient context for carnivalesque expressions of social or political protest. The fact that drinking, and especially drunkenness, could result in social leveling or even gender inversion was at the root of many of the attempts by those at the top of the hierarchy to segregate drinking spaces and more closely control those lower on the social scale.29 A second theme that connects historians studying drinking culture from different geographical and thematic perspectives is the persistent association of alcohol with the spiritual as well as the physical world. The neoplatonic worldview that dominated European thought through the seventeenth century placed man at the center of a cosmos in which everything was connected to everything else. Within this system, only humans shared both the physical nature 9

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

of beasts and the intellect of the angels, making mankind a microcosm of the entire order. The central role of wine in Christian theology, in which it symbolizes the sacrificial blood of Christ and thus salvation and communion with the divine, rests on a long history of using alcohol as a sacred lubricant for slipping through the porous boundary between physical and spiritual realms (Figure 0.6). Wine was offered as a sacrificial libation in ancient Jewish tradition as well as in China, India, and parts of Africa, and it opened spiritual portals for Germanic tribes. The ancient Greeks attributed mystical properties to wine and equated intoxication with divine possession.30 Similar associations across the Atlantic predated contact with Europeans; while the Carib Indians used cassava-based alcohol as a means of connecting with the spirit world, the Nahua people of precolonial central Mexico also understood consuming alcohol made from the maguey plant (called octli in Nahuatl and pulque since the colonial period) as a kind of communion with divine energies (see Figure 4.2 in this volume).31 The association of alcohol with divine power, however, did not obliterate the expectations of religious and secular authorities for orderly behavior among their subjects. This points up a third theme that runs through this volume, namely the challenge of reconciling positive and negative attitudes toward drinks that contain alcohol and their effects. In much of Europe during the early modern period, wine was at once extolled as a sacred substance and gift of God, and condemned as the tool of the “boozing devil,” whose goal was to weaken resistance to sin (see Figure 0.1). The ambiguities in cultural expressions already noted are reflections of the

Figure 0.6  “The Marriage at Cana,” 1596–7, Martin de Vos. From the innkeepers’ altar at the Antwerp Cathedral, celebrating the first miracle of Christ. World History Archive/Alamy Stock Photo. 10

Introduction

reality that it was often impossible to draw a clear line between healthy merriment and sinful drunkenness—or, to put it in more modern terms, between alcohol use and alcohol abuse. Alcohol had many constructive uses. Recent scholarship has pointed up the positive effects of social drinking, and at times even intoxication, to early modern sociability, which was not limited to leisure activities. Sharing drinks was as unavoidable in the regular conduct of business and politics as it was to courtship and friendship. Particularly among those groups for whom conspicuous consumption was understood as a virtue, even excess could be viewed in positive terms as an expression of economic health. The fact that drinking culture and drinking spaces were at the forefront of many of the forces associated with modernity (such as consumerism, commercialism, entertainment and leisure, tourism, tax economies, political assembly, and communication in the public sphere) has raised questions about older theories that view early modern attacks on drunkenness in Europe as part of a larger struggle to “discipline” or “civilize” a disorderly populace. At the same time, drinking can lead to disorder, and early modern authorities did struggle to deal with the negative effects of drinking to excess. Then as now, alcohol played a significant role in incidents of violence, household ruin, and early death. Nonetheless, with a few exceptions during periods of Puritan-style religious fervor, regulation of drink was not aimed directly at limiting consumption. There was tacit acceptance of drinking, even drunkenness, as long as it did not pose a threat to household or civic economies. This tolerance, however, could depend as much on the identity of the drinker as on his or her behavior. While many of the moral criticisms of heavy drinking that appeared during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were specifically directed at the copious drinking habits of elite society, enforcement tended to target poorer elements; that is, those seen either as disreputable, thus potentially dangerous, or as idlers who depended on alms from government coffers. By the eighteenth century, anti-drinking rhetoric focused primarily on stigmatizing these more marginal groups or (in the case of women, for example) groups for whom drinking seemed less respectable.32 The authorities also did not have a monopoly on controlling the drinking habits of their populace. The public nature of drinking establishments provided a convenient forum for enforcing norms of popular society. When these norms were violated, lateral social control could be swift and aggressive, and in many cases was sanctioned by the authorities. The many rules and regulations imposed by the courts on when, where, what, and in some contexts, how much people were allowed to drink operated within a flexible system in which individual magistrates had a great deal of autonomy. Authorities enforced their own rules when it served their interests, but decisions about how and when to apply the letter of the law served just as often to reinforce the shared values of popular society. Drunkenness in itself was rarely at issue for either populace or authority unless other norms of behavior had been violated.33 At least equally at issue for government strategists, however, was the crucial role played by drinkers in supporting local economies, which constitutes a fourth thread that runs throughout this volume. Placing restrictions on drinking that could negatively affect the alcohol trade would not have been in the interest of most government authorities. Alcohol sales not only supported the legions of shippers, traders, growers, state officials, publicans, and other workers who were directly involved in the alcohol industry; they filled government coffers as well. In Switzerland, up to half of the estate incomes of the nobility in the eighteenth century could derive from direct ownership of public houses.34 In the very centralized states 11

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

of England and Russia, the state established direct monopolies either on the licensing of inns or on sales therein, both of which were also extremely rewarding. Monopolies on the manufacture and sale of alcoholic drinks in Muscovy provided a significant portion of the state’s income, topping 50 percent in some years;35 and at the Restoration of the English monarchy in 1660, rent from wine licenses were noted as a key part of the king’s hereditary income.36 In Germany and Holland, income from drinking derived mainly from excise taxes on alcoholic beverages. Excise income from drinkers was especially attractive to city leaders not only because it could be touted as a tax on vice or luxury consumption, but also because (unlike property or income taxes) it allowed the bulk of the local tax burden to be shifted away from privileged members of society and placed on the population at large. In early modern German cities, these taxes represented the single most important source of civic revenue, at times spiking to more than half of civic income.37 Excise taxes on wine and beer came to England somewhat later than the continent, first introduced by Parliament during the English Civil War in order to finance their conflict with the crown. Although meeting with considerable resistance, the tax naturally became permanent, according to historian Peter Clark growing into a “principal pillar of the British treasury” during the eighteenth century.38 The well-known success of Dutch excise taxes during the early modern period also rested primarily on the sale of beer39 (Figure 0.7). Widespread demand for alcoholic drinks affected economies on an international scale as well. As a thriving merchant class sought more opportunities for international trade within Europe, eventually expanding its networks westward into the New World, refinements in the art of distilling provided new opportunities for transport and trade of more stable, concentrated forms of alcohol. New production and bottling techniques also improved the portability of wine and beer, making alcohol an important factor in the development of trans-European and trans-Atlantic trade patterns.40 In sum, despite the many attacks on drinking and drunkenness that attended the moralizing period of the Reformation, the “social disciplining” of the postReformation, and the enlightened attacks on the “gin epidemic” of the eighteenth century, early modern economies all over Europe, one way or another, were fuelled by alcohol.

Figure 0.7  Collection of taxes on wine and spirits coming into the city of Paris. 1707. Archives Charmet/ Bridgeman Images. 12

Introduction

Inns and taverns, of course, provided space along with food and drink, and their functions and reputations were largely dependent upon the space they occupied, or their location. This places them front and center in studies that consider place and space as analytic categories, which constitutes another connecting theme. As purveyors of space for gatherings of all kinds, inns and taverns lend themselves particularly well to explorations of political and social spaces, which are now understood to be culturally constructed by human agency as well as by physical environment.41 The spaces of the public house were varied even within its own walls, with only some rooms designated as “public,” and other, private rooms being reserved for domestic or other uses.42 As noted above, tavern spaces also served many functions for the community beyond providing for sociability, some of them (such as locking up prisoners, holding elections or court proceedings, or signing up military recruits) locating the tavern on an unclear boundary between social and institutional space. One reason that tavern spaces worked well for political proceedings is that such activities often required witnesses, normally readily available in the public space of an inn. This also made public houses natural choices not only for signing contracts or other official business (which often required a drink to seal the deal as well) but also for the displays of bravado necessary to the performance of early modern masculinity. The presence of an audience made any social exchange more meaningful, including the verbal insults and other altercations that were all the more likely to erupt under the disinhibiting effects of alcohol. Masculine codes of honor required a response to public insults, so that heated exchanges of words regularly escalated to blows, or even resulted in the crossing of swords. Studies of personal violence in early modern Europe typically find that at least a significant minority of cases of recorded incidents began over drinks in a tavern, and sometimes a majority.43 At the same time, the presence of other guests, and especially the authority of the tavern keeper as master of his house, kept most fights from escalating to dangerous levels. Thus although the public character of tavern space made the stakes in any exchange of insults higher than was the case in a private setting, the presence of a company of peers also insured that men could usually count on some intervention in order to prevent ritual challenges from developing into deadly duels44 (Figure 0.8). The fact that public houses were not entirely public, but also had private spaces could be a problem for the authorities, who regularly expressed concerns about secret gatherings or other subversive activities going on in back rooms. Inns and taverns also normally served as homes for innkeepers and their families, and this, too, could lead to tension, as publicans struggled to exert their traditional right to peace and security within their own household.45 Because public houses existed on the boundaries between public and private life, the space within them was often contested. Publicans found themselves not only facing accusations from the authorities of harboring disreputable guests or allowing illegal activities in hidden rooms, but were also regularly embroiled in altercations with their guests over their right to impose statemandated closing times, evict unruly drinkers, and enforce boundaries between their guests and their families.46 Beyond the space they occupied as public and private houses, inns and taverns were also focal points for travelers, which made them important to larger constructs of place and how places were mapped. Travelers who kept records of their journeys in diaries and memoirs praised the hospitality of the better inns; disparaged localities where they experienced bad food, dirty linens, or surly servants; and provided practical advice for navigating local pub culture. Inns also figure prominently in early modern travel guides and road maps: creating 13

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Figure 0.8  An innkeeper attempts to quiet a brawl on his premises. English, 1675. Hulton Archive/ Stringer.

patterns in the urban geography of cities, occupying political spaces and providing space for politicking, joining the church at the geographical and social center of village life, punctuating travel routes throughout Europe and beyond, and expanding with colonization. They were thus influential in both forming and representing local and regional geographies and in linking local spaces to the expanding map of the early modern world. Challenges and Opportunities Inasmuch as the outline presented above is formulated in very broad strokes, it is by necessity an oversimplification. For even though sociologists, anthropologists, and historians have long since identified certain persistent patterns in drinking codes of behavior,47 variety is the rule when it comes to the specific drinks consumed, the types of establishments involved in the 14

Introduction

drink trade, the company kept by drinkers while drinking therein, and the outcomes that resulted from sociable encounters over drinks.48 Historians are also invariably challenged by the limits imposed by available sources, which tell only part of the story even when they proliferate in numbers (and they often do). There is still much to be done, with a number of tensions plaguing the relationship between the questions we would like to ask, and the evidence we look to for answers. Mirroring historical scholarship more generally, a major challenge facing alcohol historians is balancing top-down views produced by elite writers with the more elusive voices of popular society. The concerns of early modern moralists, rulers, and physicians with regulating public houses and their patrons and admonishing gluttons and drunkards resulted in the production of a plethora of prescriptive sources during the early modern period. While these sources are useful in illuminating the attitudes of their authors and may provide glimpses of drinking culture, they are more likely to be dealing in archetypes of disorder than fairly representing typical tavern comportment. For the last four decades, historians have chipped away at this canon by digging deeper into archival collections that can provide a more balanced and nuanced view. Recent treatments draw on everything from court records, wills, tax records, guild protocols, and diaries to wine labels and advertising brochures in an attempt to more accurately illuminate the patterns and values of public sociability. Even these sources, however, are often filtered by the interests of professional scribes and official bureaucracies, and their survival is dependent upon the whims of past generations of archivists. Invariably, gaps in the records remain, and exploitation of what exists is time-consuming. Because so much of what happened behind tavern doors can be accessed only through unpublished archival sources, it is inevitable that historians studying drinking culture also face challenges reconciling labor-intensive, deep readings of local records with more generalized comparative treatments. This is all the more fraught because variety was the rule not only in types of public houses and kinds of drinks but also in local reactions to drinking issues. Even focusing only on Europe, it is clear that government approaches to regulation in relatively centralized states such as France and England will look very different from laws passed at the local level in each of the great variety of princely territories, dukedoms, bishoprics, free city-states, and other feudal leftovers that made up the Holy Roman Empire. Naturally, many other factors also come into play, including the array of issues around national, ethnic, and gender identity discussed above. This picture is complicated even more when non-European drinking cultures are also considered. While intense studies of local records can provide the most detailed information about any given locality, the findings cannot always be generalized; conversely, larger comparative studies must always be qualified by the recognition that variety is the norm, and as of this writing, any sweeping generalizations about early modern drinking culture are likely to be premature. In short, there is much still be done at the level of archival research before any convincing grand theory can be posited for this period (Figure 0.9). The fact that the cultural history of alcohol in the early modern world is as yet an incomplete story is particularly obvious when we consider the geography covered by this collection. Readers will note quickly that the volume focuses primarily on Europe and, to a lesser extent, the Americas, with only occasional comparative forays into drinking cultures in the rest of the world. This Eurocentric imbalance naturally challenges the claim in the volume title to coverage of the early modern “world.” But there are serious obstacles to a truly global treatment of the history of drink. First and foremost is the fact that the research available on early modern 15

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Figure 0.9  Women in colonial South America making and serving cauim to men, from “America” by Jodocus Hondius. Amsterdam, 1606. Cauim was made by chewing and spitting out a starchy vegetable, normally maize or manioc. The enzymes in human saliva aided in the fermentation process.

drinking culture in non-Western societies remains very spotty in comparison to that of Europe and the Americas, and what is available often presents language barriers to those writing for an English-speaking audience. Coverage of the entire world in a volume of this length is also problematic from the standpoint of cohesiveness. In order to produce a study that is meaningful as a whole, a starting point for comparison is necessary. For the early modern period, Europe is logical for this purpose not only because of the centrality of drinking cultures to European social and political life but also due to the increasingly dominant role played by European powers on the global stage during the period under consideration here. As the states of Europe extended their networks of trade and colonial oppression, drinks and drinking cultures were also traded, and they in turn exerted their own influences. It is for all of these reasons that a proliferation of scholarly treatments on drinking in early modern Europe have appeared in the last few decades, providing effective building blocks for a study of this kind. Even for Europe and the Americas, however, scholarship on drinking during the early modern period is uneven. Most of what has been written concentrates on England, France, Germany, the Netherlands, and parts of colonial America, with some excursions into Atlantic and Islamic worlds. In particular, more research is needed on southern and eastern Europe and on Scandinavia. And on a global scale, information on Asia, Africa, and the Middle East is especially sparse. As noted at the beginning of this introduction, the different themes presented in each chapter and the individual approaches of contributors inevitably result in chronological variations as well. Our approach is thus comparative without claiming to be comprehensive, with different chapters providing more or less geographical and chronological coverage depending on the timing of crucial historical shifts, the availability of resources, and the interests of the individual authors. Taken as a whole, however, the volume offers many examples of complementary linkage. As an example, combining Tom Brennan’s chapter on “Production” (which focuses mainly on Europe) with Andrew McMichael’s contribution on “Commerce and Trade” (with its spotlight on Atlantic trade) provides a comprehensive view of the production and distribution of drinks that spans both sides of the Atlantic. Similarly, Mark Hailwood’s chapter on “Gender and Sexuality” situates issues of production and consumption within a gendered context that dovetails nicely with the chapters that concentrate on those themes more generally. Although a truly comprehensive global history of drinking culture in the early modern world remains out of reach, it is our hope that the methodologies and conclusions presented here 16

Introduction

will provide a useful foundation for future work and invite comparison with other regions and approaches. Conclusion The world in 1750 was in many ways a very different place than it had been in 1500. Overall, the population of Europe was more commercial, more mobile, more informed, more religiously diverse, and more globally networked. Technological innovations were leading to faster production of goods, wider dissemination of knowledge, improved transportation networks, more dangerous weapons, and more efficient agricultural methods. As European states developed theories of nationhood, they also grew increasingly dependent on taxes to fund their expanding bureaucracies and standing armies. These and other factors placed Europe in a position to expand its influence through colonial incursion and to establish New World economies based on the cruelty of slave labor. Alcohol and the places in which it was sold accompanied the early modern world through all of these developments. The consumer market for alcohol drove economies and global trade connections, including providing financial incentive for human trafficking. National and international trade in wine and spirits was instrumental in the process of commercialization and the rise of market economies, while the production of alcohol to meet demand also encouraged technological experimentation. Drinkers provided a context for religious polemic and artistic expression; drinks and drinking bouts shored up communal identities, influencing the development of a consumer culture based on differentiated taste and uneven wealth; and social toasts were also crucial to political and trade relationships that depended on honorable reputations and mutual trust. Despite the major changes that characterized the early modern period, however, one must remain cautious about overstating the effects of intellectual shifts and global economies on the daily life of public house patrons. As a case in point, while claims to status by birth were beginning to face challenges in Europe during the early Enlightenment, drinking behaviors adapted mainly by providing new contexts for claims to privilege (elegance and refinement vs. accusations of “crude” manners; expensive wine vs. cheap gin; etc.). New World discoveries also led to new opportunities for social distancing, as status of place increasingly defined a nationalist sentiment that also privileged European drinks and drinking styles as more “civilized” than those encountered among native populations. Precisely because of the importance placed on public drinking as a social identifier, the stratification of drinking groups in accordance with hierarchies of social status and gender persisted and increasingly came also to encompass categories of race, ethnicity, and nationality.49 The growing availability of more expensive, thus more exclusive drinks served only to solidify existing social and economic hierarchies. Whether or not coffee and tea were replacing traditional intoxicants among the supposedly more “sober” social elites—a claim that is no longer universally accepted—by the eighteenth century, coffee houses and private clubs were providing additional contexts for social division. At the same time, attempts by some early modern regimes to further enforce the social hierarchy by limiting access to public drinking establishments, especially to those at the lower end of the social scale, were not successful. Indeed, as Mark Hailwood has demonstrated on the model of England, it was good fellowship that ultimately prevailed;50 and this was as 17

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

true throughout Europe and the New World as it was in England. Early modern drinkers in 1750 certainly had access to a greater variety of drinking houses and drinks than had been the case two and a half centuries before, and their known world had expanded. But the patterns and assumptions that drove their drinking choices still had much in common with earlier centuries. Social and gender hierarchies persisted. Drunkards were still drunkards, not alcoholics, and despite the development of new markets and large-scale production methods, most alcohol was still produced by household workshops and exchanged locally.51 Although in many respects, public houses were ahead of their time as precursors of more modern commercial establishments, it was still a premodern world after all.

Notes 1. Beat Kümin summarizes key characteristics of the early modern era in Europe in Kümin 2014, 48–50. 2. Fox 2000, 408–13; Künast 1997; Reifsnyder 2003, 58–9. 3. StadtAA, Baumeisterbücher 1580–1; Keunecke 1987, 154. 4. Gray 2003, 129–33; Barry 1995, 70; Le Cam 1999; Sundberg 2002, 21. 5. At issue in many German and English sobriety laws and anti-drinking tracts was the custom of reciprocal toasting or “pledging healths.” Cf. Chapter 3 (Withington), Chapter 8 (Forster). 6. Withington 2013b. 7. See Phillips 2014, 90–5; and especially Withington’s Chapter 3 in this volume. 8. Brennan 2011, 1:xii. 9. For a discussion of debates about the applicability of the terms leisure, entertainment, or recreation to early modern forms of sociability see Brennan 2011, 1:275. 10. Brennan 2011, 1:xvi; Hancock and McDonald 2011, 309–11; Kümin 2007, 115–42; Tlusty 2001, 158–76. 11. Medick 1982; Brennan 2011, 1:xx. 12. Kümin 2007, 115–42, 172–89; see also Hailwood 2014, 224. 13. Hancock and McDonald 2011, xii. 14. See Withington in this volume. 15. “alcohol, n.”. Oxford English Dictionary Online 2016. 16. Sherratt 2007, 33. 17. Withington 2014b, 10. 18. Nichols 2014; Tlusty 1998a. On merriment as a virtue of good fellowship see Hailwood 2014. 19. “alcoholism,” “alcoholic.” Oxford English Dictionary Online 2016. On pre-nineteenth-century origins of disease theories for alcohol addiction see Porter 1985; Levine 1982; Warner 1994; Ferentzy 2001; Clemins 2013. 20. A useful overview and bibliography is provided in Hailwood 2016. 21. As long since established by anthropologists: see for example Mandelbaum 1979, 17; Heath 1995, 352. 22. Unger 2004, 100; McBride 2004. 23. Weinberg and Bealer 2001, 86. 24. For a colonial example (Guatemala) see Dunn 2012, 82. 18

Introduction 25. Lemon 2013, 407–8; McShane Jones 2004, 78–80; Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 237–50; Tlusty 2011, 232–43. 26. Moryson 1617, 340. 27. Hancock and McDonald 2011, xi; Thompson 1999. 28. This occurred earlier in European centers than in the colonies: Brennan 2011, 1:xi–xix, 2; Hancock and McDonald 2011, xxiv–xxv; Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 2:xxxvii. 29. See for example Davis 1975; Rosenthal 2015, 16; Tlusty 2001, 133–45; and the discussion of Hogarth by Withington in this volume, 50–3. 30. Sherratt 2007, 18; Kircher 1910, 66–7, 89; Toussaint-Samat 1994, 253, 258; Heath 1995, 344. 31. Lara 2013, 295; Nicholson 1991, 158–87; Smith 2006, 550–1. 32. In what Brennan has termed “a hierarchy of patrons and of policing”: Brennan 2011, 1:xxv; see also Withington (Figure 3.2) and Jackson (Figure 4.6) in this volume. 33. Brennan 2011, 1:xxvi; Tlusty 2001, 6, 87-102. 34. Müller 2002, 188–90. 35. Snow 2002, 195, 201. 36. Hunter 2002, 72, 75. 37. Tlusty 2014. 38. Clark 1983, 3, 45, 178; Hunter 2002, 75. 39. Unger 2004, 195–8. 40. On the importance of alcohol sales in the Spanish colony of Guatemala to the economies of both Spain and Guatemala see Carey 2012; Dunn 2012; on the trans-Atlantic trade more generally see McMichael in this volume. 41. Rau and Schwerhoff 2004, 22–3; Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 2:xxxvi. 42. See Jackson (Figure 4.4) in this volume. 43. Brennan 2011, 1:xvi–xviii. 44. Brennan 2011, xvii. 45. On the right of domestic peace see Jütte 2015, 64–6. 46. Tlusty 2004. 47. Barrows 1991; Heath 1987. 48. Kümin 2007, esp. 2, 17–49, 191. 49. See for example Earle 2014; Hancock and McDonald 2011, 276–9. 50. Hailwood 2014. 51. See Brennan 1997, 275; and Chapter 1 in this volume.

19

20

CHAPTER 1 PRODUCTION

Thomas Brennan

The production of alcohol is actually quite easy. Nature produces alcohol with no human intervention. When yeast meets sugar dissolved in a liquid it normally produces alcohol in a matter of hours. Consequently, every human society has had access to alcohol and nearly everyone has taken advantage of this fact. Alcohol has been easily available, relatively cheap, and, as a consequence, central to the diets and culture of most societies. It is also worth pointing out that a large fraction of most human societies has also been involved on a regular basis in producing alcohol until quite recently. Within that framework, however, there are certain challenges that will shape much of this discussion. In the first place, the source of this sugar has profound implications for the process and history of alcohol production. Second, the alcohol produced by fermentation is inherently unstable if left on its own. Efforts to stabilize alcohol also drove much of the early modern history of production. The sources of sugar for fermentation divided the world into several sugar regimes, each with its own challenges and modes of production. The classic source of sugar for alcohol production is grapes, which are little more than dissolved sugars surrounded by yeasts. Once the skin is broken, fermentation follows. Unfortunately, not everyone has grapes, though they became remarkably prevalent on the Eurasian continent by the Middle Ages and can also be found in coastal North America. In the absence of grapes, the most common source of sugar is starch that has been saccharified. Since all grains have starch, the trick is saccharification, which is done through enzymes. Barley has lots of the right enzymes, and other grains have less. Saccharification begins with malting, when grains are allowed to begin the initial stages of germination. Bathing these malted grains in hot water stimulates enzymes even more; this is called mashing and results in a sugary liquid called a wort. Barley was fortunately prevalent in Europe, especially in the areas that lacked grapes, but less so elsewhere. Alternatives included sorghum and millet in Africa, and quinoa, manioc, and maize in the Americas. These grains and roots were often mashed but also sometimes saccharified by humans adding enzymes by chewing them and spitting them out. Rice is saccharified in much of Asia with the addition of a fungus. Getting the yeast into the wort created by mashing is less easy than with grapes, although nature still obliges with a wealth of airborne yeasts and bacteria, some helpful, others much less so. The relatively greater challenge of adding yeast to beer than to wine may explain why early modern brewers were more conscious of their yeasts than winemakers. Other fruits have sugar, but usually less than grapes, and harder to extract. Still, apples and pears have long served as an alternative in places without grapes. Sap from trees, such as the palm tree in Africa, or from the agave plant in Central America, or from sugarcane—which would continue its westward migration from one side of the Atlantic to the other—is also sweet and can be fermented.1 The differences in the source of sugar affected the kinds of alcohol produced, at least in its taste if not so much in its strength. More importantly, these differences in sugar regimes

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

shaped the different experiences of the early modern alcohol producers in several ways. Most obviously, the fact that the sugars in grape juice were already dissolved in a liquid made this source of sugar much heavier than the sugar inherent in dry grain. As a result, grapes were fermented close to their source and had to be fermented as soon as they were picked. Typically the grape grower was also the winemaker, which meant, among other things, that wine making was and mostly remains a small-scale activity, largely dominated by the male vine owner, even if women helped with certain stages of grape production. It also meant that winemakers were left, once a year, with a new batch of alcohol that needed special care to avoid deteriorating quickly. Problems of stability shaped much of the early modern history of wine production. In contrast, grain, being dry, was easier to transport and to store. Thus the raw materials for beer could be more easily disseminated among people who wished to produce it and could be fermented throughout most of the year. Indeed, grain was routinely present in communities and households for other cooking purposes anyway, and fermenting was really another cooking alternative. Fermenting grain was long a female task associated with other domestic duties. Such domestic, small-scale production was less troubled by the need to stabilize the alcohol since it could be made in small batches when needed. But because the principal narrative of premodern beer production involves the gradual switch from domestic to largescale commercial production, the problem of stabilization remained. Here again, the relative ease of transporting grain allowed for the concentration of production in larger and larger facilities, but only if the beer could be stabilized and subsequently transported. The process of commercialization, specialization, and masculinization that had begun in the Middle Ages would develop through the early modern period to the extent that much, and sometimes most, of the beer would be produced by commercial brewers. In addition to these fundamental distinctions in sugar regimes, the early modern period also inherited a way to concentrate alcohol through distillation. From being largely a pharmaceutical activity at the beginning of the early modern period, distillation became big business by the end. In a more concentrated form, the alcohol in spirits was stable but, initially, unpalatable. Producers slowly learned how to improve the flavor of spirits, but they also quickly learned that combining spirits with wine could improve the wine’s stability and the spirit’s flavor. As distillation became commercially significant, it would begin to change the techniques for stabilizing wines and influence much of the wine industry as well.

Beer Beginning with the simplest, humblest, yet possibly most pervasive producers of alcohol takes us to the kitchen of the peasant’s cottage, where the woman made a batch of ale as part of her domestic duties. And, although “ale” may be the best term for what was produced in Europe, something similar was happening around the globe, as women fermented local grains into other kinds of mildly alcoholic drinks. Using grains like barley, oats, spelt, and wheat that formed part of the household’s regular diet, they created or purchased a “malt” of germinating seeds, which was dried, ground, and then “mashed” in warm water. After drawing the “wort” off the grains, the domestic producer might add herbs, including hops, or a mixture of herbs, like “gruit,” which required boiling, and then, when cool, she let it ferment.2 Since hops were not always available and were expensive, it is not clear how much domestic brewing made 22

Production

use of it. English women in 1500 were not using hops in their domestic brewing, but England was behind the Continent in that regard. German brewers had been using hops in their beer since at least the thirteenth century and had exported this new drink throughout much of Northern Europe; cultivation of the hop plant spread slowly behind. Initially, the English had to import hops from the Netherlands and, even after Flemish immigrants started growing hops in England in the sixteenth century, the bitter taste of the beer took longer to gain popularity.3 Unhopped, this domestic brew was probably weak and quickly turned sour, but it contributed important calories and nutrition to the household diet.4 In larger country houses the household staff often included someone with a specialization in brewing, along with more elaborate equipment and ingredients. By 1600, hops had become a widely accepted taste and were a standard part of country house brewing, even in England where unhopped “ale” had been slow to cede its primacy. Resins in the hops, released by boiling or steeping, helped preserve the beer, even if the alcohol levels were relatively low. Indeed, hopped beer tended to be brewed with much less malt than was ale, because it needed less alcohol for preservation. Histories of brewing often reserve the term “beer” for the hopped variety that became increasingly pervasive in the fifteenth century, but there is evidence that the colloquial use of these terms was not very exact, and that common speech in early modern England more often used these terms to distinguish the strength of the brew. Thus large households would make a range of drinks by remashing the same malt two or three times with diminishing sweetness and strength, resulting in variations of “small beer” versus “strong ale” regardless of the hops.5 Whether made in a peasant’s house, a larger country house, or some institution, beer made for private consumption rather than sale accounted for the majority of malt made into beer through the eighteenth century in England, and probably a significant minority on the Continent as well.6 A short shelf life and economies of scale were reasons why the medieval domestic brewer easily slipped into commercial brewing by offering her excess for sale, at least on an intermittent basis. As a source of supplemental income, this small-scale, unprofessional activity probably never died out during the centuries under consideration here, but it had stopped being the primary source of commercial ale, even in the countryside, already at their beginning.7 Commercial brewing might not have been much more elaborate, however, and tended to be widely scattered around the countryside, since beer was a very heavy and relatively cheap commodity that did not repay long-distance trade by land, and ale was too fragile to be transported far. Thus medieval breweries in the inland Low Countries produced “exclusively” for a local market.8 The growing popularity of alehouses, both in town and countryside, also contributed to more professional commercial brewing that required capital and sophisticated commercial connections. These professional brewers, now men with only assistance from wives and other women, were already well established in Germany and the Netherlands by 1500 and were increasingly common in England (Figure 1.1). Towns had turned to commercial brewers much earlier for a variety of practical reasons. Originally, all citizens had the right to brew domestically or, in some cases, at a municipal facility. Through the late Middle Ages, towns across the Northern European tier progressively limited the right to brew for domestic purposes and turned brewing over to the professionals. These restrictions were aimed at better controlling quality, generating tax revenues, and supporting the commercial brewers.9 In parts of Germany these urban brewers even had a 23

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Figure 1.1  German brewer, sixteenth century. Jost Amman, Das Ständebuch, [1568] 1934, 43r.

monopoly over beer brewed for the local hinterland.10 In most cases, professional brewers continued to operate on a small scale and to target a local market but, in certain towns, access to water transport and a new commodity created a large export market. Hopped beer had already emerged as an important trade commodity in the late thirteenth century. The greater stability provided by hops allowed it to travel, and the weaker strength gave it a cost advantage. Exported from north German Baltic towns in the fourteenth century to the urban enclaves of Flanders and Brabant, hopped beer slowly became domesticated in southern Germany and the Low Countries by the fifteenth century and in England during the sixteenth century.11 Urban brewing in these new markets became big business for brewers collectively and, sometimes, individually. On the other hand, the urban brewing in various parts of northern Germany and Holland that had been so strong in the Middle Ages declined steadily through the early modern period as their export markets increasingly supplied themselves. Whether we look at production numbers, excise numbers, or the number of brewers, the trend in these 24

Production

northern towns was down and sometimes quite dramatically so. The beer-drinking parts of southern Germany, in contrast, experienced considerable growth during this period.12 The new technology of making hopped beer was not substantially different from ale making, but commercial brewing required considerable equipment, supplies, and inventory if it aimed at producing for a local, let alone an export, market. Water and grain were both essential, though few brewers did much about water beyond relying on local sources. Grain was a common commodity, except in times of dearth, when governments would try to limit brewing. The amount of grain used in brewing varied widely, depending on the strength of the beer, from roughly one-half to one liter of grain per liter of beer, but hopped beer was estimated to need only half as much grain as ale.13 Commercial brewers in England typically brewed beer at two strengths—a single and double—but periodically added more varieties.14 The decline in grain prices through much of the fifteenth century correlated closely with the decline in beer prices and helps to explain the switch in Germany from drinking wine to preferring beer. Rising grain and beer prices in the following century did not change that preference. Wine and beer prices in Germany rose in tandem through the sixteenth century, stagnated in tandem in the seventeenth, and parted company over the course of the seventeenth and in the eighteenth as wine prices left beer behind.15 On the other hand, the widespread switch from ale to beer called for hops, which required more boiling vats and more boiling time to steep the hops.16 Fire played a role at several stages, to dry the malt, warm the mash, and boil the wort, leading to a requirement for large furnaces and supplies of combustibles like coal and peat as well as wood. Copper brewing kettles were expensive and, as the brewing industry expanded, growing larger. German and Dutch kettles might run to 2 or 3,000 liters. The addition of yeast at the end of the brewing process was always a haphazard affair until Pasteur, but by the sixteenth century, brewers were making an effort to collect the yeast from one batch to use in others. They were also able to distinguish top-fermenting yeasts from those that settled to the bottom, and much of Germany consciously chose the bottom-fermenting kind.17 For a variety of reasons, including the larger scale of capital and credit involved in commercial beer brewing, the woman’s role in this industry had been sidelined by the early modern period, though more in England than on the Continent.18 For most of our period, however, breweries did not operate on a very large scale. Rural brewers were limited by transportation costs and low populations within a reasonable radius. If they were brewing ale, as most in England did until the late seventeenth century, their product was so unstable that they could not afford to produce much at a time. England identified more than 40,000 commercial brewers in the seventeenth century, the vast majority of them small-scale publican brewers. Their numbers declined only very slowly through the eighteenth century as publicans in and around London relied increasingly on large breweries for their supplies.19 Urban brewers, who were probably brewing beer by the sixteenth century in most of Europe, had a larger customer base and often had access to water transportation, but many towns restricted the size of their operations. Regulations limited the frequency of brewing and the amount produced with each brew. Thus most of the Northern European towns maintained scores of breweries until quite late. London had more than ninety in the late sixteenth century, with more than half still brewing unhopped ale, though these were working on a much smaller scale than the beer brewers.20 Yet over the course of the early modern period, the tendency in most of these towns was for increased production by a smaller number of brewers, as professionals took over the commercial sector.21 25

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Only in the eighteenth century did the scale of brewing begin to change dramatically, however, and then only in large cities, especially London. Brewers by then were relying ever more on hops and ever less on malt as a way to lower costs. Some developed a pale ale, light in color but heavily hopped that aimed at the high end of the market. Others produced a darker beer from malted grains that had been roasted hotter and so more bitter, which required some aging. This beer emerged in the 1720s and slowly gained popularity among, and its name from, the porters who worked the markets of London. The darker color and stronger taste hid imperfections that allowed for a more “rigorous,” “robust,” and “efficient” production process.22 The need for aging, however, favored businessmen with the financial resources to store large quantities of beer for long periods. Within a few decades the brewing industry of London was transformed, with a few large porter brewers emerging to dominate the production and sale of beer in the metropolis. The largest London brewers had produced an average of over 3 million liters in the 1580s. They had more than doubled their output by the 1750s and would nearly double it again by the 1780s.23 Elsewhere, however, and with few exceptions, beer production declined in the face of growing competition from nonalcoholic drink and from spirits.24 With the exception of porter in the last decades of our period, however, most of the production of beer remained artisanal and even domestic. It employed millions of men and women on a small-scale, often intermittent, basis. Beer made with hops had begun in the Middle Ages and definitely triumphed in the early modern period, though its production remained on a largely medieval scale. Outside of Europe, grain fermenting rarely became a commercial activity.

Wine The early modern period may well have produced less wine than either the eras before it or after it. A colder climate in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries had gradually driven grape production south, out of England and Northern Europe, and political disruptions in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries reduced wine production in Italy and western and southern Germany from its flourishing medieval levels.25 Changes in the relative price of beer and wine led to massive shifts in demand for wine, as Germans became overwhelmingly beer drinkers.26 Vineyards in eastern Germany and Austria suffered in the seventeenth century and were certainly disappearing in the eighteenth century.27 Even in France, it has been estimated that the extent of vines was greatest in the thirteenth century.28 Late medieval disruptions had reduced the area of vines in France and, although it would rebound considerably by the end of the early modern period, vines were rarely cultivated with the intensity of more modern periods.29 The modern period has faced its own problems of disease and pests, but it produces more wine on less land and has finally learned to preserve and store wine beyond the year or two that previous centuries could count on. In contrast, the quantity of wine available in the early modern era was limited by climate, war, and spoilage. Nonetheless, the southern and middle tiers of European countries continued to produce wine and, with a growing international wine market, more and more of it was commercially viable. After rising in the sixteenth and into the seventeenth centuries, relatively stagnant wine prices in France through much of the eighteenth century suggest that production had finally caught up with demand.30 26

Production

A great deal of the wine was produced by the viticultural equivalent of the domestic brewer. In much of the southern tier of Europe that produced grapes easily, wine making was part of the subsistence economy and, both there and in the middle tier of Europe that also grew wine, many places were too remote from water transport and too poor in quality to enter any serious commercial networks. In the Middle Ages, this had been the rule, broken only by vineyards located close to towns. The growth of early modern trade would slowly create regions that could devote themselves solely to viticulture, yet a polyculture of vines, fruit, grain, and wood products in various combinations remained a frequent part of the landscape. The peasant in these regions would not be identified as a “vine grower” in contemporary tax records but would have a primitive array of equipment allowing him (and wine making was a far more masculine endeavor than beer making) to convert grapes into a mediocre wine. Much of the wine made in France in 1700 was identified, charitably, in this way (even the “good” wine was probably pretty “mediocre” by modern standards).31 A similar polyculture, or “coltura promiscua,” developed widely in northern Italy during the early modern period and could be found, more generally, throughout the Mediterranean world.32 Where vines grew in a system of polyculture, or in the arid regions of Spain, their density was a small fraction of the roughly 20,000 vines per hectare that certain areas of French monoculture attained in the eighteenth century.33 Yet the price of wine was comparatively cheaper in the Mediterranean regions than farther north, which suggests that much wine was produced even in this non-intensive manner.34 The technology of vine growing was actually quite primitive in most of wine-producing Europe. Vineyards rarely looked like the serried ranks we see today. Rather, vines were generally propagated by “layering” so that a sturdy shoot was buried, while still connected to the mother vine, and encouraged to root and start its own vine. This often led to a vineyard laid out “en foule,” in clumps of vines surrounding a central propagator.35 Such a geometry meant, among other things, that weeding could not be done by plow, requiring instead more handwork with hoe or shovel. It also meant that the neat rows of trellises found in a modern vineyard were not appropriate. Instead, vines were propped up seasonally with movable poles that were then taken down after the harvest.36 Or, in the coltura promiscua of Italy, vines might be planted at the base of trees, which then served as props and agricultural product at the same time.37 Pruning practices varied considerably, depending in part on the kind of supports used (Figure 1.2). The technology of vinification was also generally primitive. In a pre-Pasteur world, winemakers could only guess at important aspects of their craft. Yeasts, in particular, were a mystery. Although beer brewers had learned to “harvest” and apply yeast from one batch to another, winemakers generally relied on ambient yeasts and paid little attention to that aspect of the process. Grapes were harvested earlier than is normal today, resulting in less sugar, color, and maturity. The choice of harvest time had to balance estimates of ripeness against concerns over weather and were generally imposed upon a whole region at one time. Since the wine harvest was subject to various taxes, the imposition of a legal harvest date arose principally from the need to avoid fraud. Little care went into selecting the grapes to pick and to ferment unless the grower was wealthy and desired a better market. Grapes were then subjected to a variety of treatments. If the aim was a red wine they were crushed by foot quickly, either in the cellars in large vats or, in some cases, in barrels out in the vines so that they were already beginning to ferment as they came back to the fermentation vats.38 And, since many vineyards grew both white and red grapes, the two were often mixed together.39 The grape solids, skins, 27

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Figure 1.2  Vine workers in Italy, sixteenth century. The Four Seasons: “Autumn.” Jacobo Bassano (workshop). Bonhams, London/Bridgeman Images.

seeds, and branches were left in the must for various lengths of time, but rarely more than several days. The wine was then drawn off and the solids pressed, usually several times. If the aim was a white wine, the pressing took place as quickly as possible after the grapes were harvested to avoid contact with the skins and solids, and the wine was fermented in barrels. The solids left after the pressings still contained enough color, flavor, and sugar that they were often used again, with the addition of water, to make a thin wine, or piquette, that served the needs of the peasant family or laborers. Winemakers had already realized that a quick pressing and removal of the grape skins also allowed them to make white, or at least “grey,” wine from red grapes. This method of “blanc des noirs” became increasingly popular in Champagne during the seventeenth century, and by the turn of the eighteenth century was a standard practice.40 Pressing also gave the winemaker a range of wine qualities, with the wine from the first pressing being a clearer, lighter liquid than from subsequent pressings that became darker and more astringent. In the case of a white wine, the first, lightest pressing was considered the best, but in the case of red wine, the first pressing lacked the tannins and materials from the solids that allowed it to age well.41 Small-scale vintners probably mixed various pressings to fill their barrels, but larger, more commercial makers could segregate their wines by these qualities. Unfortunately for them, the large majority of vine growers did not own a wine press, both because of capital cost and because many were obliged to use the lord’s press. Access to the lord’s press saved them the expense of purchasing their own but also gave them much less flexibility of use or control over when to press. Thus the refinements of making a clear white wine, particularly from red grapes, were beyond the capacity of most growers. 28

Production

After pressing, the wines were stored, which brought its own series of challenges. A whole cooperage industry had to exist next to the viticultural world to provide new and used barrels and vats.42 If the wine was made in small quantities, as part of a polycultural farm, there was little need for much space and, since it was probably aimed at domestic consumption, little thought was given to its maintenance. Larger quantities, with commercial ambitions, required far more care. Vine growers on this scale needed not only a place to make their wine but also room to store it. The houses in viticultural villages around Paris, for example, were far more likely than the cereal regions nearby to have a first floor dedicated to the wine, with space for habitation above it.43 A “cellier” or “bodega” was generally the first floor of a building, although in warm climates, like Spain, it was best to have it below ground level.44 But wine stored for any length of time posed other challenges. Although vine growers clearly preferred to avoid these by selling their wines as quickly as possible, they could not always do so and even after a sale they sometimes had to maintain the wine until it was picked up.45 Wine in barrels lost volume through evaporation, leaving an air space (ullage) that grew with time and threatened the quality of wine by oxidation and acetification. Vine growers had long ago learned that barrels needed to be topped off periodically, which meant less to sell later.46 Unlike the production of beer, for which a lively grain commerce allowed men and women to brew whether or not they owned land, the ownership of vines was very important to making wine. Thus the study of wine production has to consider the various patterns of ownership that characterized viticultural society. Having begun with the polyculture of small holders who produced for a domestic or, at most, local clientele, we should turn to vine growers who were so identified in the contemporary taxes because vines made up their lives. It was quite unusual for vine growers to own no vines themselves, but many spent the majority of their efforts on the vines of others, generally in a system of sharecropping or of hire. If they were hired, it might be by the task, but for skilled vine growers it was more likely to be a yearly contract to work the lands of others. The question of land ownership was crucial for several reasons. The fact that a vine grower could find full-time work and feed his family from a relatively small amount of land—less than two hectares in some cases—meant that viticultural villages tended to be densely populated. The economic independence that came with the ownership of even small amounts of land also meant that viticultural villages tended to be more economically homogeneous than arable villages, where a few families tended to dominate land ownership.47 Villages that depended on viticulture also had different patterns of house ownership, since vinification required buildings for pressing and fermentation as well as for storage. Economic homogeneity appears to have encouraged a more egalitarian culture in these villages, and land ownership certainly encouraged more geographical stability than in other villages. At the same time, vines were not worked communally, and the vineyard did not become a grazing land open to neighbors, making the viticultural community different from the open field community.48 The fact that vines held out the prospect of a better life to small peasants who could not support themselves growing grain led to the extension of vineyards and their rise in price. The spread of vineyards in the Beaujolais during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries offers one of the best examples of the wealth that viticulture brought to villages and a whole region.49 Unfortunately, however, the urge to acquire vines and the housing to exploit them properly could also lead to vastly greater personal debt, as peasants borrowed to buy vineyards.50 The new plantings in France during the eighteenth century became such a “frenzy” that the 29

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

government passed a series of laws trying, without much success, to limit the growth in this sector. Interdictions complained of land being taken away from grain production, leading to higher bread prices, as well as overproduction of wine, leading to lower wine prices. The fear was certainly overstated; still, even with a growing population, the price of common wine rose more slowly than did prices of other commodities through the century. And yet, the model of small-scale, independent peasant landowners also contributed to a lack of sophistication in production techniques, a lack of innovation, and generally low standards of quality. Early harvests and short maceration of the grape solids resulted in a must of light color and low sugar that usually produced a light wine with low alcohol and little staying power. Wine rarely retained its quality past a first year, if that long, and much of what was produced for private consumption was soon little better than vinegar. To the extent that wine production improved in our period, and we will see it happening in several instances, it was more likely to be by the efforts of larger, better capitalized, and more commercially sophisticated vine owners. These were present, in growing numbers, in the vineyards nearest cities, where wealthy bourgeoisie were buying up the lands in the countryside around them. In general, peasant landholding had reached an apogee in the fifteenth century, so our period begins with a relatively large number of small vine growers. But this changed noticeably over the next three centuries. Although wealthy citizens were slowly beginning to buy up or create larger vineyards in the proximity of cities, such as Lyon, it took them longer to extend their reach out into the countryside.51 In parts of nearby Beaujolais, the land went from being a “peasant monopoly” to a takeover by urban elites during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Along with the arrival of these elite landowners (although not always because of them) came the transition of the economy from a polyculture that included vines to a monoculture dominated by them.52 Studies around Bordeaux identify no late medieval sharecropping for wealthy urban owners and many examples of small, scattered parcels owned by peasants, with very few on a larger scale. The sixteenth century then began to see the rise of new vineyards and new forms of tenure, with merchants and officials in the city employing sharecroppers to work new, larger vineyards.53 But this was a slow process; the area around Bordeaux is still described as a polyculture in the early seventeenth century, with vines present in most properties, but rarely as a monoculture.54 The urban elites of Reims and Dijon were doing the same thing in Champagne and in Burgundy, by creating domains or “clos” of small but coherent vineyards. Something similar had clearly happened by the eighteenth century around Bergerac in southwest France,55 and by 1600, a third of the households paying taxes in Vienna also owned vineyards near the city.56 New planting and larger properties went together with new urban capital in buildings and equipment to gradually create a commercial scale of wine production. Historians of these regions point to urban capital as the source of important innovations in the production of wine and a growing gap between fine and common wines. The classic case for the “advent of quality” is made for the “new French clarets.”57 The region around Bordeaux had a long tradition of selling its clarets to English markets, but these were light red wines, without distinction and best drunk as quickly as possible. When these markets were suddenly closed to them in the late seventeenth century because of wars, and were also limited even after the wars by unfavorable tariffs and changing tastes, clarets were forced to compete with Iberian wines by improving their quality and changing their style. A variety of English sources suggest that refined English consumers were increasingly aware of a range of quality in the wine produced around Bordeaux. Already in the late seventeenth century, 30

Production

certain wines were emerging with a reputation for excellence. The owners of Haut Brion, Margaux, Lafite, and Latour, among others, were doing something that merited a higher price and greater fame. Whereas prices for the best Bordeaux wines in the mid-seventeenth century were only twice that of common wines, the best wines were selling at twelve times the level of common wines a century later.58 Their successes appear to have come from a growing focus on grape quality and selection. With large properties, elite growers were able to identify differences in the quality of their vineyards and to select the best grapes. The winemaker at Chateau Margaux, for example, was talking about using his best grapes for his best wine already at the beginning of the eighteenth century. The pursuit of quality meant deliberately creating a hierarchy of wines on the estate and selling an important fraction at only mediocre prices.59 A similar search for quality in Burgundy at this time was pushing growers to replace a range of red and even white grape varietals going into their wines with the single pinot noir variety, even if a growing monoculture brought its own risks. With smaller domains, however, the Burgundians had more trouble separating different grape qualities.60 We should probably not make too much of the improvements occurring in the eighteenth century. A recent study by Jean-Michel Chevet has challenged the classic work on Bordeaux and its claims for a “revolution” resulting in “new French clarets.”61 Arguing that a hierarchy of vineyards and the wines they produced clearly existed before the urban elites began buying up the best ones, Chevet finds evidence for various grands crus well before the eighteenth century. He points out that the fermentation on the skins described at Chateau Margaux in the early eighteenth century was no different, and certainly no longer, than what was practiced in the Middle Ages, and thus made a wine with no more color or tannins than the traditional claret. The modern technique of fermenting for two weeks would arrive only gradually over the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Without this longer maceration, there was little chance the wine would age well, even if storage techniques improved. The red wines of Burgundy also gained deeper color only slowly through the same centuries and were rarely aged before the Revolution.62 It would also be wise to keep the emergence of a few fine wines in perspective, and to pay heed to the point made by the Parliament of Bordeaux in 1725 that the wine that the English called “great wine and that they buy at an excessive price belongs to twelve or fifteen [owners] and amounts to less than two percent of wine that is shipped or is turned into brandy.” Most of what the region around Bordeaux produced was a range of white wines and went to Baltic consumers. This disparity was even more striking when considering the rest of the French Atlantic coast. Dutch merchants had been encouraging the spread of high-yielding, lowquality vines since the sixteenth century by offering a ready market for cheap white wines, either in their original state, or distilled as brandy—or, frequently, as some mixture of the two. The hinterlands of the Charente River, around Cognac, and of the Adour River, around Condom, turned so enthusiastically to distillation in the seventeenth century that an observer early in the eighteenth century explained that “any peasant with the least resources distills his wine and finds merchants to buy it, which has persuaded everyone to plant vines.”63 Where growers could find a market, either down the rivers to the sea or to a big city like Paris, they responded by planting more vines and producing more wine. The small vine owners in areas supplying Paris switched to high-yield vines like gamay and fertilized them heavily with manure or, along the Atlantic coast, with sea silt to increase yields, but with no improvement 31

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

in quality.64 For many markets, such wine making was adequate, and growers looked only to increase production. They did not need to solve the problem of stabilizing or aging wine either, because urban consumers were willing to drink whatever they got, or because merchants were solving that problem for them. Indeed, some of the most important technical improvements appear to have been introduced by wine merchants, many of them foreigners.65 The ability to age wines in barrels required the use of sulfur to disinfect the barrels before use and careful racking to separate the wine from the lees, sometimes after fining with an agent like egg whites to clarify the wine. But since vine growers in this period, even the elites of Bordeaux, had no desire to keep their wines any longer than necessary, the need to store wines and keep them healthy was felt most urgently by négociants like the English, Irish, and Dutch who handled so much of the Atlantic wine trade.66 Thus some of the earliest evidence for the use of sulfur in Bordeaux comes from documents left by an English agent.67 But the Dutch had already gained some notoriety in previous centuries for “adulterating” wines they had bought through sulfuring or the addition of a sweeter substance—honey, sugar, dried grapes—or simply by increasing the alcohol with brandy. These ideas slowly spread throughout the viticultural world and were practiced by the winemakers themselves by the eighteenth century.68 A good example of how vinification techniques spread from the wine trade to the winemakers is found in Champagne. Within easy access of Paris by river, though dangerously northern as the climate grew colder, the vines on the northern and southern slopes of the “mountain of Reims” had produced a light red wine for many centuries.69 It was often described as mildly fizzy (pétillant), although so were many other wines from northern France if they were drunk early enough. Sources begin to speak of a white, or grey, wine in the seventeenth century that was probably made from red grapes and generally involved a careful selection and blending to achieve a delicate and sophisticated range of flavors. Not surprisingly, this wine was not made by the average grower. Not only did it require grapes from more than a single vineyard, it could only be made with easy access to a wine press, which precluded all but the wealthiest growers.70 Indeed, the local monasteries, such as St Pierre of Hautvillers where Dom Pérignon worked as head of the wine cellars, were well suited to this kind of production. So far, then, the elaboration of this new wine resembled and may even have preceded the improvements found in the making of the superior Bordeaux wines. The other techniques involved in making champagne may have come a bit later. Thus the evidence for racking in Champagne is hard to find before the end of the century, even though it is likely that white wine was clarified in this manner from the beginning. Although its history has been subjected to much mythmaking, there is clear evidence that the wine made in Champagne was without bubbles or, at best, mildly pétillant until quite late in the seventeenth century. Instead, the true bubbly made its name first in England, probably in the 1660s. For a truly bubbly champagne, the wine had to be bottled and properly stoppered. Winemakers did not use bottles to store or age wine in the seventeenth century; rather the bottle was used by merchants to serve and sell wine.71 But the English not only had developed superior bottles and stoppers during the century, they also had a penchant for sweeter wine. So English merchants bottled their champagne and often added sugar or molasses, resulting in a bubbly drink that quickly became a celebrity in Restoration society.72 The fashion took longer to arrive in France, although it became a fad in the early eighteenth century there as well, but winemakers resisted the call for more because of technical difficulties. 32

Production

French bottles were not made as strongly as English ones until later in the century; weak bottles and a shaky understanding of what caused the bubbles led to much breakage. Bottling also required extensive treatment of the wine—at least fining and racking—and stocking for at least six months until bottling in the spring, all of which added to the expense of producing the wine. Even elite vine owners were reluctant to make the investment and expressed a preference for selling their wine quickly and in barrel.73 Thus bubbly champagne, even more than bordeaux, became an enterprise that divided the wine-making world increasingly into ordinary and superior wines. Most of what was sold in Champagne continued to be a light red wine throughout the eighteenth century but, by its second half, more elites growers and brokers were consciously bottling their bubbles. In fact, many of the fine wines that began to get a reputation in the late seventeenth and eighteenth century owed their success to bottles. Bubbly champagne was virtually impossible without bottles, but still wines could also benefit. Bottles not only protected the wine from the harmful effects of oxygen, they also allowed the wine that had sufficient tannins to develop a more complex, softer taste. English merchants were bottling wines from Bordeaux that they had imported in barrels in the late seventeenth century, again as a way of retailing and serving, but there is evidence that they recognized the bottle’s value in storing and aging good wine early in the next century.74 English and, later, French bottle makers established themselves in Bordeaux in order to bottle on the spot; and bottled wine slowly gained a reputation for improving with age. The wines of upper Burgundy, from the slopes north and south of Beaune, also started to age in bottles during the eighteenth century.75 By the end of the century, elite consumers with serious wine cellars could own thousands of bottles of wine.76 Iberian wines developed different remedies for the fragility of their wines. In the seventeenth century when urban demand at Spanish courts warranted the cost of production, they had created a white wine of enough quality that it could be aged. But much of the wine produced in the Spanish interior was common red wine that suffered the limited life of cheap wines elsewhere, and even the whites fell on hard times in the eighteenth century.77 Along the coast, however, the challenges of making wines that could survive shipping had provoked different solutions. Even in the Middle Ages, the wines of the southern coast, around Jerez, had been fortified with must, or with wines concentrated by cooking or evaporating, in order to make a sweeter, stronger wine. At some point, probably in the seventeenth century, producers also began to add distilled alcohol, as it became increasingly available. All of these solutions had the double advantage of increasing the alcohol content of the wine, and thus its shelf life, as well as its sweetness for northern clients who preferred it that way. The more familiar treatments of sherry, such as the solera system of mixing different ages of wine, or the growth of flor in a fino, were later developments in the eighteenth century.78 The wines of Portugal and Madeira experienced similar transformations under Anglo(American) impetus. Each produced white, red, and claret wines of no sophistication, though some of Madeira’s wines had gained a reputation for quality already in the sixteenth century. Innovation established itself with the arrival of English merchants seeking alternatives to French wine at the end of the seventeenth century. The vineyards of northern Portugal, from the Douro Valley, were still primitive and aimed at a local market, but grew rapidly over the next century to supply a new market. When this expansion led to a decline in quality and loss of markets in the mid-eighteenth century, the Portuguese government intervened to enforce the kinds of hierarchies that Bordeaux producers came up with on their own. 33

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Even more significantly, the rising demand and consequent need for wines that could both satisfy English tastes and survive sea journeys led shippers to apply the technique that was already practiced by the Dutch, and probably known to the Portuguese: they added brandy to the wine at several stages of its fermentation and storage.79 Brandy had the effect of increasing the alcohol level and, depending on when during fermentation it was added, the sweetness of the wine, making it stable enough for travel and sweet enough for English tastes. This and other innovations quickly spread through Portuguese viniculture. Madeiran records from various points in the eighteenth century show them quite conversant with the latest techniques of racking, fining, and sulfuring. By mid-century, they were consistently fortifying with brandy, apparently encouraged by their colonial American contacts.80 As shippers quickly learned, however, the addition of brandy made the wines harsh tasting until they had been given a chance to age. Port wine was increasingly aged in barrels and bottles through the eighteenth century. Madeira shippers learned that ocean travel and heat helped age and soften their fortified wines. Because of the dominant role played by northern merchants in the treatment of Iberian wines, this practice of sweetening and stabilizing these wines with spirits became increasingly common. If added to a fermenting wine, the sudden surge of alcohol killed the yeasts and left residual sugar. And, whenever spirits were added, the greater levels of alcohol resisted acetification and other forms of corruption. Thus, the growing availability of spirits, particularly in the eighteenth century, had a major impact on viticultural techniques.

Spirits An important element in the development of Iberian wines, but also in the history of alcohol, is the art of distillation. Certainly known in the Middle Ages, the spirits created by distillation only became a popular drink, and thus an important commodity, in the early modern era. Despite references to aqua vita, or uisge beatha, or brandevin in earlier centuries, the production of spirits remained limited, generally only a medicinal or alchemical activity, until the sixteenth century. The emergence of professional distillers in parts of Germany, France, and the Netherlands during that century makes it clear that a market for spirits had become significant in those regions. Most of the production remained small-scale, however, sometimes a sideline for wine sellers, and there are sixteenth-century references to “old women” producing brandy. Until then, it appears that most spirits derived from distilling wine. The raw material was plentiful, particularly because it needed no quality or even strength. The Germans, Dutch, and Scots also began making spirits from grains, not surprisingly given their production of beer from the same grains. Yet grain spirits were treated with suspicion through the sixteenth century. Harsher tasting than brandy, they were also cheaper to make and associated with poor, often rural, producers who sought to escape urban regulations of the distilling trade. By the seventeenth century, however, flavorings such as juniper berries, restrictions on French wine imports, and careful negotiations with the authorities had combined to legitimize and popularize grain spirits.81 The Dutch taste for spirits appears to have stimulated brandy production in western France, particularly when they imported more than 200 stills into the region around Nantes early in the seventeenth century. Consummate sailors and merchants, they had long sought the sweet 34

Production

white wines of the Atlantic Coast for their own tables and for resale to the rest of Northern Europe. Needing to fortify these wines for transportation, they had learned a variety of tricks, including sulfuring and adding brandy, to “improve” their purchases and had become quite familiar with brandy as both additive and potable. Already familiar with the wines produced in France, they provided a growing market for the brandy produced occasionally by growers of thin white wines that had found no buyers.82 As the market for spirits grew in the next two centuries, especially in northern ports of England and Holland, more and more of the wine produced along the west coast of France was devoted to this end. The area inland of the port of La Rochelle, particularly around Cognac, gradually turned from producing a rather good white wine to making an inferior white from the folle blanche grape that resulted in the best brandies (Figure 1.3). Throughout this period, much of the brandy came from hundreds and even thousands of small-scale producers, who boiled a season’s surplus in one or two stills. Yet, since distillation

Figure 1.3 Distilling in eighteenth-century France, 1763. From the Encyclopédie (Denis Diderot), Planches 3:179. 35

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

concentrated a range of alcohols, fusil oils, and harsh flavors, it produced a drink that could be quite undrinkable. Producers slowly learned that a single distillation produced an unsatisfactory drink and that the second distillation needed to be managed very carefully. The distillate, the condensed vapors from a mild boil, turned quickly from producing desirable alcohols to producing a more objectionable mixture, known as the seconde. As producers in the eighteenth century increasingly sought to produce a palatable brandy for a high-end market, and as they identified a saving in transportation and tariff costs by shipping a more concentrated drink, they began to eliminate the seconde from their product, in much the same way that winemakers learned to sacrifice mediocre grapes to their highest quality wines. This process of purifying and strengthening the brandy was known as rectifying, and only gradually and mostly in the eighteenth century did a few specialists emerge to dominate this activity.83 At the same time, at least by the early seventeenth century, the new world was finding a use for the waste products left from its growing sugar manufacturing. The foam skimmed from the boiling sugar cane and the molasses left as sugar solids drained both had sufficient sweetness to be fermented and then distilled. Here, too, the “low wines” produced by the first distillation were not generally palatable but, by the eighteenth century, were usually distilled a second time. The British islands in the West Indies were producing over 10 million gallons of this rum by the late eighteenth century and were sending enough molasses to the English colonies in North America to make more there. French, Dutch, and Spanish colonies made considerably less.84 Manufacturing was principally a local, small-scale activity associated with the sugar plantation rather than a separate business.85 It allowed plantation owners to extract more profit from their land but did not produce a distinct industry, even though demand for British military purposes grew quickly. A combination of factors at the end of the seventeenth century, including periodic prohibition of French brandy, growing taxation of domestic beer, and loose regulation of the profession, inspired the rapid growth of distilling gin in England.86 Much of this was smallscale production, some of it in the great houses of the elite, and often by brewers who preferred the economics of distilling to brewing. Capital costs were lower than brewing, the price of grain was falling and distillers could make do with grain of inferior quality or that which was left over from brewing. Clearly lots of people jumped into the trade since production grew ten times by the 1740s. Government regulation and bad harvests in the middle of the century reined the industry in, driving out many of the smaller, amateur distillers and reducing production levels. There would be a gradual professionalization of the industry through the end of the century, to the point that, by the early nineteenth century, scarcely two dozen primary distillers were licensed to produce the raw spirits, and only five times that many rectifying distillers produced the finished, flavored product.87 Conclusion Alcohol production continued, throughout the early modern period, to engage a large number and wide variety of people. Whether as a domestic activity or, increasingly, as a commercial profession, alcohol was fermented and distilled by millions of small-scale producers. Alcohol production supplemented the culinary functions of private homes and institutions and the agricultural output of small, polycultural subsistence farmers. It also brought a growing mass 36

Production

of monocultural vine growers and artisan brewers into the market. Only at the end of this period did the capital costs of brewing, distilling, or preparing fine wine begin to separate out a small elite of large producers.

Notes 1. For African drink, see Curto 2004; for the Andes, Moore 1989. 2. Deckers 1970 discusses the nature and historiography of medieval brewing. 3. Monckton 1966, 86. Hops were grown in Anglo-Saxon England but apparently disappeared until their reintroduction in the sixteenth century: Thirsk 1997, 96–103. 4. Muldrew 2011, 74–80, contends that “the assumption that most of the beer drunk was small beer is erroneous,” but admits that estimating the quantity is “very difficult” and relies heavily on evidence from middle- and upper-class consumers. 5. Sambrook 1996, 108–23. 6. Mathias 1959, 376–7. I know of no similar figures for continental production, but suspect that southern Germany lacked a home-brewing tradition as robust as in England. 7. Bennett 1996, 43–51. 8. Deckers 1970, 478. 9. Unger 2004, 48–52. 10. Lindenau 2010, 42; Wasa 2010, 78–83. 11. Unger 2004, 90–103; Behringer 1997, 41. 12. Huntemann 1971, 81–4. 13. Bennett 1996, 84–6; Unger 2004, 135–7. 14. Monckton 1966, 106–7, 121–3. 15. Huntemann 1971, 30–41, 113. 16. Clark 1983, 101–2. 17. Unger 2004, 152–3. 18. Bennett 1996, passim; Unger 2004, 223–8. 19. Clark 1983, 40–8. 20. Bennett 1996, 88. 21. Unger 2004, 171–83. 22. Monckton 1966, 144–6; Mathias 1959, 16–21. 23. Unger 2004, 179; Mathias 1952, 250. 24. Unger 2004, 231–46. 25. Lozato 1977, 95–102; Irsigler 1991, 49–65. 26. Huntemann 1971, 22–3, 55. 27. Schroder 1977, 15–22; Landsteiner 2001. 28. Lachiver 1988, 174. 29. Le Mene 1991, suggests an increase in vines of 60 percent over the course of the early modern period and an average production of 20 hl/ha. 30. With so much variety between years, locations, and qualities of wine, it is probably foolish to offer such a generalization. Certainly there were shorter periods of rising prices at the end of the 37

Alcohol in the Early Modern World seventeenth century and into the eighteenth and near the end of the eighteenth, and prices for good wine in the eighteenth century tended to decouple from the stagnation of common wine. For more precision, see the discussion in Musset 2008, 256–60. See a similar pattern in Lower Austria, in Landsteiner 2004, 274. I wish to thank Erich Landsteiner for his generous help with the bibliography. 31. Musset 2008, 16–17. See Lucacs 2012, for a thoughtful discussion of the invention of modern taste. 32. Gaulin 1991, 108; Larguier 2003, 127–43. 33. Huetz de Lemps 1991, 162. 34. Landsteiner 2016, compares the relative price of wine and grain in eight early modern cities. 35. Durand 1979, 314, argues that the Beaujolais, unlike Burgundy, was more likely to lay their vines out in lines. 36. Corvol 2002, 5–26, notes that this practice was more likely in northern France than the south, because props played a role in protecting the vines from cooler weather. 37. Desplanques 1957, 97–104. 38. Durand 1979, 175–8. 39. Lachiver 1990, 135–42; Pijassou 1980, 309. 40. Musset 2008. 41. Lachiver 1982, 107. 42. See, for example, Roudié 2002, 381–93. 43. Lachiver 1982, 487–93. 44. Huetz de Lemp 1967, 744–5. 45. Brennan 1997. 46. This is already talked about in Estienne and Liébault 1578, 313. 47. Lachiver 1982, 460–81; Landsteiner 2016. 48. The point is well made by Huetz de Lemps 199, 158. 49. Durand 1979, 234, speaks of vineyards tripling and even quintupling the production value of these villages. 50. Brennan 2006, 175–200. 51. Lachiver 1988, 155. 52. Gruter 1977, 83 and passim. 53. Pijassou 1980, 304–19. 54. Coste 2003, 21–34. 55. Beauroy 1976. 56. Landsteiner 2016. 57. Enjalbert 1975. The argument is made most extensively by Pijassou 1980 following on the thesis first articulated by Enjalbert 1953, 315–28, 457–74. 58. Lachiver 1988, 294–305. 59. Pijassou 1980, 478–91. 60. Gadille 1967, 162–3, 433–5. 61. Chevet 2014, 119–42. I wish to thank Jean-Michel Chevet for sharing a draft of this text. 62. Gadille 1967, 188–90, 440–3. 63. Quotes from Dion 1959, 438, 446. 64. Lachiver 1988, 336–41. 38

Production 65. As Enjalbert 1953, 322, put it, “the creation of quality vineyards happened more under the influence of importers than because of the qualities of the terroir.” 66. For a discussion of vinegrowers’ anxiety to divest themselves of their wine, see Brennan 1997. 67. Pijassou 1980, 493–9. 68. Gadille 1967, 453; Chevet 2014; Gough 1998, 74–104. 69. Devroey 1989. 70. Musset 2008, 53–7, notes a sixteenth-century fad among Italian elites for fizzy wine and references to grey wine in the early seventeenth century. 71. Pitte 2013. 72. The story of champagne has been told many times, each one with greater accuracy. For an excellent overview of the historiography, as well as of the history, see Musset 2008, but also see Gandilhon 1968. 73. Brennan 1997 notes that the account books of Malavois de la Ganne make clear his reluctance to go the route of bottling except when he could not sell his wine in the first winter. Bottling was thus a means of storing unsold wine as much as it was an investment in a quality product. 74. Pitte 2013, 111. 75. Gadille 1967, 639. 76. See Pitte 2013, 115–23, for examples. 77. Huetz de Lemps 1957, 403–17. 78. Maldonado Rosso 1999. 79. Duguid 2005, 493–526, suggests that the Portuguese were adding brandy already in the early seventeenth century; Bennett 1990, 221–48. 80. Hancock 2009, 73–89, though he is vague about when these techniques arrived. 81. Forbes 1971; Tlusty 1998c, 1–30; Wilson 2006. 82. Dion 1959, 423–60; DeBruyn Kops 2007. 83. Cullen 1998. 84. McCusker 1989, 228–34. 85. Smith 2005, 17–20; cf. also McMichael’s Chapter 4 in this volume. 86. Wilson 2006, 210–48; Harper 1999. 87. Mathias 1952; Forbes 1971, 192–6.

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40

CHAPTER 2 CONSUMPTION

Phil Withington

In the course of his Trade Revived (1659) the English merchant and Virginian colonist John Bland wrestled with two problems. On the one hand, he looked to explain how “the duty of excise”—that is, taxes on specified retail goods—“may be regulated for the ease and encouragement of this nations commerce, both for the outward exportation and inward consumption of all sorts of commodities.” On the other hand, he sought a “fit means to settle a considerable revenue to maintain the charges of the Government of this Nation.”1 Bland accordingly noted that It is a maxim approved of by wise and judicious men, and esteemed most proper, that when necessity of State requires a duty to be levied upon a people for public occasions, to raise it upon the viciousness of the Nation . . . He explained that “undoubtedly it is most safe for any Government to punish Vice every way, and encourage Virtue; not by burdening the same with Taxes, but if any way, with rewards.” Developing his theme, he continued that There be many examples hereof in foreign parts, as in  Rome, Naples,  and other parts of Italy; where the Princes raise great Revenues out of their Stews, in Spain upon Tobacco in snuff, and other ways taken; then in  Russia  and those parts, where the Emperor gathers into his Treasury a very considerable income out of the Ale-Houses, Strong-water Houses, and sellers of Beer, and is one of the greatest among many in his Dominions, the which is done by these Princes and Potentates, chiefly to punish these Vices to which their people are naturally inclined. It followed that given “we of this Nation [England] are not far behind hand with them in all drunkenness and debauchery . . . where then can Taxes be better laid than upon our Vices?” Bland accordingly proposed that a View be taken of all the thousands of Tap-Houses and Tobacco-shops dispersed in every corner of the Nation, both in the Towns and Cities. And ordering a set number to be admitted in every Town, Village and City, according to each place shall require; and let such be admitted to sell Tobacco, draw Beer, Wine, Strong Waters or Ale, or any potable liquor, as can give caution for their performance; and so upon each . . . to pay a certain sum of money at his admission to keep a Tobacco-Shop [. . . etc. . . .] by way of Fine, and ever after an Annual Rent to the State.

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

Bland assured his readers that “very judicious knowing men” had calculated that this system “will bring into the Nation three hundred thousand pounds per annum.” Moreover such a policy would also reform customary licensing procedures, whereby—according to Bland— local justices of the peace and their clerks currently granted “Licenses to idle people to set up Ale-Houses, the dens of Thieves and Vile Persons, to the Scandal of this Nation.” In this way, the “vicious” consumption of alcohol and tobacco would have “virtuous” consequences, not least by providing the “considerable revenue” required by early modern states.2 This chapter considers the relationship between alcohol and consumption in the early modern period. The ruminations of Bland introduce some of its main concerns. First, and most obviously, he shares the widespread assumption of the time that levels of alcohol consumption—alongside the related consumption of tobacco—were extremely high at once globally, nationally, and locally. In Bland’s exegesis, high consumption rates were common to regions as diverse as the Russian and Spanish empires, the Mediterranean city-states, and northwestern Europe. What varied were the particulars of consumption—in terms of the kind of alcohol people drank, for example, and the type of settings they were consumed in. One challenge for historians, of course, is testing the validity of such a claim empirically. This is a hard enough task today, with public health experts usually resorting to rational “ideal-type” models in order to estimate “average” consumer behavior.3 But it is even more difficult for the past, with historians often resorting to speculative and unconvincing guesses at consumption per capita.4 Another challenge is to recover the local particularities of what was—and remains—a general phenomenon: that is, to establish the rituals, conventions, and practices that shaped consumption across regions and among different social groups.5 This chapter accordingly reviews some of the more recent methods by which historians have attempted both to quantify levels of drinking and to establish its qualitative or cultural dimensions. In the second instance, the main point of Bland’s discussion was that the ubiquity of alcohols made them an ideal commodity to tax. This was by no means a new argument—just as European city-states had long depended on the revenue generated from alcohol excises, so the English monarchy had looked to various fiscal measures in the decades before the 1640s to try and tax alcohols and tobacco efficiently. A starting point of this chapter, therefore, is that in the absence of more reliable data the correlation between taxes and alcohol can often serve as a rough and ready index of the levels of alcohol consumption within particular societies. However, Bland’s intervention was distinguished by two factors that once again raise the issues of geopolitical specificity and change over time. First, he was responding to the relatively new demands of a national fiscal-military state—one that had recently deposed of its monarch (Charles I), conquered its neighbors (Scotland and Ireland), and was heavily invested in imperialist expansion and global militarism.6 Second, Bland made his arguments in the language of political economy—a relatively new field of enquiry devoted to identifying the ways and means by which the costs of modern states could be met.7 The contention of this chapter is that an important feature of this discourse was the coinage of the ostensibly pejorative word “consumption”—traditionally deployed as a medical word for “wastage” and “decay”—as a normative economic term to describe the acquisition and use of goods. What the chapter suggests is that this adaptation of the word “consumption” by political economists over the course of the seventeenth century was linked to the formal recognition that ostensibly “vicious,” wasteful, and harmful habits—like drunkenness—could nevertheless be economically beneficial because of their ubiquity. 42

Consumption

Trade Revived points to the high levels of alcohol consumed in the early modern period as well as some of the institutional and semantic innovations designed to account for and exploit the phenomena by early modern states. In so doing it highlights, thirdly, a distinction drawn by people at the time between two kinds of alcohol consumption. On the one hand, there was the type of drinking described by Bland as “vicious” and so taxable, or, to use the terminology of Bland’s better-known contemporary, William Petty, when alcohols were consumed as “Superfluities tending to Luxury and sin” they “might be loaded with so much Impost, as to serve instead of a sumptuary Law to restrain the use of them.”8 On the other hand, there was the fundamental and entirely legitimate role of alcohols as a source of nutrition, calories, and health within the everyday dietary regimes of many early modern populations, whether in regions dominated by viticulture, brewing, or distilling.9 That is, in the absence of cheap and popular alternative commodities—it was not until the middle decades of the eighteenth century that hot caffeinated drinks became affordable enough to challenge alcohol’s dietary hegemony—alcohols served as staples as well as superfluities. It follows that, as dietary essentials, the consumption levels of alcohols were to some extent a simple function of demographics, whereby changes in the size or structure of populations prompted changes in the amount of alcohol that needed to be produced. However, it was usually “superfluous” and/or “vicious” alcohol consumption that caught the eye of early modern economists and moralists alike. A related dichotomy to the “superfluities” versus “staples” distinction was that made by contemporaries between alcohols produced for commercial retail and alcohols produced domestically for household consumption. Of course, superfluous and vicious consumption could easily take place in the home, and much quotidian and necessitous consumption occurred in public drinking places, in exchange for cash or credit: these categories did not determine each other and were, in any case, eminently contestable. However, political economists like Bland did create degrees of conflation simply by designating superfluous and commercial drinking as legitimately taxable while ignoring necessary and domestic consumption. Moralists concerned at the apparent rise in levels of “drunkenness and debauchery” did the same (which was hardly surprising given the moral underpinnings of political economy). Perhaps as a result of their focus, it is the superfluous and commercial consumption of alcohol—rather than domestic and necessitous drinking of alcoholic staples—that has received most recent attention from early modern historians of alcohol. But the argument of this chapter is that all kinds of alcohol consumption—of staples and superfluities in commercial, domestic, and more indeterminate settings—need to be taken into account if the full extent and complexity of early modern drinking practices are to be appreciated. In order to address some of the complexities raised by Trade Revived this chapter divides into three parts. The next section briefly outlines the semantic history of the term “consumption” and the role of alcohols in its adoption, in the seventeenth century, as a category of English political economy. This adoption marked the modern recognition that apparently “vicious” and “superfluous” habits could nevertheless serve the financial needs of the state. It also reflected the close correlation between affluence, drinking, and taxation that can be found in different places at different times throughout the period, and which intensified rather than diminished as the eighteenth century approached. Section two then surveys three methods by which historians have attempted to quantify the high levels of alcohol consumption that is suggested by the close relationship between alcohol and political economy. These include 43

Alcohol in the Early Modern World

studies of particular alcoholic commodities; of commercial drinking places and cultures; and of patterns in household and personal consumption. Recent work in these areas indicate that the consumption of alcohol not only remained high throughout the early modern period, but that it was actively linked to and encouraged by processes associated with social and economic change: not least urbanization, colonialism, social stratification, and commercialization. The final section then considers early modern polemics against the rise of drunkenness with this trajectory of high and possibly increasing consumption in mind. Such diatribes have often been read as substantiating the orthodox sociological narratives of early modernity: that between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries wealthier members of society were encouraged to turn their back on alcohol in the name of civility, respectability, politeness, industriousness, and other distinctly “modern” attitudes and values. This chapter suggests another reading, that these polemics were reactions to high and very visible levels of alcohol consumption— especially superfluous drinking among the more affluent classes.

The Semantics of Consumption The rise of consumption as a category of historical analysis is one of the defining features of recent early modern historiography. Whereas economic historians a century ago were overwhelmingly concerned with production and the control and distribution of resources, since the 1980s attention has shifted markedly to the demand, acquisition, and variable use and interpretation of things and goods so produced. This chapter does not explain or evaluate this trend (though it is perhaps worth noting the more general “post-structural” turn away from the determining role of structures to the power of agents in their use and interpretation of those structures). Rather it addresses the much more basic point that there has been very little attention paid either to the early modern genealogy of the word “consumption”—out of which the modern conceptual category emerges—or to the contexts in which the word was first assimilated into English political-economic discourse.10 Those studies of the early modern concept that have been made assume a stable—and modern—meaning of the word; perhaps more importantly, they have generally ignored the blindingly obvious point that consumption was a term of medical pathology before it became an economic descriptor.11 Only Roy Porter has dwelt on the irony of consumption’s medical and economic inferences, and even he dismisses the coincidence as an eighteenth-century “pun.”12 This chapter argues, in contrast, that the pathological inferences of consumption were a significant factor in its initial use as an economic—but still moralistic—term in English political economy. As importantly, it suggests that consumption’s eventual establishment as a normative rather than pejorative category of economic discourse reflected two unpalatable facts about early modern alcohol: that “vicious” and “superfluous” drinking was increasing rather than decreasing, and that such consumption could nevertheless be exploited—through taxes—for the common good. The etymology of “consumption” is complex. An Anglo-Norman medical term (consumpcion) referring to the internal wasting of the body, it also invoked the Latin consumption with its intimations of wearing away, destruction, death, and pulmonary tuberculosis. Its use at the beginning of the sixteenth century was delimited by humoral medicine in which the excessive and superfluous ingestion of food and drink was seen to precipitate humoral imbalances and waste—what the influential lexicographer and humanist Sir Thomas Elyot described as 44

Consumption

“wasting, petrification of things.”13 Over 200 years later, Samuel Johnson likewise dwelt on the word’s more alarming connotations: it signified the “act of consuming; waste; destruction . . . the state of wasting or perishing . . . (In physic) A waste of muscular flesh.”14 But in order to illustrate his definition Johnson chose to cite John Locke’s observation that “In commodities, the value rises as its quantity is less and vent greater, which depends upon it being preferred in its consumption.”15 This suggests that, over the course of the seventeenth century, consumption as a term of humoral pathology also became a category of economic behavior—a semantic development made even clearer when the use of the word in travel writings from the 1550s and 1690s is compared. For example, in Richard Eden’s 1555 translation of Pietro Martire d’Angliera’s The Decades of the New World or West India it was noted of the Spanish experiences in Darien that In the night season they were tormented with the biting of bats which are there so noisome that if they bite any man in his sleep, they put him danger of life, only with drawing of blood: In so much that some have died thereof, falling as it were into a consumption through the maliciousness of the venomous wound.16 By the time Cristobel de Acuna’s Voyages and Discoveries in South America was published in English, in 1698, consumption was also standard economic terminology. Acuna noted that locals Undertake even to load Ships entirely with a kind of Fish, which they catch in the Rivers with a kind of Harping-Iron; and this they perform upon such reasonable Terms, that those who follow this trade by their means always find an extraordinary profit in it; because the Vent of ‘em is always speedy and certain in the islands, where there is a great consumption of 'em made.17 This semantic development was closely linked to the emergence of political economy as a distinct field of enquiry from the 1620s if not before. It also coincided with the increasing appearance of “consumption” in printed texts: whereas in the 1530s the word appeared only fourteen times in printed works catalogued and searchable on Early English Books Online, by the 1630s that figure was 682 times and by the 1690s 3,110 times.18 While this is not the place to explore these trends in detail, three points can be made about the discursive rise of the term consumption.19 First, although its increasing visibility in printed texts was linked to its appropriation as a term of political economy, the increase was not caused by this. As late as 1,700 consumption was still used primarily in medical contexts, either to describe specific maladies or to invoke the general symptoms with which consumption had long been associated. Second, however, from an early date, the term “consumption” was nevertheless used metaphorically to describe social rather than human bodies, with its intimations of wastage, decrepitude, and inappropriate ingestion applied to various kinds of social and economic activity and problems. Thus in the early 1530s, Thomas Starkey described depopulation as the consumption of the body politic; and in 1549, a royal proclamation noted that Henry VIII had secured the French port of Bolougne only “with the great adventure of his most noble person, and the consumption of his inestimable treasure.”20 Over the course of the seventeenth century, and especially from the 1620s, this metaphorical usage increasingly supplemented 45

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literal medical references and was one driver of the term’s popularity.21 Indeed, the first printed title page on which consumption appeared was a 1622 royal proclamation “for avoiding the consumption of coin and bullion,” with consumption denoting “unnecessary waste” in general and the illicit melting and refashioning of gold and silver items in particular.22 It was on the basis of its metaphorical significations that, thirdly, consumption became a normative economic descriptor, with English economic pamphlets using the word from the 1620s. Crucially, however, they usually did so when discussing the regulation and taxation of problematic and/or superfluous goods, with consumption forming a triangular and moralistic lexicon alongside taxes and superfluities. “Foreign wares” were one such category of commodity, with authors like Gerard Malynes equating the increasing amounts of domestic money expended on them as an inherent consumption or waste. Excessive use of alcohol was another kind of consumption, as it laid waste to people’s bodies, household incomes, and the commonwealth.23 Imported intoxicants like wine, tobacco, coffee, and “drugs” were especially problematic as they represented both kinds of waste.24 It was out of this particularized and pejorative use of consumption—as a way of thinking about taxes on wasteful “excess and luxury”—that a more neutral usage emerged, consumption eventually describing the generic kind of economic behavior intimated by Locke, with alcohols and imports two types of commodity among many.25 Moreover, in this instance practice to some extent matched prescription. The particular tax regime to which this new discourse related was likewise based on alcohols. When the “Excise or New-impost” was introduced by the English House of Commons in 1643 to meet the extraordinary costs of the civil war, it was retailers of tobacco, wines, beers, ales, cider, and perry who headed the “schedule of charges.”26 This was a tax on all commercial consumption, necessary or superfluous, and was unpopular as a result.27 However, it heralded the shift in England from a demesne to tax-based state.28 A century later, alcohols and other intoxicants provided three-quarters of the revenues collected per annum by the British fiscal-military state.29 It is crucial to note, however, that while alcohol consumption was clearly integral to the formation of the modern fiscal-military state, the excise tax was merely the most recent instance of governors seeking to exploit the drinking needs and habits of their populace. This was certainly true in England, where from the 1560s the crown looked to exploit the nation’s thirst through fiscal measures like customs, monopolies, and licensing. But more tellingly, it was also true of some of the most economically and politically sophisticated communities of the late medieval and early modern eras—in particular the prosperous cities of Germany and the Low Countries. In the German imperial city of Augsburg, for example, alcohols had been taxed since 1360 and were crucial to the governing infrastructure. In the mid-sixteenth century, when the city was at the height of its power and prosperity, the wine tax (“WeinUngeld”) surpassed taxes on property as the city’s most important source of revenue: indeed between 1550 and 1650 wine accounted for 50 percent of city revenues and sometimes as much as 70 percent. Similar patterns are identifiable in other free imperial cities.30 Likewise, Richard Unger has found that in the highly urbanized Low Countries “the share of town income from beer taxes was more important, if not absolutely critical, to their functioning at all.” Just as Haarlem derived two-thirds of its income “from a combination of all taxes on beer sales and production” in the 1550s, so in 1530s Antwerp between around 50 percent and 60 percent of public revenues came from beer alone (the income from wine has not been calculated but 46

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would obviously make the proportion of income from alcohols even greater).31 Such high percentages were entirely typical for the region and suggest that the link between alcohol and tax that fuelled the British state in the eighteenth century simply replicated (albeit in different language) the same configuration that made European city republicanism so durable in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. As Ann Tlusty puts it, in the cities of late medieval Europe “establishing taxes on alcohol proved to be one of the first steps in the shift from domain to tax state.”32

Topographies of Consumption This history of the political economy of alcohol consumption sits somewhat awkwardly alongside conventional narratives of social and cultural change during the early modern era. Both the semantic history of “consumption” and the institutional history of taxation point to the ongoing ubiquity of alcohol consumption across the social spectrum; but historians have not usually taken alcohol to be a significant constituent of early modern consumerism in general or the “consumer revolutions” of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in particular. On the contrary, it is the drive to sobriety that is usually taken to be culturally new and distinctively “early modern,” with the period traditionally depicted as the moment when affluent members of society turned their back on alcohol, especially in its more excessive and superfluous forms. Certainly, a shibboleth of both German and English social history is that it was the unruly, idle and drunken behavior of “the poor” that became the focus of the ire of reformers.33 In the meantime social elites were in the business of distancing themselves from the manners and habits of their subordinates and intent on saving—rather than wasting—their material and moral capital.34 In this story of cultural disassociation, it was not so much alcohol as the range of colonial “soft drugs” that entered the European diet from the “new” world that were the key commodities. From around 1650 coffee, tea, and chocolate provided new forms of sustenance and structured new kinds of sociability that, for the first time in Europe, effectively challenged the dietary and social hegemony of alcohols and made the formation of new kinds of “civil society” possible.35 The result was distinctly reduced and restrained consumption habits consistent with what are still often taken to be the defining legacies of early modernity: the “spirit” of modern capitalism, bourgeois civility, and middle-class “industriousness.”36 It is with this paradox in mind that we can now briefly turn to some of the different ways by which historians have attempted to reconstruct the scale and practice of early modern alcohol consumption: through histories of commodities, drinking places, and domestic economies. Over the last few decades the history of wines, beers, and spirits have all received serious (as well as more populist) historical treatment in a range of European, Middle Eastern, and “newworld” settings.37 This reflects their more general significance to early modern economies— an importance that becomes more apparent if the corresponding literature on “new world” intoxicants like tobacco, chocolate, and coffee is also taken into account. Although historians have a tendency to assume that the rise in colonial comestibles from the seventeenth century undermined the economic importance of alcohols, the history of commodities does not bear this out. The first successful import—tobacco—emerged not as an alternative to alcohols but as a catalyst for greater alcohol consumption: it quickly became a “bundle good” that was imbibed along with beers, wines, and spirits.38 The subsequent arrival of hot caffeinated beverages may 47

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well have served as an alternative staple by the early eighteenth century. Until then, however, it is not at all clear just how much tea, coffee, and chocolate were available to be consumed or, indeed, who was doing the consuming. Certainly, the rise of the coffeehouse in the later seventeenth century should not be equated with the easy availability or popular consumption of coffee.39 Moreover, while there was an inordinate amount of discourse about these new products, it is not the case that they were simply presented as “sober” alternatives to alcohol in the way that historians of the “public sphere” have tended to assume. On the contrary, Brian Cowan and Marcy Norton have each been at pains to show how chocolate and coffee could represent new forms of exotica and danger in ways that complemented rather than challenged the intoxicating powers of alcohols.40 But even more of a challenge to this story of the relative economic decline of alcohols— and so their centrality to premodern and pre-capitalistic rather than modern economies—is the history of alcohols themselves. These show that, throughout the late medieval and early modern eras, alcohols were always in the vanguard of commercialization and “modernization,” whether locally, nationally, or trans-nationally.41 Indeed when viewed in the round the history of a commodity like beer bears more than a passing resemblance to the history of the middle classes: at any given moment it can be found to be rising. Unger has demonstrated, for example, that the remarkable prosperity of medieval and early modern cities in the Low Countries and Northern Germany was to a large extent based on the commercial production, marketing, distribution, and retailing of beers. Commercial brewing was a facet of early modern urbanization precisely because it was “a type of industry typical of the early modern period and one which offered a foundation for much of the development of the Industrial Revolution.”42 Judith Bennett has told a similar story in a different way, arguing that the changing sociology of brewing nicely illustrates the way in which premodern women were invariably excluded from commercial and lucrative work. Bennett argues that in England c. 1300 brewing was primarily a domestic, local, and humble occupation dominated by women. Three hundred years later it had transformed into a commercial, large-scale, and extremely profitable trade dominated by men.43 This transformation of English brewing came in the wake of continental developments and was due largely to the importation of Dutch skills, techniques, and labor during the sixteenth century.44 But whereas production levels had reached a kind of hiatus in German and Dutch towns by the eighteenth century, Peter Matthias long ago showed that the English brewing industry continued to expand.45 These divergent trends reflected, in turn, more general economic trajectories. Just as English rates of urbanization began to eclipse continental levels in the decades after 1700, so English brewing continued to commercialize and capitalize at a rate that dwarfed previous stages of expansion. As the rise of the British state testifies, enhanced beer production and modernization went hand in hand. A wine like Madeira involved very different production processes and was trafficked and consumed in a very different trading zone from those of German and Dutch beer. However, its history leads to broadly similar conclusions about the relationship between alcohol consumption and early modernity: that “modernization” encouraged rather than diminished the thirst for alcohol. David Hancock has shown, for example, that Madeira was a quintessential imperial commodity between 1640 and 1815, and that during the long epoch in which imports like caffeine and chocolate were eventually established as staples in the European diet, the energies of English-speaking merchants, in conjunction with the pervasive demand for wine among both American settlers and colonial communities in India and Asia, simultaneously 48

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made for a veritable “golden age” in the export trade in Madeira.46 In mapping the structure and chronology of this trade, Hancock also demonstrates the variety of pressures and factors that inevitably shaped consumption. The American taste for Madeira was in part informed by mercantilist policies that restricted rival imports—most importantly wine from France—and in part by the success of producers and buyers in developing trading networks that helped shape and were responsive to the predilections of consumers, a development also found by Thomas Brennan for the marketing of French Burgundy wine.47 It was only following the American Revolution that Madeira’s share of the American market fell dramatically, as Americans turned to the French wines they had previously been denied; a trend that coincided with wines in America transmuting from a relatively popular commodity to one identified with luxury and opulence. In the meantime, demand for Madeira elsewhere in the empire meant that exports from Europe continued to surge. Like wines, ports and brandies, that is, Madeira demonstrates that the first great era of colonial imports into Europe hardly spelled the long-term demise of alcohol production and consumption. On the contrary, imperial expansion and global commerce created new markets for alcohols as both staples and superfluities. Moreover, it did so not merely for the poorer classes and those indigenous populations usually tarred with accusations of recalcitrant and recidivist drunkenness.48 Rather these new markets were also based on the drinking habits of “respectable” and affluent social groups, with alcohols continuing to demarcate relative levels of wealth, status, and taste across the whole of the social spectrum. If the history of commodities suggests a close relationship between alcohol, affluence, and taxes, then so, too, does the history of public and commercial drinking places.49 This is certainly true of early America, where Peter Thompson has demonstrated the vitality and wider social and political importance of colonial taverns.50 It is also true of Europe, where a number of rich and influential studies of public drinking places have demonstrated the centrality of alcohol consumption to everyday life. Ann Tlusty has shown that public drinking in sixteenth-century Augsburg was integral to the lives of rich and poor alike; that where, what, and how people drank closely accorded with their social status; and that conspicuous consumption was more likely to be a badge of affluence than a source of consolation.51 The same concern for commercial drinking places has also shown that the consumption of alcohol became more rather than less prominent with the pressures—and opportunities—of “modernization.” Thomas Brennan found that in the century or so after 1689 “the trade in alcohol in Paris was quite sophisticated and increasingly complex.” Just as the “city’s enormous appetite for wine” offered vast commercial opportunities, so the number of public drinking places increased significantly and “the kinds of shops selling alcohol diversified dramatically, both in their wares and their décor.”52 Venues ranged from the traditional tavern and cabaret to the novel café (the first opened in 1672), cheap guinguettes, and mostly unlicensed beer shops. Brennan notes that the initial popularity of the café was less to do with coffee, which remained a scarce and acquired taste until the eighteenth century, and more to do with the brandies and liqueurs sold there.53 Although more work needs to be done, it is likely the same was true for the English coffeehouse (the first to open was in 1651). Indeed in England from around 1600 the combination of more rigorous licensing, demographic pressures, urbanization, and new commodities—including hop-based beer (as opposed to ale), tobacco, and a greater selection of wines and spirits—led to an enlarged topography of commercial drinking that perhaps surpassed even that of France.54 49

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These developments clearly resonate with the stories of consumption, taxation, and commodities outlined above. They are also a reminder that, insofar as there were changes in public drinking over the course of the period, these did not involve Europe’s social elites simply withdrawing from public drinking or even consuming less alcohol per capita over time. The public consumption of alcohol was not left to the marginal and the poor. Rather, there was a diversification in the kind of public environments in which to drink and socialize that was accompanied by the stigmatization—and concurrent valorization—of certain kinds of place and clientele over others. This is never better evidenced than by the great iconic image of early modern reformism. In “Gin Lane,” William Hogarth memorably depicted the horrors of alcohol addiction and invoked the pathological provenance of the word consumption: it is a landscape of intoxicated women, dead babies, emaciated men, and flourishing pawnbrokers. But Hogarth meant “Gin Lane” to be viewed alongside “Beer Street,” which presents a contrary and idealized vision of urban life that is, nevertheless, quite as dependent on public drinking as “Gin Lane.” In “Beer Street” it is the alehouse— with its freshly painted sign—that serves as the center of a neighborhood that is industrious, portly, jovial, and prosperous: a place in which a normative conception of consumption is institutionalized, and in which the consumption of alcohol remains integral (Figures 2.1 and 2.2). None of which is to say that distilled liquors were an innovation of the eighteenth century, of course. From the fifteenth century at least, they were produced ostensibly for medicinal purposes: but once drunk recreationally, and so denuded of their medicinal value, they became the quintessential alcoholic superfluity and a potential social problem— certainly if drunk by the wrong sort of person. And as usual this process happened late in England, the so-called London “gin craze” echoing a complex politics of consumption that had been played out in Central Europe since the 1500s.55 What Hogarth was especially adept at capturing was the politics of gender that informed vicious or legitimate consumption. Certainly, much of the polemical power of “Gin Lane” is its representation of gin’s mutilation of the domestic: the central female character is not cured by the spirit, as intended, but rather sprawls paralytic outside the pawnbroker, her maternal and nurturing duties forgotten. While this tapped into a deep early modern aversion to women drinking inappropriately in public, it should not imply that alcohol consumption was the preserve of men or that domestic and feminine spaces were envisaged as alcohol free. Just as the fishwife in “Beer Street”—industrious, literate, civil—clutches her tankard as if by right, so alcohols played a prominent part in household economies and practices. Hancock argues, for example, that Anglo-Americans consumed Madeira primarily in the home: until the last decades of the eighteenth century it was a household comestible dispensed and drunk by men and women as a medicine and source of nutrition; for refreshment and hospitality; and as a badge of status.56 These consumption patterns merely replicated old-world domesticity. The household accounts of the L’Estrange family of Norfolk from the early seventeenth century confirm Joan Thirsk’s contention that early modern diets were high in meat, bread, and alcohol.57 More to the point, they suggest that while wealthy men were more likely to spend disposable income on alcohol and sociability outside the house, the tasks of early modern housewifery such as distilling, brewing, cooking, and medicine were also saturated with alcohol.58 The patterns recovered from the L’Estrange accounts by Jane Whittle and Elizabeth Griffiths are telling. The L’Estrange household (of family and servants) consumed about 8 pints of beer per day per adult; brewing was overseen by the mistress of the house, 50

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Figure 2.1  Hogarth, “Gin Lane.” Engraving, London, 1751.

first in her kitchen and then in a renovated brewhouse; and the family even began growing their own hops in 1622.59 In a single year, 203 gallons of wine might be bought, mostly for seasonal and ritual consumption, such as Christmas and christenings; and it is striking that while a range of drinking glasses was regularly purchased, from everyday “rough glasses” to “high Venice glass,” the majority of what was spent on glassware was for “storage containers for distilled concoctions such as rose water and aqua vitae, the uses of which were both culinary and medicinal.”60 However, the dietary importance of alcohols was not limited to affluent households, nor did it decline over time. Between 1650 and 1750 the number of Kentish farmers’ inventories (i.e., lists of goods recorded at death) with brewing or cider-making equipment increased from 33 percent to a remarkable 79 percent.61 Likewise Craig Muldrew has argued that, throughout the early modern period, the primary role of ale and beer as a source of calories meant that the alcohol consumption of those householders involved in manual and laboring work must 51

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Figure 2.2  Hogarth, “Beer Street.” Engraving, London, 1751.

have been higher than other social groups. Drawing on a range of data, Muldrew estimates that men from humble backgrounds doing moderate amounts of work drank 4 pints per day and women 2 pints as a staple; men involved in heavier agricultural work drank between 6 pints to over a gallon; and Muldrew joins the herbalist Thomas Culpepper in observing that those doing the heaviest labor, such as “common porters, coal heavers, chairmen, chiefly exist on them [ale and porter] drinking some four gallons a day.”62 Of course, such quotidian drinking need not happen in the home: it could be at the place of work or in a licensed venue, such as the alehouse; it could also be within institutional settings that do not easily correspond to public/private distinctions. Just as Hancock points to the high rates of alcohol consumption in “quasi-domestic spaces” like churches, colleges and hospitals, so Muldrew traces alcohol provision in army and naval companies, prisons, and houses of correction.63 Once the full range of corporate institutions is also taken into account—from guilds and 52

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urban corporations to legal and political institutions to schools, clubs and societies—then the vast topography of early modern drinking becomes clear.64 More to the point, for moralists, these spaces did not seem to witness a decline in consumption levels over time. On the contrary, they allowed the reproduction of old vicious habits and—as importantly—were the harbingers of new ones.

Cultures of Consumption This was certainly the view of the lawyer and puritan controversialist William Prynne, who in 1628 deployed his considerable rhetorical skills to critique and explain the “modern” obsession with superfluous drinking.65 Prynne’s treatise, called Health’s Sickness, can be read in a number of complementary ways: as a showcase for his lawyerly prowess and broad biblical and humanist learning; as a notable contribution to a very current debate about drinking habits within London; and as a quintessential example of the more general “reformation of manners” that has been found to have been waged in England during the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.66 Insofar as the current discussion is concerned, however, two further features of Prynne’s text should be noted. The first is that it replicated in English a tradition of moral critique that had characterized German print culture over the previous 100 or so years. As Tlusty notes in her study of Augsburg, printed attacks on public and superfluous drinking were never more strident than when levels of alcohol consumption were highest in the city, and these periods of high consumption also tended to coincide with and contribute to more general urban prosperity. Tlusty accordingly explains the printed obsession with drunkenness as a “moral panic” or “folk devil”—it was an ideological construct providing a focus for fears of social disorder, especially among “non-dominant” groups, that was at odds with the reality of drinking as a normative feature of social relations. As she puts it: “Drunkenness the idea meant excess, sin and worship at the devil’s altar, but the drunkenness of reality often resulted from nothing more than participation in acceptable drinking rituals.”67 But a second feature of Prynne’s text suggests that, in seventeenth-century England at least, the theory of “moral panic” obscures a simpler and more transparent dynamic at work. Even a cursory reading of Prynne’s text shows that the main focus of his ire was not social subordinates; it was England’s social elites. Moreover, his express aim was not to fetishize or marginalize drinkers; it was to outline precisely those “acceptable drinking rituals” that made what Prynne described as “modern” drunkenness normative. As a certain kind of puritan, Prynne clearly viewed drunkenness ideologically, as sinful and depraved. But as a fairly shrewd social observer, he was also interested in “why men are now so much infatuated with this so odious, execrable and unpleasant sin.”68 In his attempt to provide an answer, Prynne identified a number of cultural factors that not only complement the story of alcohol consumption outlined above but also provide a useful framework for understanding early modern drinking practices more generally. One explanation centered on the problem of authority. On the one hand, there was a reluctance on the part of “Justices, magistrates and inferior officers” to regulate behavior. Indeed, “If Justices and Magistrates were as diligent to suppress and pull down Drunkenness and Alehouses, as they are industrious and forwards to Patronize and set them up . . . the wings of Drunkenness would soon be clipped.”69 On the other hand, there was the problem of example and emulation: 53

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far from being the preserve of the poor, bad habits were learned by the poor from the rich. Prynne argued that The ill example of some great men, Gentlemen, clergymen, and others, who instead of being patterns of temperance and sobriety unto inferior and mean persons, are oft times made their presidents and plot-terms of Drunkenness and excess; transcending them in inebrious, riotous, debauched, intemperate, and licentiousness, as far as they exceed them in their place and dignity.70 This failure of the governing elites coincided with another set of factors that Prynne styled “the Art of Drinking.”71 By this he meant the conventions, rituals, and tacit or institutionalized social practices involving the consumption of alcohol; and also the skills, deportment, and social knowledge required by individuals to participate in ritualized behavior. The “drinking of Healths”—the main focus of the whole polemic—was just such a “rite,” Prynne noting that it “was never practiced among godly Christians in former ages . . . Nay, it was never used nor practiced in our own Nation, for ought that we can hear or read of, till latter times.”72 Since its establishment as a normative practice, however, “this idle, foolish, heathenish, prophane and hellish Ceremony, of beginning, seconding and pledging Healths” had become as socially ubiquitous as it was socially damaging. And this was precisely Prynne’s point. He did not need to invent “folk devils” or (as he put it) “to dive into the depths and mysteries of the black, the heathenish, the exorable, and Infernal Arts of Drinking, in which I was never learned nor experienced.” Rather it was the rituals and ceremonies of everyday sociability that were “the Bawd and Pander unto Drunkenness.”73 If Prynne was perceptive in recognizing the ritualized basis of consumption—of understanding the consumption of alcohol as a quotidian and ubiquitous “art”—then his discussion of language was even more suggestive. In his analysis, “the reason of the increase and growth of drunkenness, are those many specious, beautiful, popular, amiable and bewitching names and titles wherewith this ugly, odious and filthy sin, together with the Practitioners, Patrons and Abettors of it, are beautified, guilded and adorned.”74 This contrasted with “those common terms and mottos of ignominy, scorn and reproach . . . cast upon the graces of temperance and sobriety.”75 Not only had drinking and drinkers monopolized all the affirmative vocabulary used by contemporaries to describe legitimate sociability; their alternatives and critics had become pejoratively stereotyped as socially marginal and, indeed, actively antisocial in the process. Thus Prynne explained that Drunkenness is now shrouded (nay countenanced, defended, justified, and applauded) under the popular and lovely titles of hospitality, good-fellowship, courtesy, entertainment, joviality, mirth, generosity, liberality, open housekeeping, the liberal use of God’s good creatures, friendship, love, kindness, good neighbourhood, company-keeping, and the like. As a result, “drunkards took the epithets of good fellows, wits; Poets; courteous, sociable, merry, jovial, and boon-companions.” In the meantime, purveyors of temperance and sobriety were deformed, vilified, derided, sentenced, condemned, and scoffed at, under the opprobrious and disdainful names of puritanism, preciseness, stoicism, singularity, unsociableness, 54

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clownishness, rudeness, baseness, melancholy, discourtesy, pride, surliness, disdain, coyness, and what not.76 The newness of these semantic configurations is, of course, a moot point: it is a standard trick of moralists of any period to depict the present as much worse than the past. But what is clear is Prynne’s appreciation of the structural power of language at once to normalize superfluous drinking and to stigmatize its opponents. None of which is to claim that Health’s Sickness should be relied upon as an accurate or disinterested description of how people consumed alcohol in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. On the contrary, Prynne’s polemic is a nice reminder that one of the perennial challenges for cultural historians is to establish how representations of phenomena—in this case drunkenness—related to social practice. What it does do is two things. First, it identifies the kind of factors that shaped the consumption habits of men and women across the early modern world—not least the regulative energies of governors and reformers; the cultural dispositions of elites and the willingness (or not) of subordinates to emulate them; the nature of social “rites” and “ceremonies”; and the power of language to valorize, stigmatize, and redescribe practices and habits. These are useful tools with which to recover the dynamics of alcohol consumption across time and space. Moreover, historians have shown that they can be applied to a range of source materials that lend themselves to ethnographic and qualitative analysis—in particular the legal records and depositions used by Tlusty and others to recover the spatial, ritual and linguistic dimensions of drinking.77 Second, the oppositional lexicons outlined by Prynne clearly resonate with the kind of cultural politics that have been found to characterize communities during the early modern period. Certainly, an important component of the “reformation of manners” was the attack on precisely the kind of communality and sociability designated by Prynne as drunken. The additional inference of Prynne’s account, however, is that it took two to tango: it was high levels of alcohol consumption that precipitated—or at least served as a context for—critique and reform. This is also the import of recent work on male sociability, which has highlighted, among other things, the importance of the new “arts of drinking” to masculine identities across the social spectrum: not only among laborers and artisans but also students, lawyers, literati, soldiers, gallants, virtuosi, and wits.78 Indeed, Angela McShane has recently argued that the ritual of healths with which Prynne was especially concerned really were borrowed from the continent and popularized in England over the course of the period.79 Certainly, a legal deposition from York recorded a year after Health’s Sickness was published suggests that Prynne’s polemic was not merely the work of overheated rhetoric. When asked to describe the character of Anthony Carthorne, a minor legal official who had been called to be a legal witness in the ecclesiastical courts in the city of York, the laborer Thomas Martin explained that Carthorne was and is such a person as is termed a good fellow, and such as one will keep company and spend his money with his friends, the which he endeavours to refrain as much as he can but that he is drawn away some time by his friends and wits and is such as one as used to go to alehouses and drink hard sometimes, in so much that . . . he hath sometimes been so overtaken with drink, as that he was not fit to keep company any longer. 55

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To illustrate the point Martin told a story of Carthorne “drinking in the house of Mr. Whalley within the parish of St Sampson’s with some company at which time a wager was laid, about the striking the top of the house or chamber where they were with their feet.” Carthorne succeeded and demanded the wager, whereupon some quarrel cross betwixt him and some of the said company which was with him, and being moved onto the street they began to fight, whereupon the constable of that parish came and set both him and the rest of the company in the stocks in the Thursday Market.80 The correlation between the language of everyday social description and Prynne’s evocation of the “infernal arts of drinking” is striking. Conclusion This chapter has suggested that early modernity involved high levels of alcohol consumption— levels that were due as much to the habits of the affluent as the impoverished and marginal. Alcohol was consumed as both a staple and a superfluity in a variety of domestic, corporate, and commercial settings; and the evidence points, if anything, to this becoming more rather than less the case over time. The argument has been made not by corralling estimates of the volume of wines, beers and spirits consumed per capita over time—a well-nigh impossible task at the best of times. Rather it has considered a variety of factors and historiographies that shed light on the consumptive behavior of early modern men and women. The history of political and household economies; public and commercial drinking places; commercialization and commodification; the language, rituals, practices, and politics of drinking: all suggest a sustained and perhaps increasing demand for alcohols that belies the orthodox narrative of an increasingly temperate and even sober “civil society.” Likewise, the emergence of powerful and durable moral critiques of drinking and drunkenness after 1500 may well have reflected an ideological impatience with superfluous consumption and its associated sins; but it was also a reaction to the way alcohol lubricated most aspects of early modern life. While this implies an essential continuity with the medieval era—when alcohols were also significant—it is a continuity that nevertheless depended on alcohols remaining superfluities and staples in diverse and changing circumstances. Whether in the fifteenth or the eighteenth centuries, alcohols were in the vanguard of early modern commercialization and political organization; they were also integral to new modes of sociability and domesticity. Viewed in these terms, the durability of alcohol consumption obscures significant change—an irony never better demonstrated than by the semantic history of consumption itself. Its normalization as a term of political economy can be understood, in turn, as part of a more general and recurring cultural shift whereby the gratification of superfluous and vicious appetites was regarded as economically and politically beneficial, if not socially desirable. If the late medieval urbanism of Germany and the Low Countries are one example of this, then England’s burgeoning imperial state is another. As Paul Slack has argued, in 1600 the legitimate “contentation of our desires”—as Richard Hooker defined “happiness” in 160481—conventionally revolved around spiritual fulfillment and public service to the commonwealth. By 1700 it was the “analysis of 56

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the appetites, passions and interests, which should deliver economic and other public benefits” that had become a valid subject of political economy.82 As Bland and Petty both testify, superfluous drinking was nothing if not the quintessential “vicious” habit with which to fill the public coffers. The result was that the early modern demand for alcohol played a significant role in fixing consumption as the economic category with which we are familiar today.

Notes 1. Bland 1659, 48. 2. Bland 1659, 48–9. 3. Meier et al. 2010, 383–93. 4. See for example Martin 2009, 61–72. 5. Withington 2014b. 6. Braddick 2000. 7. Slack 2007, 2009. 8. Petty 1662, 37. 9. Davis 1997; Wrightson 1981. 10. For a more detailed discussion of these points see Withington 2020a. 11. See for example Appleby 1993; Slack 2007. 12. Porter 1994. 13. Elyot 1539, translation of “tabo” (gore). 14. Johnson 1775, “consumption.” 15. Johnson is quoting John Locke, 1692, 46. 16. Martire d’Angliera 1555, 122. 17. de Acuna 1698, 63. 18. If this trend is expressed as a proportion of all printed texts—in order to account for the increase in the aggregate number of texts printed between 1473 and 1700—then until the 1550s well under 1 percent of English printed texts contained the word consumption; the percentage began to rise significantly from the 1560s, reaching a peak of nearly 4 percent in the 1610s and 1620s; it fell back to below 1.5 percent in the 1640s (when there was a huge increase in the volume of print because of the civil wars); before rising again sharply in the 1650s and 1660s to pre-Civil War levels. 19. See Withington 2020a, 388–93. 20. Starkey ca. 1534 (1948), 60, 1549. 21. The figure to fix the metaphor in economic discourse was Gerard Malynes, one of the main progenitors of English political economy in the 1620s. Malynes used the word consumption much more profligately than his fellow economic writers, such as Thomas Mun and Edward Misselden, and in at least ten of those instances Malynes used the word metaphorically. See Malynes 1622a, b, 1623; Mun 1621; Misselden 1623. 22. James I 1624. 23. Malynes 1622b; Robinson 1641, 5, 9, 23–4; Parker 1642, 1, 25. 24. Manley 1669, 6. 25. Malynes 1623, 109; Bland 1659, titlepage; Petty 1662, 11. 26. An Ordinance of the Lords and Commons 1643, 15–17. 57

Alcohol in the Early Modern World 27. Ashworth 2003, 106. 28. Chandaman 1975; Braddick 1996. 29. O’Brien 1998, 11; Chartres 1990, 324. 30. Tlusty 2001, 177–8, 2014. 31. Unger 2004, 198. 32. Tlusty 2014, 26; Coffman 2013. 33. For critical outlines of these narratives see Tlusty 2001, 6–7; Withington 2011a, 632–5; Hailwood 2014. 34. For England the story is most powerfully and influentially told in the work of Keith Wrightson. See Wrightson 2003; Wrightson and Levine 1995, 136–41. 35. Goodman 2007, 132; Smith 2007, 154–5; Courtwright 2001. 36. Weber 1992; Elias 2000; De Vries 2008. 37. For suggestive discussions see Schivelbusch 1993; Sherratt 2007. 38. Withington 2013a. 39. Withington 2020b. 40. Cowan 2005; Norton 2008. 41. Brennan 1997; Withington 2020a, 400–3. 42. Unger 2004, 3. 43. Bennett 1996. 44. Luu 2005. 45. Mathias 1959. 46. Hancock 2009, 117, 133. 47. Brennan 1997, 272–80. 48. Mancall 1995a; Warner 2004; Earle 2014. 49. The classic study is Peter Clark, 1983. 50. Thompson 1999. 51. Tlusty 2001. See also Kümin 2007; Kümin and Tlusty 2002. 52. Brennan 1988, 77. 53. Brennan 1988, 78–89. 54. Withington 2013a. These issues are explored in an ESRC-funded project, “Intoxicants and Early Modernity”: www​.intoxicantsproject​.org. 55. Tlusty 1998c; Warner 2004, 36–42. 56. Hancock 2009, especially chapters nine and ten. 57. Whittle and Griffiths 2012, 88. 58. Whittle and Griffiths 2012, 209, 12; Thirsk 2007. 59. Whittle and Griffiths 2012, 76. 60. Whittle and Griffiths 2012, 90–1, 99, 141, 143. 61. Overton et al. 2004, 57–60. 62. Muldrew 2011, 70, 124–8; Campbell 1956, 111. 63. Hancock 2009, 294; Muldrew 2011, 124–8. 64. Sennefelt 2014; Withington 2014a, 155–60.

58

Consumption 65. Prynne 1628. 66. Withington 2011a, 631–41. 67. Tlusty 2001, 10. 68. Prynne 1628, A2r. 69. Prynne, B2r. 70. Prynne, B3v. 71. Prynne, B3r. 72. Prynne, 9. 73. Prynne, B3r. 74. Prynne, Bv. 75. Prynne, B3r. 76. Prynne, B3r–B4v. 77. Tlusty 2001, 94–6; Brennan 1988; Withington 2007, 291–307. 78. Tlusty 2001; Raylor 1994; O’Callaghan 2007; Withington 2011b; Lecoutre 2011; Hailwood 2014, 178–97. 79. McShane 2014. 80. BI, CPH 1823 (1629); see also Hailwood 2014, chapter three. 81. Hooker 1604, 77. 82. Slack 2007, 630.

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CHAPTER 3 REGULATION

Matthew Jackson

The regulation of alcohol is a typical starting point for historians interested in early modern drinking cultures. Why? Because the language employed in legislation—controlling what type and at what price alcohol was made available; how the resulting revenues were distributed and taxed; where this activity legally and illegally took place; how and by whom alcohol was produced, retailed, imported and exported; and how and when customers could consume it— provides immediate access to the structures of the drinks industry and their evolution across different geographical and chronological contexts. Yet, these structural evolutions—inherently affected by the changing social, cultural, political and economic climates of the time—also enrich historians with information on the larger story of early modern transformations. Examining the shifting controls on alcoholic drinks and drinking establishments provides not only a history of their regulation but also the history of developments in social, political and gender hierarchies; the emergence of state formation; the professionalization and bureaucratization of industry, trade, and production; and changing attitudes towards the poor and popular culture. The study of regulation also provides a privileged perspective from which to conduct comparative assessments of drinking cultures. Systems of regulation across England, France, Italy, and Germany shared similar priorities, for example, but were importantly not identical. As the product of different mindsets regarding the perceived role of drinking houses and alcohol within different geographical contexts, these idiosyncrasies equip historians with a tool to distinguish the social and cultural characteristics of a given region or locality. This chapter seeks to offer an example of some of the illuminating aspects offered by the history of alcohol regulation within and across the drinking cultures of early modern Europe.

Price, Measures, and Quality Historians commonly describe the regulation of alcohol and drinking houses as one of the largest “social dramas” of the early modern period and can easily find support for their claims among the reams of administrative records held in archives across Europe.1 Yet, while the abundance of legislative documents suggests that the control of alcohol was a significant preoccupation of the governing elite, the precise nature of this social drama remains a topic of debate. Orthodox historiographical assessments tended to frame alcohol regulation as a “moralistic attack” and a “militantly hostile” campaign in which secular and ecclesiastical officials joined forces with a rising “middling sort” to reform the poor and their disorderly drinking.2 This classic view is increasingly giving way to research stressing the ambivalence of regulation. The struggle experienced by central government, city magistrates, and parish constables in the regulation of alcohol was not, for example, exclusively the product of their drive to prohibit the availability of

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drink or to impose a restrictive culture of alcohol consumption that adhered to the moralistic zeal of godly reformers. That government statutes and local ordinances continued to ensure alcohol of wholesome quality was retailed in true measures and priced at affordable and honest rates should remind historians that authorities could also view alcohol as a positive social force within communities, even during periods of intensive religious opposition to drinking houses. As such, official concerns to ensure that customers were provided good quality and reasonably priced drink suggests that defending a customer’s access to drinking house services could be as important an issue in local administration as the necessity to “reform” drinking behaviors.3 Ale, beer, wine, and other ordinary drinks were essential sources of nutrition that fueled laborers during their working days and provided a relatively inexpensive form of sustenance to bolster the meager diets of the poor. The attempts of the governing elite to monitor the cost and quality of alcohol sold within establishments must be viewed at least in part, then, as evidence supporting the authorities’ exercise of paternalism. Alcohol tasters and measuring officials were important agents in this sense, responsible for upholding and defending retail standards both in the interests of their employers (usually city councilors) and the drinking public. City councilors typically hired an ale-conner in England; a tavernier or marqueur de vin in France; sinner and yseller in Switzerland; and beer- and brandy-tasters in Germany to enter common brewers’ houses, or individual public houses, and taste their supplies in order to commend them fit for consumption. These inspections could also double as opportunities for civic leaders to publicly promote their paternalistic qualities. In sixteenth-century Bristol, the mayor made a regular procession every Wednesday and Saturday morning through the city’s brewing establishments “to oversee them in service of their ale to the poor commons of the town, and that they have their true measures [. . .] so that their ale be good, able and sufficient”4 (Figure 3.1). Certifying the quality of alcohol available was a priority for several reasons. For the authorities, the provision of unadulterated and wholesome alcohol maintained political and civic stability by improving public health and limiting occasions for popular unrest.5 For the drinking house patron, the expectation of a standardized quality of drink protected the reputation of an industry operating largely upon a logic of credit and honesty from the dishonest intentions of some publicans—such as those much-maligned in early modern popular literary discourse—who were driven by profit.6 Efforts to clamp down on fraudulent publicans were therefore necessary. Statutes introducing standardized measures—typically vessels that were marked and approved by the city seal—improved a customer’s ability to ascertain the honest business practice of a given establishment, while also enabling constables and tax agents to increase the efficiency of their inspections and detection of duplicitous venders. Indeed, in some seventeenth-century French cities, the ability to prove ownership of certified vessels was a mandatory condition for obtaining a wine license. In Bordeaux, a 1665 ordinance required any aspiring wine retailer to possess “a bordelais pot (2 ltrs.), a demi pot (1 ltr.), a large pitcher (1.75 ltr.), a fourth of a pitcher (0.5 ltr.), a sixth of a pitcher (0.333 ltr.) and an eighth pitcher (0.283 ltr.).” These utensils, in addition to a measuring vessel, had to be presented to municipal governors before license approval7 (Figure 3.2). The regulation of alcohol quality and good measure was not, however, at the expense of concern for affordability. Municipal order books usually copied statuary legislation on alcohol prices and enforced them into the provinces accordingly, although guild ordinances suggest that publicans themselves assumed much of the responsibility for providing a choice of drinks 62

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Figure 3.1  Oaths taken by city officials responsible for controlling quality and measure of wine in Germany, sixteenth century. StAA, Schätze 194a, Stadtbuch, 1583, fol. 5v.

Figure 3.2  “Wine measures, about 1800,” France, pewter, bequeathed by Lt. Col. G. B. Croft Lyons. V&A, Musuem no. 550 & A, B, E-1926.

to match varying customer budgets. Seventeenth-century Italian tavern keepers retailed “wine from the tree”—an untaxed and therefore cheaper wine made from blackberries, wild brambles, and elderberries.8 The cabaretier guild of Nantes instructed its members to sell local “Petit Vin” at half, or sometimes a quarter, the price of more expensive imported wines. Similarly, guild orders issued by the town councillors of Villingen specified in 1668 that “all innkeepers, and especially the most distinguished ones, shall always have two wines—new and 63

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old, red and white, or any other good brand—and not refuse it to anyone paying the required cash price.”9 The concern to offer a range of alcohol qualities at varying levels of affordability further highlights some of the paternalistic priorities that shaped governing strategies. Interrogating the extent to which legislation on alcohol prices, quality, and measures was respected by publicans and brewers is often problematic for historians. The Nantes example above provides a case in point. Although the ordinance set the expected measures at which a licensed tavernier could retail wine, the reissuing of the ordinance four years later, and again in 1703, 1708, 1709, and 1723, suggests problems with enforcement.10 Presentment and convictions Quarter Sessions calendars offer similar complexities for the study of seventeenthcentury England. The returns of Justices of the Peace in Gloucestershire, for example, reveal that nearly 30 percent of all recorded activity included offences for either selling poor-quality alcohol or retailing drink in fraudulent measures. William Thomas of St James parish was presented in 1632 “for selling ale by the wyne quarte and not by the grand quarte”; Richard Radford bought “drinke from The Crown [alehouse] by the ale quarte” but sold it “by the wine quarte and flagon” in 1665; Alexander Vizard faced prosecution for “selling Ale and beare in Juggs being smale measures” in 1670; John Broadway used “the ten penny Pot and other smale measures” to cheat his customers the following year; and the constables of St Ewens parish caught Peter Good serving his customers drink “in breakers wch is lesse than measures that the statute doth allow” in 1696.11 Though local officials were trying consistently, then, to bring offenders to justice, their efforts clearly failed to eradicate the problem. This evidence certainly complicates historiographical narratives situating alcohol regulation within a paradigm of “cultural conflict,” fought as was traditionally assumed, between local authority and the drinking house community.12 Instead, regulations governing quality and good measure document a recognition that alcohol was an important social and physical ingredient in early modern life. Patterns of enforcement, too, reveal the intentions of local authorities to defend affordable and honest access to this service, rather than militantly reform drinking behavior. Revenue and Taxation In 1659, John Bland identified considerable value in taxing services associated with vice to increase the moral and financial prosperity of a nation. Bland marveled at the precedent set by Russia in this regard, and their targeting of drinking houses to the great benefit of the Emperor’s treasury. Accordingly, Bland’s proposition to revive English trade was to raise the annual rent and admission charges on the “thousands of Tap-Houses” throughout the country with an aim of raising the £300,000 in annual state revenue promised by economic advisers.13 Bland’s proposal was one to which many European governments were receptive. Indeed, economies across Europe were becoming increasingly fueled by alcohol. The regulation that coincided with the rapid expansion and acceleration of the drinks industry in the seventeenth and eighteenth century demonstrated the governing elites’ attempts to capitalize upon this lucrative economy. The intensified administration and control of alcohol licensees, coupled with the imposition of aggressive taxation and retail monopolies, converted a traditionally small-scale, domestic and variable form of industry into a stable and dependable source of state revenue.14 And yet, moralizing and civilizing discourses have classically been favored by historians to explain the mounting campaigns to regulate alcohol and drinking 64

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houses in this period.15 If European economies were indeed fueled by alcohol, current research is increasingly suggesting that alcohol regulation was predominantly “fueled” by economic and practical imperatives, particularly within urban topographies.16 Few scholars would challenge the assertion that alcohol formed one of the most if not the most important tax commodity and source of revenue for early modern governments. Tax on alcoholic drinks contributed half of Augsburg’s total income during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, peaking to an astounding 70–80 percent of city revenue in times of crisis.17 Filling a third or more of state coffers with excise levied on the consumption of beer, wine, mead, and brandy was the norm not only for the German cities but also for imperial territories including Saxony, Thuringia, Brandenburg-Prussia, Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, and Bohemia18 (Figure 3.3). Excise and custom duties, alongside the income from wine licensing, formed the basis of Charles II hereditary income and had become a permanent feature of the national economy following the Restoration. That more than 180 separate acts affecting the retail of alcohol and the regulation of excise rates were introduced between 1552 and 1757 in England further highlights the centrality of economic concerns to the governance of the drinks industry.19 Startling figures can also be found for early modern Russia. By 1600, the Russian state was collecting 300,000 to 400,000 rubles annually from the sale of vodka, beer and mead, representing 21 percent of the total state budget and 37.5 percent of yearly tax collections; in the later seventeenth century, the state monopoly on distilling produced more than 50 percent of state income through revenue and custom duties.20 By 1724, the 900,000 silver rubles gained from excise taxes on drinks alone (primarily vodka) constituted 11 percent of all government receipts, eclipsing the 600,000 rubles (7 percent) produced from salt tax to become the largest indirect tax source. Excise tax income on vodka continued to grow, reaching 17.5 million rubles or 30 percent of the entire government budget by 1785.21 A focus on these impressive figures can often come at the expense of neglecting some of the less exceptional, though no less significant, forms of revenue provided by alcohol. First and foremost, the drinking house was a versatile space of economic production, operating as a trading space where auctions were held, where both local and itinerant craftspeople and peddlers sold their goods, where traders established and concluded business agreements, and which lodged and introduced traveling merchants and their riches into early modern cities. It was certainly no coincidence that the George Inn, conveniently situated on the main road between Bristol and Gloucester and a site of “greate recourse of Trade to land from this Cittie,” was purchased in 1686 by the Society of Merchant Venturers.22 On a smaller scale, obtaining a license to sell alcohol could enable the underemployed to supplement insufficient earnings with a relatively reliable source of additional income and prevent them from becoming a burden on the parish purse.23 Running an establishment could also provide employment for additional workers. The George Inn again provides an insight into the dynamic workforce necessary to maintain an establishment of this kind: in addition to servants, apprentices, and journeymen, a larger inn might employ groundsmen to tend to the inn yard and stables, smiths to forge horseshoes, cooks to provide food in the kitchen, and perhaps seamstresses and washers to make repairs and clean customers’ clothing in the adjoining warehouses24 (Figure 3.4). Furthermore, it was common in England for half of the fines collected for drink offences— publicans overcharging customers, selling illicit and adulterated drink, selling short measures, selling during the hours of divine service, or allowing customer to “tipple”25—to be channeled back into systems of parish relief. Even assisting local officials in enforcing regulation might 65

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Figure 3.3  City official recording wine as it is brought to the wine market for sale. StAA, Schätze 194a, Stadbuch, 1583, fol. 4v.

carry a financial incentive. Informants could earn two shillings in Bristol for providing witness statements against alehouse keepers that were selling alcohol after hours.26 Church ales also functioned as efficient ways of raising money, circulating aid and generating poor relief through the sale of alcohol across sixteenth-century Europe. Many “spiritual cellars,” such as those located in monasteries and churches, produced and retailed their own drink to meet the physical needs of traveling pilgrims, missionaries, and nurses while also bolstering the ecclesiastical purse.27 Viticulture could also dominate and dictate forms of laboring poor employment. Wine formed “the only manufacture of this region,” asserted the Abbé Bellet in his description of Bordeaux industry in 1739, “occupying the largest section of the peasantry throughout the year to work the soil, plant and harvest the vines, press the grapes into vats and make the barrels into which the wine is transported.”28 The production, consumption, and retail of alcohol was clearly, then, a prolific and dynamic economic force that provided particularly poor sections of society with employment and subsistence. For the governing elite, however, alcohol represented much more than a simple ingredient in the makeshift economy. Possessing the right to produce and retail alcohol was a prestigious political privilege entrenched in ancient tradition and cultural heritage. Contracts were drawn between major brewers and city councilors, for instance, to monopolize the provision and sale of ale and beer.29 Wine regions prioritized the sale of bourgeois or burgher wine and restricted the times, locations, and opportunities for internationally or nationally imported drinks to be consumed, while governments in beer-producing areas placed 66

Regulation

Figure 3.4  “Undated Plan of the George Inn, Castle Street,” Bristol Record Office, SMV/6/4/9/2, eighteenth century.

restrictions on storing and trading in “foreign” beer (anything produced outside the local tax jurisdiction).30 Threats to these retail privileges met forceful resistance. In a city such as Bordeaux, for which wine cultivation and retail represented the absolute source of political and economic power, the growing popularity of beer consumption introduced a serious problem for city magistrates. Plans to scale up the beer brewing industry, 67

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responding to the increasing appetite for beer among Bordeaux local elite and the populations of Dutch, Irish, and English merchants that resided in the city suburbs, were suppressed swiftly. In an order prohibiting all beer production in 1663, municipal councilors expressed their views of beer brewers as a fastidious crew that plagued the city with nearly 2,000 barrels of their poison every year. This production reckoned a great damage to every principal structure in this city [. . .] as a result of the retailing of beer the sale of wine is greatly diminished and also the brewing of the said beer consumes great quantities of grain [. . .] necessary to aliment many inhabitants.31 Furthermore, allowing beer a share of Bordeaux’s drinks market was to fundamentally distort France’s cultural identity. The councilors reminded the public that “beer was only discovered or invented for cold countries that can not produce any wine,” and consequently that its consumption threatened to corrupt the public’s physical constitutions.32 And why, asked the commission, would the bordelais substitute the “corrupt liquors of the English” for the healthy and pure culture of wine? “Oh! What interest motivates us to the destruction of our country?”33 The legislative approach to controlling certain types of drink acted undeniably as a form of “pseudo-prohibition” through which the governing elite across Europe could manipulate and maximize an industry that best represented their economic interests.34 The search for maximizing profits could, however, encourage corrupt or at least unjust tactics. Privately run drinking shops (korchmas) in Moscow were outlawed, for example, and replaced by a system of government-run kabaks whereby all profits from the retail of alcohol could be channeled directly into the state treasury.35 John Stafford, a constable of Gloucestershire, abused his authoritative privilege in 1535, issuing fifteen ale licenses during Lent at 12 shillings each despite orders to enforce the closure of public houses.36 In France too, the Parliament fined Bordeaux’s municipal councillors 500 livres in 1604 for unlawfully licensing 16 taverniers in addition to the statutory limit of 120 because they judged it beneficial “to the city excise and its profit.”37 Bailles of the taverniers guild equally petitioned the city council of Dijon in 1677 demanding redress to the “great facility” with which councilors were selling cabaret licenses to fellow councilors without restriction and with added tax breaks, consequently flooding the retail market and introducing unfair business advantages.38 Many comparable examples on the abuse of authority could be produced for other regions. Suspicions of corruption, bribery, and extraction tactics at the hands of profit-driven councilors and tax agents often encouraged resistance. While the humbler stratums of drinking housekeepers were expected to submit to increasingly heavier sanctions on what and when they could sell alcohol, to pay more for the privilege of doing so, and to face severe punishments for violations, the governing elite freely amended, expanded and abused regulation when it suited their economic interests. Early modern court proceedings include a wealth of material suggesting that this was a considerable source of tension within local communities. The resulting verbal and written grumblings directed at tax officials could escalate to violent and public protesting, at times even forming the basis of major revolts, in which customers and publicans joined forces to restore a balance to their “moral economy.”39 Contemporary commentators were also, however, disgusted by the aggressive regulation tactics by which governments seemingly prioritized financial over civic order. John Fielding, 68

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for instance, repeatedly protested against the poor conditions of and unrestricted fashions with which the Stamp Office issued wine licenses. Taverners did not come under magisterial jurisdiction (unless they sold ale and beer), for instance, and were not required to provide certificates of good character to obtain a license. In his evidence to a Parliamentary committee in 1770, Fielding lamented the disorderly consequences of a system of licensing that deviated so substantially from historical tradition, causing great cause of robberies, burglaries and other disorders [. . .] many of [these public houses] are remarkably infamous and are the causes of disorders of every kind, shelters for bullies to protect prostitutes, and for thieves; are a terror to the watchmen and peace officers of the night, a nuisance to the inhabitants of the neighborhood and difficult to suppress by prosecution for want of evidence.40 Though drinking house customers and keepers vocally and physically resisted oppressive regulation, and while those in positions of influence might write sympathetically in their defense, this resistance was ineffective in reversing the tide. As European governments became receptive to, and increasingly dependent upon, the revenue generated by the production and retail of drink, regulation mounted to secure the financial profit and longevity of this sector. Indeed, this shift in attitudes to regulation is perhaps the most significant transition of our period. The “Odious and Loathsome Sinne of Drunkenness” which reformers feared would irrevocably shadow the piety of parish communities in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries would paradoxically become an indispensable and increasingly valorized activity from which governments profited enormously during this period and thereafter.41 This evidence supports historiographical trends in recent scholarship. Alongside the traditional scholarly focus on Reformation and post-Reformation efforts to impose social discipline and moral conformity, historians are increasingly connecting patterns and motivations for regulation with growth in the market of intoxicants and consumer trends in alcohol consumption.

Licensing Historians generally draw distinctions between the size, services, and social profiles of particular establishments. In practice, patterns of licensing varied considerably according to the particular political, geographical, and chronological contexts within which drinking houses were situated. In Augsburg, tapsters (Zapfenwirte) could obtain licenses to sell beer or wine for customers to drink off the premises,42 much similar to the sixteenth-century policy of huis coupé et pot renversée (through the door and pot poured) that applied to French tavern keepers.43 A comparable English logic also existed in objections to alehouse “tippling”: inhabitants drinking for any time longer than was necessary for physical refreshment—by definition anything “social”—on the premises.44 The court book of Northleach, Gloucestershire, also specified in 1549 that brewers within its manor should retail a gallon of ale for 4d. within their house, yet sell the same quantity of ale “forthe of the dore” at 3d.45 Clear distinctions among drinking establishments are often difficult to ascertain for the period. Though there were real cultural and political differences between the taverne and the cabaret in sixteenth-century France (i.e., respectability and the cabaretier privilege to serve 69

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customers alcohol on the premises), by the late seventeenth century tavernes were granted the right to sell alcohol (and food) for consumption in their shops, and contemporaries, local officials and customers employed the two terms almost interchangeably.46 The legislative nuances between the alehouse and the inn in England, particularly within rural territories, might be just as easily missed given their physical and functional similarities. Indeed, the nomenclature was often a matter of personal preference. When Thomas Jones went to Marmaduke Bignell’s London tavern in 1740 for a glass of wine, he said that the owners “call it a Tavern, but they sell Brandy as well as Wine—I could get no Beer there,” suggesting that both the absence of beer and the sale of brandy were not the characteristics Jones associated with traditional tavern service.47 To complicate matters, some alcohol licensees operated outside of the traditional retailing hierarchy (i.e., alehouse, tavern and inn) or were entirely mobile vendors. Grocers, apothecaries, and street peddlers are prime such examples, all of whom retailed wine and spirits to supplement their primary income.48 Complicating matters further still was the political diversity that structured specific conditions of license distribution. Usually, aspiring drink retailers would have to present evidence of their good character, self-sufficiency, relevant training, freeman status and sometimes their religious allegiance to a municipal officer, as well as pay the administrative fee, to successfully complete an application (Figure 3.5). However, licenses to retail alcohol could also be allocated to a property rather than necessarily an individual. Katja Lindenau has documented the system of “brewing rotation” exercised from the Middle Ages in the town of Görlitz in Upper Lusatia. Tax records from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century indicate that between 100 and 125 properties automatically carried a brewing license, and city councilors benefited from the rotating lease that allowed each of the licensed premises to brew in specific amounts and at specific times.49 In short, attempting to impose a unified and efficient system of licensing which applied to all retail locations and purposes was a difficult task for early modern authorities.

Figure 3.5  Jean Lapene of Bordeaux city is licensed in 1765 as a maitre hotelier et cabaretier following evidence of his “good life, manners, sufficiency, capacity & experience [. . .] & produced certificate of his Catholicism.” AMB, FF 72, January 28, 1765. 70

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An insistence on geographical, political and chronological diversity does not obstruct us from drawing some comparative links in European licensing. First, historians of early modern Europe generally agree that the early modern period witnessed the intensification of regulative efforts to convert a traditionally amateur and largely unlicensed industry into a professional economy. Improved licensing systems, more expensive licenses, and more exacting licensing conditions slowly improved the social conditions of licensees and elevated the “respectability” of establishments.50 Paradoxically, the second historiographical consensus is that while these license reforms sought to professionalize the industry, enforcement was an altogether different matter.51 Regulating who and when drinking houses could retail alcohol was a significant and complicated decision process that involved far more than merely a customer’s most immediate need to access food and drink. For the drinking house patron, determining an appropriate time to visit and leave a drinking house lay at the fissure of their public commitment to labor or recreation. For local officials, the same issue hinged upon their duty to guarantee popular industriousness by eliminating prolonged bouts of excessive and potentially harmful drinking while still according workers fair time for relaxation. Of particular importance was protecting the Sabbath for the duties of religious instruction, even if the efforts to regulate Sunday retailing were met with varied levels of success. These variations related to the contradictory and repetitive nature of legislation and the incapacities or parsimonious attitudes of local authorities toward enforcement.52 A symbolic and sonic instrument of regulation was the town bell. Many Italian, French, and German governments stipulated that taverns had to close at the sound of the last bell, at which time the night watch would fine publicans (and sometimes guests) for noncompliance.53 In Bristol, the city council informed its publicans in 1586 that service ended with the ninth and tenth hammer blow of the “Bowe bell” of St. Nicolas’ church, at which time constables were released to impose 10 shilling fines for curfew violations.54 Numerous German statutes referred to the evening bell as the “wine bell,” “beer bell,” or “drink bell,” underscoring its significance to the hours of drinking house sociability and retail sale of drinks.55 Yet, in practice the challenge of enforcing curfews was enormous. There were simply too many drinking houses and either too few, or a lack of motivated, constables on the ground to ensure that publicans respected established retail hours. Authorities were not simply fighting against issues of practicality either. The attitude that drinking houses were public places that should, by definition, be regulated by the public was an obstruction to effective enforcement.56 Parish constables ordering the closure of alehouses were commonly met with angry patrons and publicans who “cared not a fart” for their authority, occasionally resulting in more serious bouts of verbal and physical violence.57 Even publicans who acted lawfully as the authorities’ agents, closing their establishments at the legally prescribed time, could be confronted by irritated groups of drinkers. In Bordeaux on August 29, 1700, a group of drinkers refused entry into a cabaret after hours proceeded to scale the walls of the drinking house and remove the sign, subsequently condemning the object to a symbolic rite of violence—the sign was attached by a rope to a cart and dragged through the city. Publicans who did not serve customers were not serving the community.58 If regulating when alcohol could be sold was problematic, regulating who could drink in taverns was equally complex. Licenses usually stipulated that publicans had to deny services to certain illegitimate customers (idlers and alms recipients, masterless men, prostitutes, seditious 71

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gossips, thieves, etc.) at the same time as imposing rules on legitimate usage. Laborers were sometimes restricted to an hour in the morning, an hour at lunch, and an hour after work to consume the food and alcohol necessary to fuel their working days. The patronage of students, apprentices, and journeymen was also usually restricted to hours that did not interfere with their academic or employment obligations. Mobile communities of soldiers and sailors were particularly problematic, making up a group commonly identified by local authorities as responsible for bouts of excessive drinking and disorderly behavior and sometimes requiring additional authoritative clearance. Sailors, for example, often required letters of permission from their captains if they wished to drink and stay the night in a publican’s establishment.59 Publicans who lodged travelers or strangers also had to inform constables usually within 24 to 48 hours, proving the good reputation and intentions of their guests.60 Though in theory these rules clearly dictated to whom and when publicans could sell alcohol, in practice they were often ambiguous and subject to change. That the repetition of ordinances banning certain forms of customer usage, the persistent complaints from local officials and clerics that publicans neglected the conditions of their license, and the consistent fines collected for these transgressions are so prevalent in the bundles of litigation in record offices across Europe is a lasting testament to difficulties of enforcement61 (Figure 3.6). Clearly part of the problem was the inherent conflict of interests produced by strict regulation on customer access. Though licenses had to be restrictive on certain types of customers, they equally had to be permissive enough to allow for honorable sociability and the conduct of legitimate business in public houses, as well as to ensure that a sufficient number of customers spent money there to generate revenue. Finding the balance between these positions was obviously important for publicans and civic governors who relied upon orderly businesses, but not at the expense of hindering drink sales.62 A case in point is provided by the 1613 royal ordinance repealing a former prohibition on local inhabitants socializing in French drinking houses. Originally based on the logic that l’homme est moins porté aux excès de boisson dans les lieux où il passé en voyageur (“men are less drawn to excess in drink in places through which they are traveling”), Marie de Medici enforced her own logic by again allowing locals to spend money in local taverns as an efficient way to raise state tax contribution.63 This evidence should serve to remind historians that the publication and enforcement of licensing controls pertaining to customer access remained ambivalent. While authorities in many parts of Europe were interested in regulating the social and moral disorder resulting from excess drink, they also recognized that much of what went on in public houses served to support local economies and increase government revenues. Much of the recorded conflict surrounding regulation of this sort is less a response to the violence and criminality produced by excessive drinking per se, but rather a reaction to the tensions resulting from publicans and governors trying to reconcile these often incompatible objectives. Drunkenness Some scholars have suggested that Europe’s authorities policed the boundaries of alcohol consumption differently according to their confessional orientations. Catholics, they argue, viewed drinking as a natural part of social life and community and thus exercised tolerance toward alcohol consumption and drinking house sociability. Protestants, by contrast, considered 72

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Figure 3.6  An anonymous chiseled wood engraving depicting the good example set by a Swiss cabaret keeper working in France. “Le Suisse” refuses his wine to two poorly dressed beggars, forcing them out into the street by their necks, because they dared to drink in his shop without settling their tab. In the top left of the engraving is the publican’s reply, “il fault sans dilaye payer lescot content ou je feray justice” (One must pay the score happily without delay or they will face my justice). Anon. “Le troisiesme livre des proverbes contenan la vie des Geux (1660)” in Recueil. Collection Michel Hennin. Estampes relatives à l’Histoire de France. vol. 45, pièces 4029–34 (1660–2) Paris: I. Lagniet au fort l’évêque, 1863.

alcohol a socially and spiritually contentious substance, demonized its consumption, and criminalized drunkenness.64 There are several problems with these generalized national and confessional narratives. First, a simple division between Protestant and Catholic regulative cultures belies the sharp distinctions existing within each of those faiths on the issue of drunkenness. A case in point is offered by the varying stances adopted by Martin Luther, Huldrych Zwingli, Martin Bucer, and Jean Calvin on the implications of habitual drunkenness compared with intoxication, and exactly where the sin of drinking too much should be spiritually located in Protestant theology.65 Furthermore, while some German Anabaptists outlawed tavern-going altogether (although not alcohol consumption),66 most English Protestant reformers opted for a policy of control rather than prohibition. Even Daniel Dent, a highly vociferous opponent to the sins and luxuries of alehouses, made a case defending the nutritional and social qualities of alcohol. Published in 1612, and rather ironically sold from “The Sunne” alehouse, Dent’s tract 73

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recognized the importance of drink as a source of nourishment for the poor, as well as a pillar of honest recreation and good cheer in a society affected by the general decay of hospitality and “the coldnesse of charity.”67 Examining approaches of alcohol regulation according to fixed “Catholic” and “Protestant” categories is therefore a largely artificial exercise. Equally problematic is the seemingly uncomplicated distinction that some historians have made between “tolerant” Catholic and “severe” Protestant forms of regulation. This problem is in part explained, or at least compounded, by the evidential basis upon which this comparative distinction is predicated.68 Typically, studies that endorse this binary perspective stem from the analysis of religious pamphlets and sermons, a body of evidence in which the voices of Protestant preachers are typically the loudest and most controversial. And yet, the representations of drunkenness provided in these “puritanical” sermons often deviate from the situation identified by local officials on the ground. Prosecution rates for drunkenness remained on the whole incredibly low at a time when the supposed “moralistic attack” on alcohol and drinking houses was either at or approaching its peak.69 Only 2 percent of the 756 total Archdeacons court proceedings of Colchester between 1640 and 1642 cited or prosecuted individuals for the sin of drunkenness.70 In seventeenth-century Lancashire and Warwickshire, both centers of Protestant zeal, only 22 of 7,959 offences were for drunkenness or for committing another crime while drunk.71 The frequency of indictments falls far short, then, of the exaggerated hyperbole that Protestant preachers mobilized to attack drinking houses as fountains of sin and drunkenness and as a plague scourging the nation. Though printed sermons and pamphlets can be used to gauge the attitudes of Protestant reformers to alcohol, these literary sources must be analyzed critically and comparatively with evidence that provides a closer look at social reality. Doing so will enable scholars to identify the disconnect between rhetoric on drunkenness in print and everyday social exchange. This is not to suggest that radical Protestantism did not affect alcohol regulation in specific instances; there were certainly times and places where the calls to legislate drunkenness were met with greater zeal and were successfully enforced. But the nature of these successes could be sporadic and shortlived.72 An isolated study of ordinances can equally obscure the nature of regulative patterns across early modern Europe. One historian’s assertion that legislation on drunkenness remained more restrictive in England than in largely Catholic France and Italy, and that English authorities were unique in making drunkenness a criminal offence—is not only incorrect (France criminalized drunkenness since 1536, and drunkenness was made punishable under numerous local and imperial laws in Reformation Germany as well), but entertains the hypothesis that there are clear national and confessional formats to the regulation of drunkenness.73 That drunkenness was rarely recorded in ordinance material for France is not, for example, necessarily indicative of the country’s generally “tolerant” Catholic approach to the offence. Drinking excessive quantities of alcohol was not the problem, as long as this consumption abided by certain cultural norms. Heavy drinking in honest company rather than independently, and on an infrequent basis rather than habitually, were some of the accepted contexts within which drunkenness remained a positive and legitimate social practice. Drunkenness performed outside of these permitted cultural boundaries transformed the honest drinker into the drunken deviant, a character that neither the culture de l’enivrement (culture of drunkenness) nor its adherents, accepted.74 There is plenty of supporting archival material that documents this “culture” in practice: evidence of publicans refusing to serve alcohol to drunken customers; 74

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of patrons refusing to allow drunkards to drink in their company; and indeed of publicans and patrons divulging information to the authorities to secure the apprehension of disorderly drunkards.75 Thus, the absence of ordinances controlling drunkenness, while creating an impression of tolerance, can actually mask regulative strategies that operated below the level of magisterial intervention. An over-dependence on legislative rhetoric can also distort historical interrogation into the motives of regulating drunkenness at the local level. In early modern Augsburg, for example, 212 charges of drunkenness were recorded between 1540 and 1544 with an average of 42.4 cases per year; a figure which rose to 317 between 1590 and 1594, increasing that average to 63.4 cases per year. Yet, this increase coincided with the city’s large demographic expansion, its population increasing by roughly a third across the sixteenth century. The increase in prosecution could, therefore, just as easily indicate the pragmatic reaction of civic officers to regulate a real increase in the numbers of inhabitants drinking excessively, as it could their desire to instill strict Protestant morals.76 Similarly, in early modern Bristol, that all 232 convictions for drunkenness appeared in court material between 1695 and 1760, suggests that the governing elite’s attention to drunkenness cannot be convincingly explained as a phenomenon corresponding with the city’s strongest years of religious reform, but may plausibly coincide with the expanding range and consumption of drinks in Bristol by the eighteenth century.77 Closer attention to evidence within local archive offices across Europe (particularly outside of England) will inevitably enable historians to capture the complex social, political, and clearly economic motivations that fueled the regulation of drunkenness in this period. Conclusion The retail, production, and consumption of alcohol became major issues requiring control in the early modern period. Historiographical orthodoxy has tended to characterize this “control” as a religiously inspired campaign, associating the increased levels of regulation with the efforts of godly reformers attempting to reinstate a sanctified society. The evidence presented in this chapter supports the revisionist view, built on work produced over the course of the last two decades, that challenges these traditional interpretations. Primarily, it has been argued here that the governing elite’s attention to the expanding drinks market and the lucrative associated strategies of taxation, profiteering, and corruption could be as, if not more, important than moral fervor in dictating the types of and times at which regulation was introduced. If a gradually more tolerant regulative stance towards drink profits provides evidence of historical change, this essay has attempted to emphasize the coterminous continuities, particularly in avoiding the notion that drinking houses were “under control” by the end of our period.78 The regulation of alcohol remained an ambivalent process that relied upon a coordinated agreement among customers, publicans, local officials, and central government. This process of negotiation and accord was complicated at best, and often nonexistent. Indeed, this chapter’s ability to highlight a more complex and disparate history of regulation is enabled emphatically by its focus on the local, and its move away from generalized national narratives. Further detailed examinations from the local perspective will continue to permit scholars to make more meaningful connections across this divergent and varying historical landscape. 75

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Notes 1. Wrightson 2003, 175; Martin 2001, 63. 2. Wrightson 1981, 9–10; Muchembled 1985, 184–5, 88, 313. 3. Fletcher 1986, 48, 241–3; J. Brown 2007, 219–21; Hailwood 2014, ch. 2, esp. 81–2. 4. Kümin and Tlusty 442011, 2:138-9; Tlusty 2001, 197; Ricart 1872, quote on 83. 5. Millanges 1637, 2:447; Beik 1997. 6. Skelton 1624; Anon. 1550; and see also Jackson 2013. 7. Petrissans 1968, 74–5; see also Lindenau 2010, 41–2. 8. Martin 2009, 201. 9. Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 2:201. 10. Petrissans 1968, 74–5. 11. BRO, JQS/Pr/1, 1630–3. 12. Wrightson 1981, 9–10, 18, 21; Muchembled 1985, 200, 212, 215–6. See also Underdown, 1985, 48, 241–3; Nicolas 1980, 20–8. 13. Bland 1659, 48–9; Bland is quoted more extensively in Withington, Chapter 2 in this volume. See also Wrightson 1981; Muchembled 1985. 14. Unger 2004, 48–52. 15. Wrightson 1981, 9–10, 18, 21; Muchembled 1985, 200, 212, 215–16. 16. Withington 2011a, 2013a; Lecoutre 2011; Tlusty 2001, 176–81; 2014. 17. Tlusty 2001, 177–8; 2014, 2. 18. Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 226–78; Tlusty 2014. 19. Hunter 2002, 75. 20. Herlihy 2006, 186; Snow 2002, 201. 21. Schrad 2014, 113. 22. BRO, 00347/14; M/BCC/MAY/1/1, January 24, 1667, fol. 21; July 13, 1657, fol. 72. 23. Fletcher 1986, 233–5; Bennett 1992; Galloway 1998; Hindle 2004, 59–60. 24. Kümin 2007, 95–7. 25. See p. 69 below for a definition of tippling (drinking longer than necessary for physical refreshment). 26. Standord 1990, 79. 27. Tlusty 2014, 9; ADG, Série G, G 101, September 26, 1692, fols. 29–30. 28. Bellet 1739, 162–77; Boutruche 1966, 492. 29. Clark 1983, 176. 30. Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 204; Statuts, 1765; StAA, Reichstadt/Chroniken 10, fol. 121r. 31. AMB, BB 59, fol. 69v. 32. AMB, BB 59, fol. 69v, See also Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 162. 33. AMB, EE 11, “Mémoire sur la defense des eaux-de-vie,” February 17, 1750. 34. Holt 2006, 26–30. 35. Herlihy 2006, 185–6. 36. TNA, STAC 8/282/3; see also Clark 1983, 176. 37. AMB, BB 20, March 11, 1604. 38. Statuts, 1765, August 19, 1633. 76

Regulation 39. Millanges 1637; Beik 1997, 255–8; Tlusty 2014, 9–10. 40. Hunter 1994, 343. 41. See, for example, the shift in language and focus from the 1607 statute prohibiting drunkenness and the developing discourse of financial profit and prosperity in trade surrounding gin by the eighteenth century in England (Raithby 1810, Jac. 1, c.5; Nicholls 2009, 30–46); for similar trends in Germany see Tlusty 2001, 188–90, 199–208. 42. Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 2:167. 43. Delamare 1719, 3:756. 44. Raithby 1810, 4:1026, 1141, 1142. See also BRO, JQS/C/1, 1686, fols. 131–2 for local examples. 45. Royce 1882–83, 98–9. 46. Brennan 1988, 79–80; Dion 1959, 484–5; Académie Française 1694, 137; Mollien 1866, 19:422–3. 47. The Proceedings of the Old Bailey, 1674–1913, February 27, 1740 (t17400227-9). 48. Cullen 1998; Hunter 2002, 44. See also Colletet 1672, 77. 49. Lindenau 2010, 41–2. 50. Clark 1983, esp. chaps. 9 and 10. 51. Brennan 1988, 252, 270, 278, 310; Hailwood 2014, 118; Fletcher 1986, 48, 241–3. 52. Capp 2012, chap. 8; Kümin 2007, 79–81; AMB, BB 97, September 6, 1718, fol. 57v; AMB, BB 97 October 18, 1718, fol. 64v. Lecoutre also agrees that a major failure of regulation was the ambiguous, impractical, and inconsistent nature of legislation: Lecoutre 2011, 63–4, 81, 90. 53. Tlusty 2001, ch. 10; Martin 2009, ch. 8. 54. Standord 1990, 79. The regulation of opening hours belonged to a long history in France, too, and was first mentioned in Barckhausen’s Livre des coutumes. On August 11, 1336, an order was issued that “no man nor woman [. . .] will keep a tavern open later than the sound of the city bell” or face a 65 sol fine, although it allowed customers to drink after hours if publicans served food with any additional drinks. This was perhaps a means of limiting the risks of drunkenness, and the disorder with which excessive alcohol consumption was stereotypically associated (Barckhausen 1890, 354). 55. Hinckeldey 1981, 261; Florian 1706, 676; Müller 1857, 720, 728; Kachel 1924, 130–2. 56. Brennan 1988, 310; Tlusty 2001, 204–8. 57. ERO, Q/SR 230/22,23; Q/SR 441/21; Q/SR 356/21. 58. ADG, 12 B 230, August 29, 1720. A similarly informative example is located at ADG/12 B 154, January 28, 1682. For the symbolic rite of dragging, see Davis 1975, 162. 59. AMB, FF 72, May 5, 1644; May 15, 1698. See also AMB, BB 59, September 30, 1665, fol 31; HH 32a, 1752 and BB 32, October 10, 1629, fol. 147. 60. BRO, JQS/AK/1/1, September 1654, fol. 5; JQS/M/3, 1655; StadtAA, Literalien, Polizeiordnung 1530; Ratserlasse 1579, 1677, 1681, 1689, 1698; Anschläge und Dekrete 1522–1682, Teil 1, no. 69; Anschläge und Dekrete 1650–1711, Teil 2, no. III; Schätze 16, 66v, 402r; SuStBA, 2°Cod.Aug.247, 282. 61. Kümin 2007, 78; Tlusty 2001, 163–7; Lecoutre 2011, 63–4, 81, 90; Capp 2012, ch. 8. 62. Tlusty 2001, 183, 185, 190, 204, 208; 2014, 20. See also for example the importance of sailor consumption in a case concerning the decrease of excise on drink in Bristol: “this depont saith that after . . . the Infection in the Citty [. . .] there was little resort of people there unto And dureinge the said late Warrs there came very fewe seamen which are the great consumers of drinke unto the said Cyty.” TNA, E 134/20&21Chas2/Hil10 (1665). 63. Dion 1959, 486–91; Lachiver 1982, 313. 64. Holt 2006, 35–6; Martin 2001, 61–3; see also Martin’s revised analysis of these regulative distinctions between England and France in his later work: Martin 2009, 213, 221. 77

Alcohol in the Early Modern World 65. Tlusty 2001, 75–6. 66. Kobelt-Groch 1997, 119–20, 126; Clasen 1972, 142–3, 148; Schmidt 1927, 12–17. 67. Thompson 1612, 80. 68. Holt 2006, esp. pp. 35–6; Martin 2001, 61–3; Martin 2009, 213, 221. 69. Wrightson 1981, 10. 70. Martin 2009, 208. 71. Martin 2009, 211. Augsburg exhibits slightly higher though still relatively unalarming statistics during the sixteenth century: Tlusty 2001, 87–8. 72. Capp 2012, chap. 8. 73. Martin 2009, 213. On the criminalization of drunkenness in France see Isambert 1822/23, 12 (1514–46): 525; on Germany see Tlusty 2001, 82–5. 74. Lecoutre 2011, 228–32. 75. Brennan 1988, chap. 4; Lecoutre 2011, 228–32; ADG, 12 B 233, May 1722; ADG, 12 B 295, January 7, 1750. See also ADG, 12 B 197, September 2, 1704; ADG, 12 B 268, May 29, 1738; ADG, 12 B 250, March 28, 1730. See also ADG, 11 B 4, September 14, 1735. 12 B 159, January 18, 1685. 76. Tlusty 2001, 87–8; 2014. A similar explanation of rising trends in regulation is offered by Phil Withington in the context of early modern York: Withington 2011a, 641. The situation in Augsburg is made even more complicated by its shifting confessional identity; dominated by reformed Protestantism in the 1540s, the city by the 1590s was characterized by a largely Protestant populace under the rule of a majority Catholic government. 77. There were 3,250 drink-specific cases, and 5,568 in total between 1628 and 1760. Only 232 of these (0.04 percent of total cases) related to indictments for drunkenness. BRO, JQS/Pr/1; JQS/C/1; JQS/C/2. 78. Clark 1983, 166.

78

CHAPTER 4 COMMERCE, BUSINESS, AND TRADE

Andrew McMichael

On the night of October 20, 1720, the British sloop Tyger came upon the sloop William anchored in Dry Harbor Bay, Jamaica. Captain Barnet and his men had little trouble capturing the pirate Calico Jack Rackham and his crew, except for the ferocious fight put up by two women—Mary Read and Anne Bonny. The rest of the crew, according to accounts, were too drunk to offer any serious resistance, and the only recorded death came about when Mary Read, enraged at her companions for their supposed cowardice, shot and killed a fellow pirate. The drink of choice for Calico Jack’s crew was, of course, rum. Apart from its connections to pirates, rum in many ways symbolizes the Atlantic World, and in particular dominates the perception of the transatlantic alcohol trade. It is the frequently cited commodity shipped on the African-bound leg of the so-called triangle trade in the early modern period, and is symbolically and literally a part of the exchange of European goods for African slaves. Nonetheless, among the goods and people moved between Africa, Europe, and the Americas—slaves, tobacco, sugar, cotton, and gold, as well as textiles, guns, and other manufactured goods—rum came late to the early modern Atlantic World. While sugar planters of the sixteenth century used the excess cane juice to feed livestock or to supplement the fermentation of other alcoholic beverages, the distillation of cane juice and molasses into rum seems to have been unknown until the Dutch introduced it the 1630s.1 The early modern Atlantic did not witness significant commerce in rum across the Atlantic until the late seventeenth and early eighteen centuries. Even then, it took some time before rum began to cross the Atlantic with frequency. Despite exporting hundreds of thousands of gallons of rum by the early 1700s, Jamaica and Barbados sent very little of that across the Atlantic—most went to North America.2 The end of the early modern period, however, signaled the centrality of rum to transatlantic commerce in alcohol. In the Atlantic World economy, a taste for sugar and tobacco fueled the commercial engines of Europe and England, with the different forms of sugar trailing only gold and silver as the most valuable commodity extracted from the Americas. Yet the prevalence of alcohol in these areas prior to and during the early modern period suggests that one way to understand the trade in alcohol is as a replacement commodity for a product already found at every level of society. As with different types of cloth imported into Africa, alcohol was not a new commodity, but either supplemented or was replaced by an older version of that same commodity. In that sense, alcohol of many different types played a major role in the formation of the Atlantic World economy. Initially, hopped beer, which could be stored longer than unhopped brews, seemed like it would become an important item of long-distance trade. Consumption of wine, important for many different reasons, at first declined, and then revived. That rum only came to dominate later should not be surprising. Alcohol consumption by Europeans, Africans, and Native Americans long predated mutual contact, and the Atlantic World commerce in alcohol in the early modern period simply integrated, and then supplanted and transformed

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preexisting drinking customs and trade patterns in a process that continued for nearly two centuries after initial contact. Europe and Hopped Beer While modern brewers distinguish between ale and lager based on different types of yeasts, brewers at the start of the sixteenth century drew a distinction between unhopped “ale” and hopped “beer.”3 At the outset of the early modern period ale and beer were dynamic trade commodities in Europe. Although wine tended to dominate the tables in southern Europe, and elites everywhere tended to consume wine and brandy, ordinary folk in Northern Europe, England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales drank mead and fermented beverages made from malted grain. At the outset of the early modern period the production of distilled spirits was tightly regulated, and those made from grain, for example, were in some areas legal only as a medicinal product.4 Fermented malt beverages, however, formed the backbone of the everyday drinking experience, and, for most Europeans, the short-distance commerce in alcohol. The advent of hops as a fundamental ingredient during the Middle Ages, and its increased popularity in the early modern period, played a major role in the changing alcohol trade.5 The preservative quality of hops, which contain acids that inhibit bacteria growth, opened up the potential for a long-distance trade in beer that ale, which generally had to be consumed within a few days after fermentation ceased, could not match. Even wine in this period, vineyards for which could be found throughout Europe, could not always match the shipping and storage qualities provided by hops. Brewers of hopped beer also enjoyed an inherent economic advantage aside from the storage qualities. Technological advances in the early modern period allowed beer brewers to produce beer at the rate of eighteen to twenty gallons of beer per bushel of grain, as opposed to eight gallons of ale per bushel.6 By the mid-sixteenth century, a 36-gallon barrel of beer commanded around the same price as the ale coming in a 32-gallon barrel. The profit potential for long-distance trade furthered a trend toward commercialized brewing that had begun in the late Middle Ages. Aside from the widespread acceptance in Europe of hops as an ingredient, by the early 1500s growing urbanization and organized trading leagues also helped foster an initial long-distance trade in beer, which replaced wine as the drink of choice in some areas. A few major centers led the hopped beer trade in Europe, in particular the city of Hamburg, and overall, beer was one of the most important commodities in the areas controlled by the Hanseatic League.7 By the sixteenth century, most Hanseatic towns had agreed to standardized weights and measures, to implement standardized cask marks, and to erect regulations in order to help protect their trade. The introduction of longer-lasting hopped beer also propelled commerce by encouraging brewers to invest in ever-bigger production equipment. New technology that allowed maltsters to more finely roast the grains allowed for more varied flavors. This gave brewers the ability to produce an ever-widening array of location-specific beer styles that could then be marketed across Europe. As a result, the trade in hopped beer rose sharply during the early sixteenth century, with brewers largely exporting beer to areas where the hops revolution had not yet taken hold. 80

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The use of hops in beer making added a step, and therefore also added extra equipment to the brewing process. The additional investment was something that many ale-makers could not afford. The demands of the new style of beer fell particularly hard on the female brewsters who had formerly brewed beer in their homes and engaged in neighborhood, citywide, or alehouse commerce. At the outset of the early modern period, these new trends were already in place. Fewer and larger breweries produced more beer, and as noted by Bennett, by 1600 the vast majority of these breweries were owned and run by men.8 Aside from an investment in buildings and equipment that was usually beyond what most people could afford, the need for credit connections and access to the merchant networks that a trade in hopped beer demanded made it difficult if not impossible for women to engage in anything but shortdistance commerce. Use of hops lagged in England, where hops did not become a commonly used ingredient until the thirteenth century.9 While the arrival of this bitter flower eventually revolutionized commercial brewing in England, the revolution took some time and was almost entirely brought about through the work of foreign importers, mostly from the Low Countries.10 That trade may have occurred symbiotically with the burgeoning wool trade between England and Holland. Economically, brewing had always been a highly regulated industry in England, and the beer trade served as a major source of revenue for the English crown. The production, commerce, and sale of unhopped ale was closely regulated by the thirteenth-century Assize of Bread and Ale, but because it referred specifically to ale the law did not regulate the production of hopped beer. At the outset of the sixteenth century, then, separate gilds for brewers of ale and beer competed for English palates. Kristen Burton’s work on industrial brewing in early modern London examines the effect of this competition, concluding that the early efforts of ale brewers to paint hopped beer as “foreign” and bitter hops as poisonous could not succeed in the face of changing palates and a political and military alliance between England and Holland that led to fewer restrictions on brewers of beer, but not ale.11 By the mid-sixteenth century, hopped beer so dominated the market that the guilds merged into a single brewers’ guild.12 In a sign that female brewsters continued to play a role in the beer trade, the brewers’ guild continued to allow female members, though by the early eighteenth century their numbers had shrunk considerably.13 Overall, hopped beer initiated change in beer commerce in sixteenthcentury London, which had become the center of English brewing by 1600. As Burton notes, London beer production grew by 40 percent between 1574 and 1595, while beer produced for export doubled between 1574 and 1585.14 Nonetheless, warning signs existed on the European continent as local and world events dampened the potential commercial revolution brought about by hopped beer. Despite the better commercial prospects for hopped beer and a concurrent spread in its popularity in many areas where wine had been a drink of commoners, the following centuries saw a decline in the long-distance trade in beer. Although production and trade in beer rose during the sixteenth century, the market for imported beers never amounted to more than a few percent of the overall beer consumed in most towns.15 Richard Unger has identified a number of factors that contributed to the relative decline in the long-distance beer trade. Most European cities enacted taxes meant to protect local breweries, which had the effect of reducing imports. Also, as the popularity of imported hopped beer spread outward from central and western Europe, local ale brewers slowly either went out of business or upgraded their operations to include the extra equipment necessary for the production of beer. Thus, the need for 81

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imports declined. Likewise, over the course of the sixteenth century Europeans in many areas consumed increasing amounts of wine as a result of rising incomes, increased taxation of beer, the introduction of less expensive, higher-quality wine, and the increasing availability of wine and brandy. A final factor in the relative decline in the beer trade was the changing face of commerce itself. The opening of a vigorous Atlantic trade brought the introduction of spirits distilled from sugar, including cachaça, rum, and aguardiente, as well as nonalcoholic drinks, and gave Europeans at all economic and social levels a wider array of drinking choices. 16

The African Trade When Europeans began exploring the coast of Africa in the early fourteenth century, they encountered a number of kingdoms with “numerous sophisticated economies” hosting complicated trade networks that supported commerce in “cultivated and manufactured products.”17 However, what began as an African export trade largely consisting of cloth had become, by the end of the early modern period, a trade dominated by slaves, peanuts, gold, palm oil, and rum. As with other commodities, such as cloth and iron, alcohol would have been found in every community when Europeans arrived. The short-distance internal trade in African-produced alcohol did not move outward into the Atlantic World. Rather, commerce from elsewhere in the Atlantic World brought new kinds of alcohol and modified patterns of what was consumed and the ways in which it was consumed. The literature on the use and commerce in alcohol in Africa prior to the 1870s is sparse; that from the early modern period sparser still. Much of what has been published exists within the context of the Atlantic slave trade. However, prior to European contact, African peoples were fermenting a multitude of plants, including various grains, honey, and fruits. The Luandan people fermented grains to produce a type of beer called walo, while in the Kongo, beer made from flour was popular. The Aradan people also produced a grain-based beer called pitau, and in Oidha, beer came from what chroniclers called milhio—most likely a type of wheat.18 Sorghum was a common fermentable in every region.19 But the most common alcoholic drink along the Atlantic coast in the sixteenth century came from raffia palm and was called malavu.20 Production of palm wine was a straightforward process and exhibited a gendered component. Men climbed the raffia tree to drill a hole in the top of the palm, and then collected the sap to store in clay pots or gourds.21 Wild yeasts, either airborne or carried by insects, or yeast residue from a previous fermentation left in the vessel began a process of fermentation that lasted a few days, after which the wine was ready for consumption.22 Because the subSaharan heat would quickly turn wine to vinegar, malavu had to be consumed quickly, and was therefore only suitable for short-distance transport. Elites consumed a large proportion of this raffia-palm wine, either as an everyday drink or in a ceremonial context.23 While palm wine was restricted to the areas in which it grew and came from a single plant, the grain-based beer called walo was available in all regions and was produced from a multiplicity of grains. In contrast to palm wine, women produced the more labor-intensive grain-based beer. After the harvest, the grains were soaked in water, dried, and ground into flour that was then heated with water, mixed with other ingredients, and fermented. After a few days, the beer was consumed, again immediately, or transported over short distances. If palm wine was for the elites, beer was the drink for commoners.24 82

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Perhaps the most important function of alcohol in Africa was its use in religious ceremonies. Many religions in West and Central Africa, including those in the areas from which slaves were commonly taken, saw a close connection between the physical and spiritual worlds, with deceased ancestors serving as mediums through which the living could commune with the dead.25 Alcohol helped facilitate the connection between humans and the spirit world, both through offerings meant to pacify potentially malicious or mischievous spirits and through its ability to bring about a trance state. In some funerary practices among West African peoples, sorghum beer stood at the center of a ceremony in which the living toasted the dead, with dancing and drinking continuing over the course of a week, and Robin Law has made the case that coastal Africa grew sorghum exclusively for use in beer production.26 Instead of helping to cut ties with the dead as in European rites, in these and other African funerary rituals alcohol helped induce an altered mental state that facilitated communication between the two worlds.27 As Africans moved across the Atlantic they carried with them, and modified, the alcohol consumption associated with these cultural practices, oftentimes syncretizing them with the Catholic and Protestant practices of using wine to create a connection between the physical and spiritual worlds.28 West Africans along the coast also used alcohol in a variety of nonreligious contexts in the early modern period—as a form of symbolic gift-giving, to lubricate social gatherings, and as a symbolic commodity for trade. Among the Asante, for example, the king served palm wine at royal functions as a symbol of his power.29 The production, consumption, and dispensing of alcohol all helped symbolize and reinforce the power of male rulers among the people of Ghana and the Gold Coast area.30 Ceremonies as diverse as weddings, funerals, rites of passage, and birthing rituals included palm wine.31 Indeed, the royal system of taxation in coastal African kingdoms demanded reciprocal feasts and redistribution of goods, both of which featured alcohol; and José Curto notes some unsourced claims that in West Central Africa up through the end of the 1500s, rulers used both palm wine and grain-based beer to reward subjects and extend influence, suggesting an internal, short-distance commerce meant to reinforce and extend political and cultural ties.32 Trade patterns within Africa prior to European contact are difficult to discern, although John Thornton has made the point about pre-1650 internal trade in general that “Europe offered nothing to Africa that Africa did not already produce.”33 Trade patterns for alcohol would likely have followed those of other manufactured items, the extent of which would have been limited only by the perishable nature of the alcohol. For example, markets in Whydah, in present-day Benin, featured beer for sale among many local and near-local items.34 As trade between Europe and Africa developed it did so as a means of fulfilling a desire for high-status or luxury items. The introduction of European alcohol into Africa cannot be explained as a replacement for a supposedly inferior palm wine or walo—rather, the new drinks, mainly grape wine and brandy, would have moved into an existing African consumer market because of their symbolic value as a status good. Curto also argues that European red wine, Madeira, and brandy all had higher alcohol contents than malavu or walo. The higher alcohol content would certainly have conferred greater status on its owner, would have been more attractive as a quicker and more potent means of achieving a state of intoxication, and would have made its use as a conduit with the spirit world more attractive.35 Europeans introduced a variety of fermented and distilled beverages to Africa. They also introduced new fermentables, and indeed the introduction of maize into Africa in the sixteenth 83

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century seems to have occurred concurrently with the decreased production of palm wine in favor of corn-based beer. At the same time, new sources of starch, such as maize, and new types of grain gave Africans a wider range of fermentables with which to work. Europeans also introduced new intoxicants such as grape wine, and, after the mid-sixteenth century, a variety of spirits distilled from sugarcane, including aguardiente (fermented and distilled from a variety of sources including sugarcane), cachaça (fermented and then distilled from the surface skimmings of boiling sugarcane), and rum (fermented and then distilled from the byproducts of sugar production such as molasses). The term gerebita refers to a cheap form of rum, and was sometimes interchangeable with the word rum, although Curto argues that in West Central Africa the term gerebita replaced cachaça as a way to describe the same liquor.36 Archaeological recovery of European-made liquor bottles in the homes of the elites seems to confirm that the trade in these novel intoxicants came to be seen as a new symbol of status in coastal Africa.37 Accurately assessing the value of the alcohol trade into and out of Africa is sometimes problematic because that commerce is both overwhelmed by, and intertwined with, the trade in slaves and gold. While the value of imports to Western Africa increased during the period between the 1680s and the 1780s, the export of slaves accounted for the vast majority of this commerce.38 Eltis and Jennings have estimated that as an export commodity, the relative trade in alcohol fluctuated only slightly between the 1680s and the 1820s, hovering at around 10 percent of all commodity imports.39 The authors speculate that most of the alcohol—in their view primarily rum, wine, and brandy—was consumed by Europeans living on the coast of Africa, implying that Africans continued to consume their own fermented beverages. While the relative percentage of trade fluctuated, the volume rose steadily over the course of the early modern period, mirroring a general rise in the African commodities trade.40 According to this view of Atlantic World commerce in alcohol, the intoxicant did not play an overly significant role in the African economy or culture during the early modern period. Indeed, when Ernst Van Den Boogaart reassessed the Eltis and Jennings article in 1992 in the context of the carrying trade between 1600 and 1690, he took some issue with their estimates about slaves and gold, but their views on commerce in alcohol merited only a footnote.41 Using a wide range of records to focus on a specific area of coastal Africa, Curto’s nuanced work on Luanda serves as an illuminating case study of the West African alcohol trade. He argues that the trade was more robust, noting that Portuguese traders in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries regularly carried wine as ballast, drinking it along their journeys and then introducing it into newly encountered lands. Although it could have been used as currency in the slave trade, a sixteenth-century monopoly on the wine trade into West Africa actually had the effect of slowing down the introduction of Portuguese wine. The end of that monopoly by the early seventeenth century gave rise to a more vigorous commerce in grape wine, which Portuguese traders exchanged for slaves from the interior. In that sense, the commerce in grape wine and slaves went hand in hand.42 The introduction of cachaça into Africa from the Americas in the sixteenth century signaled another change in the substance and intensity of African commerce in alcohol. While continental wine was already well-known, cachaça developed in America as part of the sugar industry. In many ways cachaça production mirrored the production of palm wine in that male African slaves skimmed the tops of sugar vats in the same way they would have harvested the crests of raffia-palm trees, and then managed the fermentation. Unlike palm 84

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wine, however, which was reserved for elites, everyone consumed cachaça, and its trade also symbolized the growing importance of Luso-Brazilian commerce and its deep ties to the slave trade (Figure 4.1). Probably first distilled in the early sixteenth century by African slaves in Brazil, cachaça made its way to coastal, and then inland Africa by the mid-seventeenth century, supplanting the trade in grape wine in Angolan West Africa.43 As a form of currency, cachaça had the potential to upend commerce patterns by reorienting the flow of alcohol from a Europe-toAfrica dominance toward an Americas-to-Africa trade. Figures for all of coastal Africa are not available, but Curto’s Luanda is suggestive. There the trade in alcohol, which began as an African import trade consisting mainly of grape wine, had shifted by 1699 with aguardiente and gerebita, here synonymous with rum, accounting for more than 80 percent of imported spirits by volume in the period from 1699 to 1703—a percentage that held roughly steady during the eighteen century.44 Tax revenue kept pace with the volume of imports, which signaled increased revenue for the Portuguese Crown and local African ports, and also profits for producers and shippers at ports in the New World such as Rio de Janiero and Salvador in South America, or Bristol, Boston, and Newport in North America. It also signaled decreased profits for producers and shippers of grape wine and grape wine brandy in Europe, who responded with an early, and

Figure 4.1  Slaves making sugar. Joan Blaeu, Atlas maior, sive Geographia Blaviana (Amsterdam, 1662), vol. 11, between pp. 243 and 245. By permission of the Special Collections department, University of Virginia Library. 85

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only temporarily successful, attempt to ban rum and cachaça imports into Africa. A decline in alcohol imports into Africa after 1750 reflected a general downturn in the Atlantic economy, which worsened with the start of the Seven Years’ War in 1754.

Colonial Americas With very few exceptions, mainland Native North Americans did not seem to have engaged in systematic fermentation or distillation prior to the arrival of Europeans. Likewise, according to Spanish chroniclers and recent archaeology, no alcohol existed in the culture of the Taino Arawak Indians when they encountered Columbus in 1492.45 Of greater mystery than the lack of fermentation by these groups is a lack of evidence for trade in alcohol with nearby villages, nations, and empires, despite evidence of commerce in a wide variety of other items between drinking and non-drinking areas. That changed quickly once Europeans arrived. Grape wine, brandy, and distilled beverages soon became recreational drinks in North America, as well as a means by which Europeans could bargain for goods and engage in cultural, physical, and political dominance. Although his work spans a large period, Marcus Trenk has documented the adoption of alcohol by Native Americans into already-existing rituals, especially those centered on mourning and communion with deceased ancestors.46 By the mid-1600s, most North American Indians had incorporated drinking into their cultures, though often with some opposition.47 Outside of North America and the Taino areas, Native Americans seem to have fermented whatever starch- and sugar-filled plants they had on hand. Spanish chroniclers noted with great detail the production, consumption, and trade of alcohol made from cassava, manioc root, sweet potatoes, and other available roots.48 As in Africa, Carib Indians used alcohol to communicate with the spirit world. As elsewhere, alcohol in the pre-Columbian Americas served as a social lubricant and was central to religious feasts, and corn beer in particular carried with it sacred symbolism. Alcohol was also a way to mark identity, both internally and externally defined. Different regions of South America, for example, were known by the maize that lent coloring to their corn-based beer—purple, green, and yellow being among the most common.49 Corn beer was only one among many types of fermented beverages, and both the Maya and the Aztec produced and traded a variety of alcoholic drinks derived from plants other than corn, and differentiated by region. Examining central Mexico from just north of the Yucatán to the southern areas of what is today Arizona, New Mexico, and western Texas, Henry J. Bruman has identified several regionally specific wines derived largely from locally available cactus and agave plants, mesquite, and hog plums. Native Americans within each region also fermented a variety of grains and made wine from fruits, honey, bananas, and coconuts.50 Reported variants included alcohol fermented with peyote as well as tobacco. Peyote, in particular, may have served as an occasional substitute for wine in areas lacking a consistent supply of fermentable sugars, and the ready availability of hallucinogens might explain the lack of alcohol in Taino culture. Aside from locally specific alcohols, mescal, pulque, and both alcoholic and nonalcoholic drinks derived from cacao beans formed the heart of the drinking experience for all peoples between the Rio Grand and South America at the time of European arrival. Mescal, wine 86

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fermented from the maguey plant, played a role in the Mayan and Aztec religious experience, with the plant and the liquor derived from it at the heart of the creation myths for both peoples (Figure 4.2). The production of mescal wine also went hand in hand with tribute commerce, with outlying regions supplying wine to local chieftains. An extensive tributary trade in chocolate and cacao beans flowed toward Tenochtitlán, as well as in and around the Mexica empire,51 and the fruit of the cacao tree supplied natives in Central America and Mexico with alcohol as well. Spanish explorers and conquistadors noted that native peoples scooped out the inside of the cacao pod and deposited the sugary mass into the bottom of their canoes. As the mass of pulp fermented, people collected the liquid runoff and extracted the beans, which were used to make other drinks and foods.52 Spaniards, for their part, alternated between regarding fermented cacao beans as something resembling feces, and finding joy in the refreshing drink and its intoxicating effects.53 Whether they enjoyed the drink or not, Spanish colonials recognized the symbolic importance of chocolate, and used its trade as a means of dominating commerce and supplanting Aztec control in Mexico and the Yucatán. By the time the Portuguese and Spaniards encountered the Inca in South America, the natives had an extensive commerce in alcohol that dated back centuries. Trade in these intoxicants would have occurred over relatively short distances, given the limited shelf life of wine and grain-based beer lacking natural preservatives such as hops. While the Inca seem to have fermented a variety of sugars into alcohol, the reciprocity expressed by the state through its labor system included large celebratory feasts featuring chicha, the central drink in these ceremonies.54 The exact type of chica was not well defined. While Spaniards came to apply the word to virtually any type of native-made drink—either fermented or unfermented— precontact chicha generally referred only to alcoholic drinks, which could have been fermented

Figure 4.2  Pulque god, sixteenth century. The dots above the pot represent fermentation. Bernardino de Sahagún, General History of the Things of New Spain: The Florentine Codex, vol. 1 fol. 40r. Florence, The Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, ms. Med. Palat. 218, c. 52r. Reproduced with permission of MiBACT. 87

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from any number of different grains. In what is today Peru, as elsewhere in South America, natives fermented local plants, including quinoa and amaranth, as well as various tubers and fruit.55 The most common drink in the Inca empire was beer made from maize flour that had been chewed, formed into patties, and then left to warm in the sun before immersion in water and fermentation, in a process similar to that found among Carib Indians. The production of corn beer, generally done by women, was a laborious process that took weeks to complete, and larger towns constructed buildings dedicated to the production of corn beer and other fermented beverages. The scale of the production facilities as well as a study of the distribution of pre-Hispanic Inca drinking vessels suggest a trade network for alcohol centered on state-sponsored feasts, local drinking ceremonies, and everyday usage.56 As a derivative of maize, corn beer served as a central component of religious ceremonies; but quite aside from its use in religious rites, “the Inca consumed massive amounts of maize beer.”57 Preconquest archaeological evidence suggests that households in the Upper Mantaro Valley east and slightly south of Lima had been harvesting ever-increasing amounts of corn, but using less of it for food. Instead, women fermented the maize into beer for shipping and transport to the Inca capital in Cuzco.58 Beer in South America entered into the economy through tributary commerce. Local communities contributed labor to the Inca state, and indeed the labor owed to the state served as a crucial link between localities and the central government. As in Europe and Africa, alcohol also helped Andean localities define their identities, and was a means by which communities drew themselves closer spiritually and socially. One regional study identified more than twenty maize-based fermented beverages, and at least ten more from other sources.59 In the early sixteenth century, Europeans brought wine, beer, and distilled spirits—mainly brandy—to the Americas. The arrival of Europeans, and an influx of European alcohol, complicated the natives’ relationship with drinking. A ready supply of grape wine and distilled spirits had the effect of disrupting social relationships built on drinking rituals and, in many areas, female production of alcohol.60 Just as drinking patterns changed after contact, so did patterns of production and trade. While short-distance trade in beer remained steady, new alcohols supplanted the long-distance trade. In particular, priests required a steady supply of wine to support their religious rituals as well as their drinking habits, which led to vineyards across central Mexico. Prior to the period of European conquest, drinking, and especially excessive drinking, was restricted to native elites. But the burgeoning population of Mexico City, an expanded drinking population, and cheaper, more readily available alcohols spurred new trade patterns, with Mexico City becoming the center of trade for alcohol of all types.61 In particular, the tax revenue generated by pulque houses helped finance the growing economy of New Spain. Alcohol also helped fuel commerce far to the north. Newfoundland fisheries, first temporarily inhabited by Norse fishers at the beginning of the second millennium CE and then permanently settled by Europeans beginning in 1583, hauled in thousands of tons of cod each year. In a northern version of the triangle trade, ships carried dried cod from Newfoundland to the Atlantic islands and southern Europe. In the Canaries one merchant claimed that, from 1648 to 1656, cod accounted for one-third of his imports.62 Shippers then carried wine to London from the Atlantic Islands or vintners in Spain. Commodities transported from England to Newfoundland included foodstuffs, clothing, guns and powder, candles, and other basic items.63 In a reflection of the burgeoning consumer revolution of the seventeenth and 88

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eighteenth centuries, Newfoundlanders and Labradoreans began to import more luxury goods. Their alcohol imports might seem a reflection of this, as shipping records and estate inventories include aqua vitae, wine, French brandy, and, increasingly after the 1680s, rum. However, in an unusual reversal of drinking habits, Newfoundlanders seemed to have consumed very little beer at any point in their early modern history. Instead, “Newfoundland’s isolation and the shipping qualities of various available beverages meant that they were likely to tap a cask of wine, brandy, or, eventually, rum.”64 In the British mainland colonies, the trade in alcohol varied greatly. Planters in the Chesapeake, for example, consumed amounts of alcohol that were considerable even compared to their European forbears. Sarah Hand Meacham estimates that an early eighteenth-century small planter household consumed around “ninety gallons of cider and twenty-one gallons of distilled liquor per year,” equaling about fifteen and three and a half gallons per person, respectively.65 At mid-century, according to W. J. Rorabaugh, that number stood at about three gallons of spirits and by the time of the American Revolution the number had risen to 3.7 gallons per person.66 As was the case in Newfoundland, settlers in the colonial Chesapeake drank very little hopped beer in the early modern period. More importantly, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Chesapeake settlers largely abstained from the Atlantic trade in alcohol. Shipping schedules were unreliable, especially for a colony that consumed so much alcohol and therefore needed a ready supply. Moreover, imported alcohol was expensive, and of unreliable quality. Planters complained of leaky casks, broken staves and hoops, and beer and wine that arrived in an undrinkable state. The low quality and high prices meant that precious cargo space would more likely be reserved for other necessary goods and the crew’s alcohol. In general, planters saw few ships from anywhere but England, and imported very little alcohol even from other places. Meacham estimates that in the period from 1724 to 1774, wine, ale, beer, and cider accounted for less than half of 1 percent of the entire Chesapeake import trade.67 If the Atlantic alcohol trade was rare for the Chesapeake, the intercolonial trade among the North American colonies was not much more common. Regional breweries and distilleries were largely unknown in the early modern Chesapeake. There, colonists instead produced their own alcohol at home—mainly cider and distilled apple and peach brandy. The Virginia heat precluded brewing for much of the year, and grapes did not grow well. Alcohol production in the Chesapeake took on a gendered component, as women in small households fermented alcohol from fruit, while on the larger plantations, men—mainly slaves—fermented and distilled ciders and brandies, and brewed some seasonal beer.68 When supplies ran out on the small farms, as they often did, colonists turned to their wealthier neighbors for resupply. Lacking town markets of any size (and indeed, lacking the large towns that existed in the Middle and New England colonies), the Chesapeake commerce in alcohol occurred over extremely short distances, between large plantations and their nearby small-farming neighbors. To the north, the colony of New Netherlands was home to the earliest European brewery in the New World, begun by Hans Christiansen and Adrian Block in 1612. The New Netherlands colony saw a burgeoning local trade in alcohol, and especially beer. Split into two lobes, the northern settlement of Fort Orange (modern-day Albany) found itself in a strategic tug-of-war between nearby Native American nations, especially the Iroquois, and the British, the French, and the Dutch. Trade between settlers in Fort Orange and local Indians was largely peaceful, as the settlement depended on the natives for its survival. The much stronger New Amsterdam 89

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to the south, however, was in a near-constant state of warfare with local Native Americans. Commerce in alcohol with Indians was forbidden by law, but as local records in the rest of the Americas suggest, this was more de jure than de facto. Back in Holland, brewers were generally among the wealthier inhabitants in any town, ranking in the top 6 percent of household income in Amsterdam, according to Janny Venema.69 This gave brewers both enormous political and cultural power, and made brewing an attractive profession for colonists. In the period from 1652 until the end of the Dutch occupation in 1664, New Amsterdam boasted a dozen breweries directly employing thirty people.70 Aside from breweries, the colony also included an unspecified number of malting houses to supply malted barley to the breweries, and at least some farmers must have grown hops, which would not have survived the transatlantic journey.71 Beer produced in New Amsterdam supplied a local demand, as well as that of nearby settlements. While brewers worked with tavern keepers to maintain a steady fresh supply, local law followed that of Holland, which required that independent porters deliver beer to customers. The Challenge of Transatlantic Commerce If beer was largely a local commodity, the rise of a new commercially viable and transportable alcohol would change the face of commerce in the Atlantic World. Although historians cannot pinpoint the exact origins of rum production, the use of sugarcane to make distilled alcohol dates to the mid-sixteenth century. After a century-long evolution, Caribbean sugar-producing islands began sending ever-larger amounts of rum around the Atlantic World. As an example, the Barbadian export trade of more than 100,000 gallons in 1664–5 rose by 50 percent to just over 150,000 gallons the following year, and by 1699–1701 stood at just under 600,000 gallons.72 As a byproduct of sugar production, in that year rum accounted for almost one-fifth of the value of all Barbadian exports. Most of the rum found its way to the British North American colonies. Commerce in Caribbean rum around the Atlantic, as with the trade in other alcohols, had a symbiotic relationship with the slave trade to Africa. But by the late seventeenth century, the rum trade had also made its way into nearly every corner of North America, where colonists in French Canada, New England, New York, and the Carolinas traded raw materials and finished goods to the Caribbean islands in exchange for rum or molasses.73 The trade in rum and molasses for basic goods freed up the islands to devote more acreage to sugar production. Lacking a reliable supply of specie, Caribbean planters and North American shippers and merchants turned to barter, using rum and molasses as currency. While sugar planters preferred to export distilled rum, which brought more money, the attitudes of North American shippers, mainly from New England, were mixed. Shipping the cheaper molasses to New England for distillation, and then exporting the rum to Latin America, Europe, or Africa brought greater profits to New England merchants. But molasses could spoil, and so brought more risk, making shipping finished rum from the Caribbean a more sound investment. Reflecting the mixed attitudes toward profitability over easy disposal of a sugar byproduct, British islands required merchants to accept rum, while Dutch, French, and Spanish islands allowed New England merchants to carry away molasses. In the mid-seventeenth century, New England merchants largely imported rum, but by the 1660s they began to distill their own. By the early eighteenth century, Massachusetts was awash 90

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in rum to the point that public drunkenness had become a serious concern. The Massachusetts Assembly passed a series of excise laws in the 1690s meant to raise revenue and regulate trade and consumption. In a sign that officials considered rum, not alcohol in general, an especially acute problem, the 1698 tax on rum was twice that of wine, and 50 percent higher than beer, ale, and cider.74 By the early eighteenth century, drunkenness fueled by rum and brandy so alarmed Boston’s Assembly that in 1711 they moved to ban the sale of distilled liquor in taverns, although, in a nod to the economic importance of rum, no ban was placed on the production, trade, or consumption of it outside of the tavern. The ban seems to have had a mixed effect on tavern keepers. While some complied, the majority seem to have ignored the law. Excise records reveal that more than half of tavern keepers continued to sell imported and locally produced distilled spirits, including brandy and rum.75 That tavern keepers continued to pay excise taxes indicates the assembly’s acknowledgment that the ban was futile, and that a continued stream of revenue was more important than eliminating tavern-based consumption. By the early eighteenth century, the North American market was glutted, undercutting officials’ efforts to regulate its trade and consumption through taxation. Rum was so plentiful and cheap that between 1722 and 1738, the price of a gallon of rum in Boston fell by 40 percent. Mid-century Philadelphia experienced a similar decline in prices.76 Rum producers, as well as consumers, faced resistance on a number of fronts. In the British Middle and New England colonies, attempts to restrict the commerce in and consumption of rum included moral suasion on the part of Quakers and clergymen from George Whitefield to Cotton Mather. Commercially, American merchants, in W. J. Rorabaugh’s estimation, objected not to rum in and of itself—as an object of trade, it brought great profits. But as something consumed by employees or business partners, it had the potential to threaten livelihoods.77 Rum also threatened the economic interests of Spanish wine and brandy producers and merchants on the Iberian peninsula. The wine industry in Spain stretched from the peninsula to the Canaries to the Madeira islands, and supplied wine to consumers across Spain as well as to other parts of Europe. England was a main destination for Spanish (as well as French) wines, and Frederick Smith found that some “two-thirds of all wine shipped from the Spanish Canaries went through London”; Spanish wine and brandy could be found across the Americas as well.78 From 1693 through the beginning of the Seven Years’ War, Spanish officials passed a series of regulations prohibiting the manufacture of rum, the repetitious nature of which suggests that the practice in New Spain of obedezco pero no cumplo, or “I obey but I do not comply,” so prevalent in relations between the Spanish Crown and her colonies, had found a home among rum distillers and merchants.79 Increased pressure on Spanish rum producers came from South America as well, and reduced rum production in the Spanish Caribbean greatly benefited wine producers in the Spanish Americas. The demand for locally produced wine flowed from the inability of Iberian growers to supply amounts sufficient for New World consumption. Begun in the mid-sixteenth century, the haciendas in Peru’s Arequipa and the Moquegua Valley produced wine and brandy, among many other products, for shipment to the nearby mines of Potosí and the towns of La Paz and Cuzco for consumption by everyone from mine owners to slaves.80 The location of wineries in this area built on existing tradition; during the Inca period, it had housed a major brewing operation that supplied Cuzco and other towns with corn-based beer, and a beer made from the fruit of a pepper tree called the molle.81 91

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After a slow beginning, local demand fueled a sharp increase in South American grape wine production in the late 1500s. A drop in prices coupled with a series of natural disasters threatened production in the early seventeenth century; but unlike rum, which seemed to carry a social as well as an economic threat, wine was deeply embedded in Spanish culture. By the middle of the seventeenth century, Peruvian wine could be found in Panama and Mexico City, and some wineries in the Moquegua region had a collective storage capacity of just over three million gallons, far more than necessary for local demand.82 Numbers for production are scarce, but Kendall Brown has used tithes to provide a window into Peruvian winemaking in Vitor in Arequipa, Majes in modern Caylloma, and in Moquegua. Tithes on wine production in Vitor, almost all of which would have been sent via short-distance trade to cities, fluctuated from 477 novenos (one-ninth of a tithe) to 781 in 1714, reaching a high of 1,042 in 1742 and then dropping to 620 by 1750. By contrast, records for Moquegua wine began in 1736 at 1,282 novenos, hit 1633 in 1742, and stood at 1,193 in 1750. The larger numbers for Moquegua likely reflect larger production capacity, as prices for wine from each region stayed roughly equal.83 A largely unenforced 1714 ban on secular wine production was removed later in the eighteenth century, leading to a brief uptick in prices, while an increased population and demand for fermented and distilled grape products brought increased profits to South American viticulturists.84 Local growers continued to produce and export wines around Spanish America, coexisting uneasily alongside Spanish rum distillers. Increased production of rum concerned French authorities as well, although they reacted very differently from their Spanish and American counterparts. As in the Iberian peninsula, French viticulturists exported a great deal of wine to England and Scotland, where laws favoring Portuguese wines threatened the French economy, as did the possible introduction of rum and sugar-brandies such as cachaça from the Americas. In order to protect the home industry, French authorities, perhaps more savvy than their Spanish counterparts, banned imports of rum to the homeland from, but not its production in, the Caribbean.85 The law had the effect of flooding French North America with French Caribbean rum, feeding the aforementioned trade in products from French Canada. The British also introduced some protectionist measures related to rum production. Unlike the Spanish and British, French Caribbean sugar producers did not distill their molasses into rum, instead selling it mainly to North American merchants. Owing to slightly different sugar production techniques, French planters also tended to have greater supplies of molasses of which to dispose, and North American distilling operations seemed a perfect outlet. What was good for French sugar factories and British North American distilleries was bad for British Caribbean planters, who found the markets for their own rum and molasses undercut by French supplies. In response, Parliament enacted a tax on foreign molasses under the 1733 Molasses Act. Ostensibly meant to reduce the supply of non-British molasses into British ports, the act was also meant to strike at French economic power in the Caribbean by prohibiting French Caribbean rum from entering ports in Ireland. The 1733 Act had little impact. Smugglers evaded the law with relative ease, and in any case the French export of rum into Ireland rarely exceeded French brandy and wine sales.86 Despite restrictions, imports of rum to England grew steadily. Various wars with France, England’s main supplier of alcohol, highlighted the difficulties faced by the Britons in maintaining a steady supply. According to Frederick Smith, imports of rum from the British Caribbean to England and Wales rose from twenty-two gallons in 1697 to an astonishing 22,000 gallons by 92

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1710. By the 1750s, rum regularly outpaced all other alcohol imports. Although the majority of British rum came from Jamaica, at mid-century Barbados exported more than 1.3 million gallons of rum, just over 35 percent of which went to Britain. Another 10 percent went to Newfoundland and Bermuda, and the remainder, representing more than three-quarters of a million gallons, found a home in the mainland British North American colonies.87 By mid-century, rum was more popular than the once-unassailable brandy, which remained a drink of the elites, but had become increasingly associated with the hated French. Commoners preferred rum. By this time, of course, rum in England faced another, homebrewed competitor—locally distilled gin—per capita consumption of which more than doubled between 1700 and 1720, and continued to rise.88 Conclusion The early modern period witnessed profound changes in the trade in alcohol, which both caused, and were caused by, changes in drinking habits and patterns around the Atlantic World. In Europe, the revolution in hops promoted commercialized brewing and the ability of brewers to ship their products over longer distances. What at first seemed to presage greater longdistance trade was dampened by protective tariffs and the spread of new brewing technology and techniques. Around the Atlantic World, people continued to consume large quantities of fermented malts beverages, mostly purchased from local brewers. In that sense, locally produced alcohol remained an important commodity. Likewise, wine’s cachet as a sacramental beverage and its ties to elites helped preserve and in some ways extend its popularity in Europe, the British Isles, and in North and South America. Nonetheless, drinking habits changed, and settlements around the Atlantic World made this possible. The advent of cheaper distilled alcohol had the most long-lasting effects on the trade in alcohol in the early modern period. Brandy found its way to the Americas as a drink of the elite and as an item of trade for Amerindians. The most profound change occurred in the eighteen century. Fermented beverages made from cane sugar, and in particular rum, came to dominate the short-distance trade within, and long-distance alcohol trade between, the Caribbean, North America, Africa, and Europe, despite localized attempts to restrict its production and sale. By the end of the early modern period, as a result of increased trade, people in all areas of the Atlantic World had larger quantities of different types of alcohol than at any previous point in their histories.

Notes 1. Smith 2005, 14. 2. Smith 2005, 28. 3. Although the distinction is inexact; see Brennan in this volume, 23. 4. See, for example, Tlusty 1998c. 5. Throughout this essay I have distinguished between “hopped beer,” “unhopped ale,” and “fermented malt” beverages. 6. Burton 2013, 11. 7. Unger 2004, 73. 93

Alcohol in the Early Modern World 8. Bennett 1996, 88; see also Hailwood’s Chapter 6 in this volume. 9. Nelson 2005, 112. 10. Unger 2004, 101. 11. Burton 2013, 9. 12. Unger 2004, 102. 13. Bennett 1996, 140. 14. Burton 2013, 12. 15. Unger 2004, 190. 16. For a general discussion of changing drinking patterns, see Martin 2009, Chapter 3. For a more detailed discussion of these phenomenon, see Unger 2004, 231–42. 17. Eltis and Jennings 1988, 947. 18. Smith 2005, 98. 19. McGovern 2009, 257. 20. Smith 2005, 98. 21. Curto 2004, 24–5. 22. Smith 2008, 121. 23. Curto 2004, 39. 24. Curto 2004, 37, 39. 25. Akyeampong 1996, 5. 26. McGovern 2009, 257; Law 1991, 34. 27. Akyeampong 1996, 39. 28. See, for example, Leacoc 1964, 344–54. 29. Akyeampong 1996, 15. 30. Akyeampong 1996., 23. 31. Curto 2004, 39. 32. Law 1991, 95–6, 276. 33. Thornton 1998, 44. 34. Law 1991, 48. 35. Curto 2004, 51. 36. Curto 2004., 40, 72. 37. Kelly 1997, 365. 38. Eltis and Jennings 1988, 945. 39. Eltis and Jennings 1988, 949. 40. Eltis and Jennings 1988, 952, 955. 41. Van Den Boogaart 1992, n377. 42. Curto 2004, 55, 59. 43. Curto 2004, 74. 44. Curto 2004, 203–4. 45. Rouse 1992, 18. 46. Trenk 2002, 79. 47. Mancall 1995b, 427. 48. Smith 2006, 544–6. 94

Commerce, Business, and Trade 49. Goldstein et al. 2009, 135–6, 140. 50. Bruman 2000, 4. 51. Norton 2008, 18. 52. McGovern 2009, 210–12. 53. Norton 2004, 15; McGovern 2009, 218. 54. Bray 2009, 110. 55. Goldstein et al. 2009, 133–6. 56. Bray 2009, 125. 57. Goldstein et al. 2009, 141. 58. Jennings 2014, 31. 59. Jennings 2014, 27–8; Goldstein et al. 2009, 137–8. 60. Smith 2006, 558. 61. Mitchell 2004, 22–3. 62. Pope 2004, 96. 63. Pope 2004, 362, 363, 367, 369, 371. 64. Pope 2004, 385. 65. Meacham 2009, 6; compare to Withington, Chapter 2 in this volume, suggesting that English men consumed between one-half gallon and four gallons of beer per day, in some cases in addition to wine and spirits. 66. Rorabaugh 1979, 7. 67. Meacham 2009, 43. 68. Meacham 2009, 2009, 63. 69. Venema 2003, 293, 297. 70. Venema 2003, 443–6. 71. Venema 2003, 300. 72. Smith 2005, 13, 21. 73. Smith 2005, 30. 74. Conroy 1995, 62. 75. Conroy 1995, 72–3. 76. Rorabaugh 1979, 31, 64. 77. Rorabaugh 1979, 30, 36. 78. Smith 2005, 57. 79. Smith 2005, 58. 80. Rice 1996, 797; K. Brown 1986, 42–3. 81. Jennings 2014, 31. 82. Rice and Smith 1989, 48. 83. Brown 1986, 225–6. 84. Rice 1997, 458. 85. Smith 2005, 62. 86. Smith 2005, 65. 87. Smith 2005, 73, 86. 88. Nicholls 2009, 36. 95

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CHAPTER 5 MEDICINE AND HEALTH

B. Ann Tlusty

During the early modern period, as in all periods, dominant cultural and religious beliefs affected the way in which medical knowledge was received and put into practice. This is not the same thing as to suggest that physicians necessarily adhered to the demands of religion or authority in making their prescriptions, or that science did not play a vital role in medical thinking. Here as in other realms, practitioners were influenced by a variety of opinions, and there was often a divide between authority and practice as well. Physicians generally sought objective treatments based on science even when their methods ran counter to the prevailing doctrine of a religious state. Early modern science was not our science, of course—not only did medical writers of the early modern period follow the standards of the day in infusing their manuals with expressions of piety; they also described many of the effects of their medicines and treatments in terms of cosmic, celestial, or even occult forces. But this, too, was early modern medicine, for physicians understood these forces to have a direct effect on the physical body. Scientific ideas also were not limited to men of science. In Europe, the advent of printing during the fifteenth century, coupled with an increasingly bureaucratic legal system, led to rising literacy rates, especially in the towns. These developments both influenced and were influenced by the ideas of Renaissance Humanists, who advocated lay education and publication of vernacular texts in order to disseminate practical knowledge to a wider audience of educated townspeople. Health manuals, herbals, books on distilling, and “home apothecaries” appeared during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries not only in expensive folio editions produced for the well-appointed household, but also as small, inexpensive chapbooks aimed at a more general readership. These popular texts, which mixed learned medicine with household remedies, often connected ideas about a healthy body to a moral view of a healthy soul as well.1 This chapter will outline the ways in which alcohol was used medicinally in the early modern world, both as a remedy and as a preventative tonic for maintaining health, and will also consider the point at which drinking became unhealthy. As we have seen in previous chapters, changes in the production and distribution of alcohol by the end of the early modern period were leading to new products and affecting patterns of consumption. Explanations for the various effects of drinking were also in flux during this period, shifting in tandem with changing beliefs about the body and its relationship not only to the soul, but (beginning in the seventeenth century) to the mind as well. Despite these cultural shifts, however, therapeutic applications of alcohol remained remarkably stable. As is the case throughout this volume, my focus is primarily on Europe, with related beliefs in other parts of the world treated comparatively. Although much more research is needed in order to present a truly global picture, this preliminary examination suggests a surprising degree of similarity in the way that different cultures understood the effects of alcohol on the body. Wherever alcohol was consumed, it appears to have been found useful as a medicine and a tonic. Beyond its purely physical effects, there is also much evidence to suggest commonalities

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in beliefs that alcohol had a spiritual side, which in some cases was useful in invoking divine healing power.

Early Modern Bodies Ideas about medicine and health are governed first by assumptions about how the body works and what illness actually is. Throughout much of the Eurasian world during the early modern period, beliefs about the body were grounded in received knowledge from the physicians of ancient Greece. Central to this medical canon were the theories of natural science associated with Hippocrates, which were subsequently refined and systematized by a series of successors. The most well known of these was the second-century physician Galen of Pergamon. Galenic views of the body were preserved during the Middle Ages by Western and, to an even greater extent, Arabic scholars, and like much of the wisdom of the ancients, flowered anew in Europe beginning in the Renaissance.2 Galen’s theories dominated medical practice and debates about the body during the early modern period, and with nearly 600 new editions of his works appearing in Europe during the sixteenth century, Galen was among the best-selling authors of the late Renaissance. Many new editions of Hippocrates appeared during this period as well.3

Figure 5.1  The four humors, depicting four different types of drinkers distinguished by the four complexions; the pleasant sanguine, the hot-headed choleric, the vomiting phlegmatic, and the melancholic behaving madly. Illustration produced to accompany a reprint of Hans Sachs’s 1528 poem, An Amusing Tale: The Four Remarkable Properties and the Effect of Wine. Illustrated broadsheet, Nürnberg, 1622. By permission of the Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel, IE 87. Image from Harms 1985–9, 1:82; for Sachs’s poem in English see Kümin and Tlusty, 426–31. 98

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A fundamental tenet of Galen’s view of human physiology, and one central to any discussion of Renaissance medicine, was belief in the Aristotelian view that all matter, including the human body, was made up of four basic elements: earth, water, air, and fire. These elements were in turn characterized by the four essential qualities of heat, cold, wetness, and dryness, with each element associated primarily with two of these qualities. The elemental earth was essentially dry and cold; water was cold and wet; air was wet and hot; and fire was hot and dry. In the human body, each of the four elements was in turn related to one of the four cardinal fluids, or humors, the balance of which established the human temperament. While the ideal might have been a perfect balance of all four, real people displayed temperaments that suggested that individual bodies were each dominated by one or another of the humors. Those ruled by black bile, associated with earth, were inclined to have dry and cold characteristics and thus a “melancholy” temperament. Melancholics were sensitive, fearful, and depressed by nature, and often thin. This temperament was associated with artists and poets. People dominated by phlegm, with the qualities of water (wet and cold), the “phlegmatics,” were often slow, heavy, and pale, and tended to suffer from digestion problems resulting from an excess of bodily fluids. The cardinal fluid of blood was associated with air, which was hot and dry and created a “sanguine” temperament. The sanguine was the noblest of the temperaments, friendly, mild in temper, and cheerful by nature, with a well-proportioned body. Finally, those ruled by yellow bile, with the qualities of fire (hot and dry), were of the “choleric” temperament, fiery and aggressive personalities who were prone to be lean and restless (Figure 5.1 ). Illness according to the Galenic system represented a body out of balance—cold and wet diseases led to the production of surplus phlegm; fevers represented an excess of hot humors;

Figure 5.1 Continued 99

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too much black bile could lead to skin eruptions and epilepsy; and so on. Thus treatments for disease generally required introducing opposing qualities into the patient, such as cooling drinks for fevers and warm compresses for phlegmatic illnesses. Equally common was the attempt to remove the “bad” humors through various kinds of purges, including bloodletting, inducing vomiting, cupping to draw out blood or pus, and so on. This is of course a very simplified introduction—Galenic texts listed thousands of variations on humoral imbalance and their relationships to internal and external influences ranging from weather and climate to astrological conditions and occult forces. Although it had its critics, the Galenic system dominated medical thinking well into the seventeenth century and continued to exert influence on medical practice for much longer, and not only in Christian Europe. Galenic ideas were extremely influential among Jewish physicians and in the Arabic world as well. Many of the medieval translations of Greek medical texts are attributable to Arabic scholars, and both Arabic and Byzantine medical writers compiled commentaries and encyclopedias based on the Galenic system during the Middle Ages. The result was a philosophical link among scholars that stretched from western Europe throughout the Middle East to Southeast Asia, preserving ideas not only about the human body but also about its relationship to alcohol.4 Alcohol as Medicine Alcoholic drinks served a variety of medicinal roles: as counters to excess humors, for mixing and distilling medications made from other substances, as purgatives and antiseptics, and as pain relievers. Like people, beverages and foods were assumed to be imbued with certain characteristics based on their cool, warm, dry, or cold qualities, thus were often prescribed medicinally to counteract humoral imbalances.5 According to early modern practitioners, treatments also naturally depended not only on the illness, but also on the temperament of the patient, which could in turn be affected by age, gender, and other factors. Wine in all of its forms received a great deal of attention for its medicinal properties throughout the early modern world and has been the subject of considerable scholarship since. Generally speaking, wine was believed to be particularly beneficial to the ill and the weak, largely due to its natural heat and presumed affinity to blood, which suggested uses such as strengthening the heart, restoring blood flow, warming the stomach, and restoring a patient’s strength while recovering from an illness. Logically, wine was also recommended after bloodletting in order to restore healthy blood.6 Feelings of intoxication resulting from wine were themselves understood as having medical value as a remedy to melancholic and phlegmatic diseases, for wine embodied characteristics taken from the earth, the sun, and the air—according to Galileo, wine consisted of “light held together by moisture.”7 As a result of these assumptions, civic authorities in Europe allowed exceptions to rules against buying drinks on credit for persons suffering from illness, for as apothecary and humanist Walter Ryff put it, “God created wine, after all, to warm and comfort the ill, poor, and feeble-minded.”8 Because good wine, like a perfectly balanced Galenic body, embodied positive properties of all four humors, many physicians understood it as a general remedy for nearly any kind of humoral imbalance.9 This natural virtue also made wine the ideal base liquid for administering other medicinal ingredients. As was the case with all medications, however, the prescription for 100

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taking wine when ill could vary according to the infliction and the temperament of the patient. During periods of infection in Europe, such as plague, for example, physicians feared that drinks of a fiery nature could weaken one’s resistance, thus they recommended the cooler and “dryer” wines to help ward off plague, and cold and wet beverages such as beer to combat fever and hot distempers.10 Medical books also recommended administering good, white wine to women during labor, although in strict moderation.11 The warm qualities of most wines were considered beneficial for counteracting the natural coolness of the female temperament and were thus prescribed for other women’s conditions as well, including infertility and greensickness.12 Too much alcohol of any kind, however, was assumed to be particularly inappropriate for women, even dangerous, as its natural heat was not compatible with their cooler natures.13 At the dawn of the Renaissance, another alcohol-based medication entered the scene in the form of brandy. Because brandy was distilled from wine, physicians assumed that it contained the positive properties of wine in concentrated form. In Europe, the art of distilling, or separating the spirit of wine from its more watery parts in a process that seemed to change the nature of the substance itself, began to flower during the Middle Ages in the realm of alchemy and the magical arts. Western methods of distilling alcohol are usually assumed to have been imported from Arabian roots, although the art of distilling was also known in the ancient world.14 Beginning sometime after 1100, distilling was taken up as an industry not only by European monasteries but also by a variety of lay “water burners,” including both male and female herbalists and healers as well as practitioners of the black arts. Like other medieval sciences, the art of distilling spread quickly after the introduction of printing, and eventually was professionalized in the hands of male physicians, confectioneries, and apothecaries, all of whom regularly decried the continued production of spirits by those they labeled vagrants, unqualified quacks, casters of spells, and foolish old women. By the late fifteenth century, under humanist influence, books on distilling began to appear in vernacular languages as part of the growing body of technical manuals aimed at providing useful knowledge to literate householders. Despite the practical nature of these texts, however, elements of alchemical thinking remained; much like the human body, the “spirit” embodied in wine seemed to share characteristics of both physical and celestial realms. Thus its distilled essence represented something incorruptible and life-enhancing.15 Among the most widely read books on distilling in Renaissance Europe were those of German surgeon Hieronymus Brunschwig, who was active between 1497 and 1512. Drawing on the traditions of medieval alchemy, Brunschwig described distillation as the separation of the pure essence of a material from its impure parts to release a fifth essence, or quintessence, which contained the concentrated qualities of the distilled material. This “water of life” he called the “soul and strength and nobility [of the original material], drawn from the excess of the elements.”16 Brunschwig’s works were widely read throughout Europe both in Latin and in vernacular translations, setting off an extensive body of literature on distilling produced over the course of the sixteenth century (Figure 5.2). The idea that distillation produced a quintessential elixir was famously refined during the sixteenth century by wandering physician and natural philosopher Philipp Theophrastus Bombast von Hohenheim, who called himself Paracelsus. For Paracelsus, distillation resulted in the separation of hidden, even magical powers and virtues from material things, in the process of which their true healing secrets could be identified.17 Paracelsus’s ideas, with their occult overtones, were hardly universally accepted. But the notion that distilled essences 101

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Figure 5.2  Distilling oven accompanied by learned men discussing the effect of astrological signs and cosmic forces on the process of producing distilled medicines. Brunschwig 1512, fol. 144r. National Library of Medicine, Washington D.C.

represented a purer form of that which nature had provided, thus concentrating the natural virtues of the base material in a quintessential form, found broad acceptance. Brunschwig also understood his “water of life” as something super-elemental, and therefore lacking or transcending the qualities of the base elements. But other medical experts found distilled spirits to have a warm or fiery quality. The so-called burnt waters could only be prepared by the application of the purifying element of fire, which occupied the uppermost tier of the elemental hierarchy and also imparted increased heat and energy to the finished product.18 The resulting spirits were thus assumed to be particularly effective in imparting not only strength but also healing warmth. This was especially true of spirits distilled from wine, believed to contain the qualities of heat and moisture associated with blood. As a result, brandy in particular became the wonder drug of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Medical texts credited brandy with the ability to cure nearly every imaginable malady, including as an antidote for emotional problems (such as melancholy and insomnia); as an anesthetic for virtually every kind of pain (toothache, headache, stomachache, labor pains, etc.); as an aid to digestion; as a cure for forgetfulness; to relieve the symptoms of plague; to lose weight; and even as a remedy for graying hair and deafness. For women, brandy aided regular menstruation, improved the bust, increased fertility, eased childbirth, and cleansed the body after the birth. Brandy was also used externally, often mixed with various herbs, to treat wounds, relieve gout, heal vaginal and perineal tears occurring during childbirth, and to cure runny eyes and earaches, among other uses.19 102

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On the other hand, a regimen of treatment by complements naturally precluded the use of brandy by those suffering from diseases of a hot nature or administering it to those with a naturally choleric temperament. During outbreaks of fevers, some cities forbade the sale of brandy entirely. Decrees expressed concern about the possibility that the warm qualities in wine or brandy could weaken resistance to fever or exacerbate inflammations.20 Instead, early modern doctors recommended cooler drinks such as beer or ale to calm fiery temperaments and counteract choleric diseases. Beer was especially praised as a restorative, imparting strength and nourishment and purging hot tempers through increased urination.21 While Galenic theories dominated among medical writers in Europe and the Arabic world during the early modern period, those cultures that developed independently of GrecoRoman tradition also had in common with Europe a history of medical practice that included alcohol. In colonial Mexico, for example, many of the same benefits ascribed to wine in Europe, including as digestive, diuretic, anesthetic, and strength tonic, were provided by the fermented juice of the hardy maguey (a kind of agave plant), called pulque after the Spanish conquest. Like European wine, pulque also served as a base liquid for preparing herbal remedies and was prescribed to women both to encourage lactation after childbirth and during menstruation to slow the blood flow.22 In Africa, some of the same healing qualities attributed to wine in Europe were ascribed to palm wine (malavu), in particular the positive effects on the stomach, bladder, and kidneys associated with purging excess fluids.23 And in early modern China, the use of medicinal drinks made from rice and grape wine, distilled yeast, and other plants both for medicine and as healthful tonics also had a history dating back to antiquity. Similar to their European counterparts, Chinese physicians during the early modern period categorized foods and drinks in terms of thermostatic qualities, sharing the assumption that alcohol had an inherently warm quality that “warms Yin and raises Yang, and eliminates a hundred illnesses.” Thus they assumed grape wine to be especially healthy for people in colder northern climates, and less so for southerners24 (Figure 5.3). A common factor in all of these societies, regardless of the source of the alcohol, was the blurring of the line between physical and spiritual or occult aspects of medical remedies. Intoxicating beverages seemed to embody not only physical characteristics but also a “spirit” that could open a portal to other realms. This quality, the combination of body and spirit, created a metaphysical connection between alcohol and the human body, which also housed elements both physical and spiritual. Drinking could therefore lead to a communion with the divine, resulting not only in divine inspiration but also invoking spiritual assistance for physical health.25 These beliefs had their roots in the nearly universal connection made between wine and blood, the essential fluid of life, which has its roots in the ancient world.26 Metaphorically in later European texts, Agrippa described drunkenness as an alchemical process that made a divine temple of the mind. According to Peggy Muñoz Simonds, this is the basis for scenes of divine chaos brought on by drunkenness in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, in which alcohol “boiled” or “marinated” the brain into a state purified by “a chemical infusion of divinity.”27 Similar processes were assumed to be at work in precolonial shamanism in the Caribbean, where the cassava-based alcoholic drink oüicou provided the shaman (piaye or boyéz) with a connection to the spirit world that could then be transformed into healing energy directed to his patients. Carib fathers also ensured the health of their newborn children by consuming nothing but the spiritually significant oüicou for the first few days after birth.28 In a related way, pulque was associated with fertility and purification and thus with the overall health of Aztec 103

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Figure 5.3  Production of grape wine and chrysanthemum liquor for medicinal purposes in China during the Ming period (1368–1644). Anonymous, from Shiwu bencao (Materia dietetica). According to the text, “Chrysanthemum liquor clears wind from the head, increases the acuity of the ears and eyes, alleviates paralysis, stimulates the appetite, invigorates the spleen, warms Yin and raises Yang, and eliminates a hundred illnesses. Grape wine replenishes Qi and regulates the centre; however, it is rather heating in thermostatic character.” Wellcome Library, London.

and Mayan populations. Drinking pulque to the point of intoxication was central to many religious ceremonies honoring Aztec and Mayan gods of wine and fertility.29 In those regions on the North American continent where alcohol was not used by indigenous peoples, the same results were achieved with other mind-altering techniques (e.g., ingesting datura or peyote, or through sleep deprivation or fasting).30 The association between intoxication and the spirit world is not limited to western cultures. Ritual libations or offerings of intoxicating drinks to deities took the form of healing rites in early modern China, and ancient South Asian texts also provide an etymological connection between ecstasy brought on by drinking wine and divine possession.31 Related practices have 104

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been identified among Siberian shamans, who enter an alcohol-induced transcendental state in order to access the healing secrets of supernatural powers.32 How widespread such practices were during the early modern period, however, is unclear.33 What is clear is that wherever alcohol was consumed, its intoxicating effects were understood by medical practitioners to have medicinal potential—and for many cultures, these effects suggested a connection with the healing powers of the divine.

Healthy Drinking and Preventative Medicine Early modern medical writers not only praised the value of alcoholic beverages as cures for illnesses but also as preventative tonics for warding off health problems. Premodern physicians and apothecaries everywhere placed a high priority on preventative medicine, and in the alcohol-infused culture of Europe, moderate drinking always played a role in recommended regimens for maintaining good health, strength, and humoral balance. To be sure, physicians regularly railed against the harmful effects of habitual drunkenness, but their target was never simple intoxication, for the ideal of healthy moderation in early modern terms certainly included moderate drunkenness. Drinking to the point of inebriation also had its place as part of a healthy early modern diet. In Galenic terms, the feeling of wellbeing achieved by liberal consumption of wine was evidence of the physical mixing of corrupt or melancholic humors with the more positive qualities present in the drink, thus a restoration of healthy balance.34 The notion that getting drunk once or twice a month was a beneficial habit had roots in both European and Arabic medical tradition, and drinking to the point of vomiting remained a standard treatment for purging the system of impurities into the eighteenth century.35 Early modern prescriptions for health, however, were not one-size-fits-all. The goal was keeping the cardinal fluids in a healthy balance, which physicians believed was a constantly moving target. Humoral balance was affected not only by individual temperaments and by illness, but also varied according to one’s age and sex and could be influenced by moods, astrological conditions, or pregnancy. Many doctors warned against giving wine or brandy to children under the age of fourteen, for example, for Galenic views ascribed to young people an excess of blood that made their temperament naturally hotter than adults. Thus for children to drink wine was equivalent to “adding fire to fire.”36 Recommendations for each of life’s stages generally described alcohol consumption as particularly harmful to the young, then acceptable in moderation for adults up to their thirties. Once over forty, however, men in particular might be less moderate in their drinking habits. Those considered elderly, with their cold, phlegmatic temperaments, should then drink liberally, for strong wine and brandy could return them to strength.37 Among alcoholic beverages, wine was particularly praised as a healthy additive to one’s diet. The Galenic assumption that wine shared the attributes of blood made it logical to conclude that it worked preventively to strengthen blood, nourish the body, and regenerate the spirit. Physicians also credited wine with aiding digestion and purging the colder phlegmatic and melancholy humors.38 The association of blood, wine, body, and spirit was particularly powerful in Christian Europe, where imagery connecting wine with divinity through blood was ubiquitous; the fact that wine represented the spiritually cleansing blood of Christ elevated 105

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it’s presumed medicinal properties as well. In some cases, spiritual and physical power were combined; examples include drinking wine that had been blessed on a pilgrimage in order to ward off plague, or dipping holy relics into wine to make medicine.39 Influenced by these traditions, Western physicians argued that the blood-like qualities of wine were naturally more compatible with the human constitution than liquids of a colder temperament, including water. In comparison to wine, cold water could alter the body too quickly by cooling it, especially in the case of bodies that were hot either by nature or due to exertion or fever. Thus in some circumstances, medical theorists believed, alcoholic beverages appeared to be a healthier and safer alternative to water.40 Many early modern physicians warned that drinking too much water could be dangerous, especially straight, recommending instead that it be mixed with wine in order to make it more tolerable.41 Sixteenth-century German physician Lorenz Friese even went so far as to suggest that wine mixed with water was more damaging than straight wine, an opinion that was shared by a number of his contemporaries.42 Some historians have taken such warnings as evidence that wine and beer were actually safer to drink than water due to widespread pollution, a claim that is certainly exaggerated.43 It is true that tainted water could be a problem, especially in the cities. Many rivers and most city canals doubled as sewers and garbage dumps, carrying away offal, excrement, animal carcasses, and blood from slaughtering. But most people throughout the early modern world drank well water regularly, and the poor drank little else. Laws forbidding indiscriminate disposal of waste in water supplies date from the Middle Ages, and the fact that well water was safer than water from urban canals and rivers was apparent to brewers and authorities alike, as is evident in ordinances restricting brewers to the use of clean well water and forbidding brewing with river water.44 Physicians such as Thomas Cogan, writing in the late sixteenth century, thus praised water as “the first drink appointed by God to all manner of creatures.” As such, Cogan suggested, it was certainly sufficient for human survival, although wine was better suited for most human temperaments.45 To the followers of Galen’s system, beer and ale appeared to share the cool quality of the water it was brewed with, so as we have seen, any of these drinks could provide a healthy counter for the excesses of particularly choleric temperaments.46 Beer was also touted by some physicians as a nourishing addition to the diet in general and a healthy alternative to plain water, especially after the addition of hops, which supplied preventative qualities of their own including improved digestion and cleansing of the blood, spleen, and liver. Doctors prescribed both ale and beer as useful diuretics, and as helpful remedies during pregnancy for easing discomfort in the stomach and “the parts dedicated to Generation,” as well as to nursing mothers in order to increase milk production.47 Brandy was also recommended by doctors as a daily tonic to strengthen the heart and other organs, as well as for a host of other preventative applications including preserving memory, preventing colds and other phlegmatic diseases, and lengthening life.48 In fact, especially in colder climates, the introduction of brandy into the normal daily routine during the sixteenth century began as a health measure. The perception that brandy warmed and strengthened the body made it a popular pick-me-up at the start of a workday, particularly on cold mornings and for those facing physical labor. For this reason, German authorities tolerated brandy sales early in the morning beginning in the sixteenth century, so that working men could take a nip before starting their labors. Initially, brandy sales were concentrated in the winter months. But wherever people gathered to consume spirits, sociability naturally followed, so that brandy and 106

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other distilled liquors quickly made the transition from medicines and tonics to social drinks, becoming integrated into public house culture over the course of the seventeenth century.49 The transition did not minimize the role of spirits as medicinal drinks and cold-weather tonics, however. The assumption that wine and spirits were effective, healthy remedies to cold climates even affected trans-Atlantic trade in wine and fish during the seventeenth century. While in Europe by this time the distribution of drinks considered appropriate for different situations was becoming increasingly status-based—with “warm” wines reserved for those in the upper strata, and ale considered the most appropriate drink for working men50—the need for drinks classified as warm and dry appeared obvious to fishermen in Newfoundland, whose normal working conditions in this northern colony left them feeling particularly cold and damp. According to Peter Pope, alcohol and tobacco both functioned as “little hearths” around which chilly fishermen and sailors found sociability, good cheer, and the illusion of healing warmth. Thus the demand for red wines, sack, and distilled spirits was high, helping to fuel the lively consumer-based trading hub in Newfoundland around the exchange of New World fish for European wine.51 Also transplanted to the colonies was the idea that the natural virtues present in wine increased physical strength and endurance, a quality that, as we have seen, was naturally concentrated in wine that had been distilled into brandy. This made hard liquor an obvious choice for supplementing the diets of slaves and servants, for their masters assumed that the spirits could make their labor force stronger and keep them working and living longer. Planters in New England provided their slaves with strong drink during the harvest and to help them weather cold winters, as well as when they were ill. For similar reasons, colonial soldiers during the Revolutionary War received extra rations of alcohol to increase stamina, provide warmth when warm coats were lacking, supply extra calories, ward off disease, and promote general health.52 The notion that alcohol imparted strength and stamina not only spread into new regions during the colonial period but was also transferred to different kinds of beverages depending on local traditions. New World colonists gave their servants, slaves, and soldiers wine, beer, ale, brandy, and rum, with the less expensive rum gradually replacing brandy as a tonic and for many other medicinal purposes by the later eighteenth century.53 In seventeenth-century India, those belonging to the laboring castes were provided with arrack, a locally produced spirit that could be distilled from palm sap or juice, rice, sugar cane, or any number of other indigenous plants, in order to preserve strength during long bouts of rigorous manual labor.54 The alcohol of choice for this purpose in seventeenth-century Brazil was either garapa, a fermented beverage made from sugarcane, or its distilled form called aguardente. Aguardente was added to slave diets not only to increase their stamina for work but also to protect their masters’ investments by maintaining the general health of the slave population and increasing their lifespan.55 Unhealthy Drinking Despite widespread approval of alcoholic drinks as medications, tonics, and part of a generally healthy diet, early modern medical writers all agreed that drinking too much of them was unhealthy. Physicians throughout the early modern period clearly recognized the damage 107

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caused by the abuse of alcohol to the brain, liver, and heart, and also described tremors, which they understood as a weakening of the nerves and sinews.56 Chronic drunkenness was blamed for serious conditions like paralysis, stroke, epilepsy, gout, loss of appetite, and joint disorders, as well as for being the cause of minor problems such as red eyes, bad breath, bad color, and poor digestion.57 Seventeenth-century ascetic Thomas Tryon also suggested that habitual heavy drinking when one was healthy could result in building up a tolerance to alcohol, permanently heating the body and making it resistant to the medicinal effects of wine that were otherwise so useful when the drinker was really ill.58 Throughout the Christian West, attacks on unhealthy drinking concentrated primarily on excess, which was understood as bad for both body and soul, but was never easy to quantify objectively. And drinking to excess was not the only way to engage in unhealthy drinking habits. Whether a particular type of drink was believed to be inherently healthy or dangerous could depend more on how drinks were used culturally than on their physical characteristics. New kinds of drinks and new styles of drinking often alarmed the medical community, especially if the changes were imported from foreign soil or provided competition to existing interest groups. In such cases, medical authorities warning against the dangerous new beverages often found themselves being supported by advocates outside the medical profession. While physicians explored the qualities and characteristics of these unfamiliar substances and attempted to fit them into their pharmaceutical world view, purveyors of more traditional drinks often had ulterior motives for labeling new drinks as dangerous. Meanwhile, those who stood to profit from the new products naturally invested energy into lobbying for their acceptance as useful and healthy alternatives. The fact that nearly any alcoholic drink could be defined as a healthy tonic in moderation and as a deadly poison in excess was handy for protectionist efforts. An example of this phenomenon can be identified in seventeenth-century Angola, where both native palm wine and imported wine from grapes were generally described as healthy, whereas rival drinks made from sugar cane and supplied by Brazil (especially gerebita, a kind of rum distilled from molasses) were decried by local authorities as bad for the health, even potentially deadly. Not surprisingly, the complaints about gerebita were loudest among those engaged with Portuguese slave traders, whose business of trading wine for slaves was threatened by Brazilian traders bringing gerebita.59 A similar process accompanied the introduction of new drinks into Europe, including, in order, hopped beer, wheat beer, and gin. During the first half of the sixteenth century when hopped beer was still a relatively new product, physicians recommended wine as a more natural drink. Beer, they warned, brought on cold diseases and led to a more dangerous kind of drunkenness than the warmer wine. Medical texts also warned against beer for women trying to conceive children, blaming the immoderate use of beer by women for problems with infertility.60 Hopped beer gained acceptance more quickly in Germany and the Netherlands than it did in England, where it continued to meet resistance as a drink better suited to foreigners than the local ale that was assumed to be healthier for Englishmen.61 In contrast, German physicians by the second half of the sixteenth century were struggling to understand the physical effects of wheat beer, which was gaining in popularity as an inexpensive and refreshing alternative to traditional beer made from barley. Initially, the medical community found wheat beer to be dangerous to the health, and even blamed it for the outbreak of epidemics. They were joined in these efforts both by local brewers concerned about competition from the new beverage, and 108

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by government authorities, who feared that making wheat into beer could cause competition for the production of bread. The introduction of recreational gin-drinking into Germany during the sixteenth century caused even greater alarm, with resistance coming not only from physicians who understood gin as a medication rather than a social drink, but also from brandy sellers lobbying against competition; authorities concerned about wasting grain; and tax officials (since spirits classified as medicines were not subject to excise taxes). Because wheat beer and gin were less expensive to produce than traditional beer or brandy, however, consumer demand remained high, and control almost impossible. During the economic slump of the seventeenth century, the allure of new tax revenues overcame all resistance to the popular new drinks, including that of the medical community.62 As wheat beer and then gin were legalized, taxed, and assimilated into social drinking life, medical writers ceased to express concerns about the drinks themselves, and concentrated instead on warnings against their abuse. A century later in eighteenth-century England, William Hogarth’s famous broadsheets “Beer Street and Gin Lane” made gin into the primary target for decrying abuse, beer by this time having gained a positive reputation as a much healthier drink in comparison (see Figures 2.1 and 2.2 in this volume). Beer drinkers in Hogarth’s image appear as cheerful, wellnourished, and industrious, while those imbibing on Gin Lane are apathetic, undernourished, and unproductive. Worse, the gin drinkers seem to descend into collective madness, abusing or ignoring their children, pawning the tools of their trade, and letting the street around them fall into ruin. Only those who profit from this disorder appear to be healthy: the pawnbroker, the gin seller, and the undertaker. In contrast, on Beer Street, it is the pawnbroker’s house that is on the verge of collapsing.63 Beer was thus represented not only as more nutritious for the drinkers, but also as healthier for the household economy, and by extension, society at large. And it was not long after Hogarth published his satirical broadsheets that Frederick the Great of Prussia is credited with making a similar comparison between beer and coffee, pointing out in 1777 not only that beer was better suited for the health of his soldiers, but also that the habit of drinking coffee placed a drain on the Prussian economy.64 Both Hogarth’s print and Frederick the Great’s well-known attack on coffee demonstrate concern about the effects of overdosing on medicinal drinks not only on individual patients but also on the health of local economies. As is the case with any drug, abuse was dangerous for the entire community. But here, too, exactly how that danger was expressed depended upon the historical and cultural setting. Attacks on drunkenness during the phase of religious moralizing that attended the Reformation and post-Reformation period were often couched in terms of collective sin. Sin naturally threatened the individual bodies and souls of those guilty of excess; but in a world in which epidemics were also understood as punishment from a wrathful god, the collective sins of gluttony and drunkenness could literally endanger the physical health of the entire populace. Such warnings were particularly dire during outbreaks of disease. Sixteenth-century ordinances forbidding brandy-drinking during epidemics outlined all of these dangers, warning not only that the fiery brandy could lower resistance to fevers, but also that gathering to drink both spread disease and incurred the anger of God. Early notions of contagion were thus tied to concerns about displeasing God and lessening the chance for positive divine intervention.65 By Hogarth’s time, the disorder resulting from drinking too much spirits is expressed less as a visitation from an angry God than as a critique of the decline of the mercantile system with its protections of the middle and laboring classes. 109

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The result of the invisible hand of the market place displacing healthy beer with cheaper gin made victims primarily of certain segments of society and became both a cause of and a metaphor for economic decline.66 Providing a counterexample to the excesses blamed for many of Europe’s social and economic ills was the famous sobriety of the Turks, praised by some Europeans for the strength and good health that presumably resulted from abstinence. In contrast to the traditions of Christian Europe, with its long history of associating alcohol with the divine, most Islamic scholars took the position that any kind of alcohol caused more sickness and disease than it cured. Jewish authorities also condemned drinking to a much greater extent than did most Christians, although the Jewish tradition allowed for the use of wine as medicine as well as in religious ritual. Islamic clerics believed wine should be avoided even as medication.67 Attitudes toward drink among the populace in Islamic culture varied greatly during the early modern period, ranging from strict censure of alcohol consumption in public, especially if the drinking took place among those of the lower social orders, to considerable tolerance for imbibing at the private banquets of the elite.68 The official taboo on drinking for pleasure was governed by the Quran, which according to most religious interpretations condemned it without qualification. But the question of the suitability of using alcohol medicinally was a matter of some debate. The Quran itself is not black and white in this regard, at once labeling wine as a “device of the devil” while also praising grape and date-palm wine as a gift of God with healing properties. Because praise for wine appears earlier in the Quran than blanket condemnations, some Quranic scholars interpret the statements as a series of escalating prohibitions resulting from God’s growing anger at abuses of drink, an explanation that neutralizes the appearance of a contradiction. In any case, Islamic religious teachings by the early modern period favored the assumption that intoxicating beverages were forbidden in any context, including for medical use.69 As we have seen, however, Arabic medical tradition rested on the same Greco-Roman basis that dominated in Christian Europe, the influence of which often prevailed in spite of religious critics.70 Grapes remained popular in the Middle East throughout the early modern period for consumption as fruit and for making into vinegar, and wherever grapes continued to be cultivated, the production of wine never really disappeared.71 Islamic medical writers were divided on the question of alcohol, with some physicians willing to emphasize health over religion. Certainly, early modern Islamic scholars all gave God his due as the provider of natural remedies, and they also emphasized that any patient’s life was ultimately in God’s hands, as was also the case with physicians in Christian and Jewish societies. But when it came to prescriptions for health, the assumed medical benefits of alcohol trumped any taboo for many doctors. Thus, Islamic authorities in some cases allowed alcohol to be used medicinally even when it was otherwise banned.72 According to the seventeenth-century French traveler Jean Baptiste Tavernier, this exception led pages employed in the palace at Istanbul to feign illness in order to take advantage of the chance to drink wine for medicinal purposes.73 Such exceptions were more common in palaces than they were in more humble surroundings, which is of course no coincidence. In both eastern and western cultures, the idea that alcoholic drinks can be physically more or less useful or harmful based on individual temperament or constitution could easily translate into an argument for drink-defined social status. According to the Galenic tradition, those of the sanguine temperament were the most well suited to indulge in alcohol, since their naturally mild and cheerful nature was only enhanced by good wine. It is hardly surprising to note that early modern physicians typically associated this 110

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temperament with men of status, and also noted that very good wine, of the sort available only to elite members of society, was the healthiest of all drinks.74 Sanskrit medical sources also describe healthy drinking in Southeast Asia as most often occurring within the context of wealthy surroundings.75 It is for similar reasons that more expensive wines were considered even more healthy than beer in both Germany and England, with beer an acceptable alternative mainly for the artisan classes who could not afford to drink good wine.76 In practice, of course, the privileged classes were hardly immune to the negative effects of overindulgence. Chronic drunkenness was a malady that affected people at all levels of the social scale. By the mid-seventeenth century, theories of addiction were beginning to emerge in the writings of European moralists and clergy as well as medical practitioners, with some early temperance advocates arguing for complete abstinence from hard liquors in favor of healthier wine and beer.77 The development of these notions of addiction corresponded to a decline in the prominence of Galenic medicine in favor of a more mechanistic view of the body. But although medical references to Galen and humoral theory declined as the seventeenth century progressed, physicians addressing the effects of drink persisted in describing the reaction of the human body to drink in terms of warm, cold, wet, and dry qualities. Distilled spirits especially continued to be discussed in terms of their hot nature. What changed was that emphasis on the physical effects of chronic drinking on the body began to decline, and was gradually replaced by growing attention to its impact on the mind; in particular, the potential for loss of reason and weakening of the will.78 By the later seventeenth century, habitual drunkenness was increasingly described as a condition that, by annihilating the will, left the drinker without the means to resist temptation. Drunkenness thus became a disruption of reason rather than a disruption of fluids.79 The vocabulary used to describe drunkenness shifted during the later seventeenth century as well, incorporating terms that invoke an altered mental state, or even a kind of madness, rather than describing physical effects.80 This process paralleled changes in definitions of insanity, the locus of which also shifted from the body to the mind. Eighteenth-century physicians continued to refine the notion that dependence on drink was a disease of the mind, also describing symptoms of withdrawal. But it was not until the final decades of the eighteenth century that medical writers began to discuss chronic drunkenness in terms of physical addiction, identifying the condition as a neurological problem rather than as a moral or spiritual failing.81 And even late in the eighteenth century, Galenic categories continued to provide a useful rhetorical framework. The connection made by the Galenic model between physical constitution and emotional temperament was especially attractive to enlightenment concerns with causal relationships between physical and psychological states, informing, for example, Kant’s views on the innate aspects of human character, which can either favor or hinder the moral life.82 As addiction increasingly came to be understood as a physiological rather than a moral weakness and voices for abstinence increased, the medical use of alcohol declined in some medical circles, although opinions remained divided. Mental illness, for example, could be both caused and cured by alcohol, with medical prescriptions drawing a distinction between “bad” spirits (hard liquors) and the positive effects of wine and beer, which were used therapeutically as calmatives, soporifics, and purgatives.83 As these more mechanical views of the body triumphed, dependence on chemical remedies targeting specific diseases rather than individual patients increased, leading to a rise in the use of standard pharmaceuticals. Because explanations for a disease no longer depended on underlying theories of individual temperament, the sale of universally applicable tinctures, pills, 111

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and powders for household use grew into a lucrative market84 (Figure 5.4). These trends led to an increase in self-care and self-medication within the household. The new pharmaceuticals flooding the market beginning in the later seventeenth century were often alcohol-based, and many household manuals recommended that every home be equipped with distillation equipment for making medicinal spirits. By the eighteenth century, both home remedies and physician’s prescriptions increasingly were supplemented by opiates, often combined with alcohol to produce laudanum, which presented addiction issues of its own.85 Conclusion The effects of alcohol on the body could only be explained and explored through the lenses of dominant religious and cultural contexts. Contexts varied not only from one culture to another and from one historical period to another but could also differ among different groups within the same society. Few Jewish, Christian, or Islamic physicians, for example, limited their opinions to those sanctioned by religious authority. Although medical texts are full of pious statements suggesting that healing is ultimately in divine hands, many doctors in the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition nonetheless privileged science over religion when it came to their own recommendations.

Figure 5.4  Examination of an apothecary, early eighteenth century (oil), French. Archives Charmet/ Bridgeman Images. 112

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What most of the world’s early modern cultures had in common were inherited traditions that ascribed some form of healing power to intoxicating beverages. In many cases, this power went beyond the mere physical attributes of the drink, instead being understood as a spiritual connection with divine or cosmic forces. At the same time, few physicians failed to recognize that excessive use of alcohol can be physically harmful. Because the experience of intoxication is individual and subjective, theorists considering these contradictory effects on the body tried to take personal differences into account, including age, temperament, gender, social status, climate, and other factors. Early modern medical scholars assumed that these attributes interacted with the different characteristics of specific types of drink, the qualities associated with different illnesses, and numerous other conditions under which alcohol was produced and consumed to produce very different effects that ranged from healing or harmless to physically and spiritually destructive. By the eighteenth century in Europe, the Scientific Revolution had overturned the Aristotelian view of nature as defined by the four elements, but the effect on medical practice was slow. To be sure, chemical and mechanical explanations provided new explanations for illness; in a shift away from earlier attempts to address underlying causes, physicians now went to great length to describe, catalogue, and treat the symptoms of disease. The problem was that this did not lead to better cures. Instead, the new ideas were simply incorporated into existing therapies, merging into what Liam Chambers has described as “an elastic Galenism.”86 Medical practitioners continued to rely on bleeding, purging, cupping, diet, and regime, and treatments continued to be described in terms of humoral balance.87 European encounters with medicinal uses for alcohol among other populations that in many ways mirrored their own may have been a factor in the remarkable persistence of reference to Galenic categories even as the theoretical underpinnings for those categories collapsed. By the dawn of the modern era, however, new drinks as well as new definitions of addiction were straining the limits of familiar medical vocabularies. The extensions in international trade and increased contact among diverse populations associated with the early modern period led to the cultural exchange of drinks as well as ideas, leading to challenges to the status quo from unfamiliar intoxicants, new technologies, and changing ideas about how drinks affect the body. In many cases, new drinks introduced from foreign parts (or as a result of new technologies of production) were initially treated with suspicion by the medical community. Doctors often supported the protectionist efforts of purveyors of more traditional beverages by labeling new, competing products as dangerous to the health. But as the new drinks were assimilated into local economies, they also gained acceptance from physicians, who worked to classify them in accordance with the prevailing medical view. Despite the persistence of traditional labels, the way that alcohol was applied medicinally and its relationship to health was in constant flux during this dynamic period of history, changing over time and place in accordance with the confluence of received belief systems, new directions in science, and the global exchange of knowledge. Notes 1. Fitzpatrick 2012, 151–2. 2. Hoeniger 1992, 251–361. 3. Porter 1997, 171–4. 113

Alcohol in the Early Modern World 4. Porter 1997, 98; Ruderman 2001, 229–55; Heine 1982, 111–15. Particularly influential in propagating Galenic ideas were the works of seventh-century Byzantine physician Paul of Aegina: Pormann 2008, 295–9; Paul of Aegina 1844, esp. book 1, 85–6, 172–5. 5. Curth and Cassidy 2004, 155–7; Tlusty 2001, 48–58. 6. Schreiber 1980, 312–13. 7. Moran 2005, 11, 17–18; Whitaker 1638, 29; Khunrath 1638, 6–8. 8. Ryff 1544, 65v. Exceptions to regulations on drinking on credit applied to pregnant women as well: Tlusty 2001, 193. The provision of wine for the destitute or melancholy is supported by scripture (Proverbs 31:6). 9. Khunrath 1638, 6–8; Whitaker 1638, 28–9. 10. Cogan 1584, 221; Ryff 1544, 52–4. 11. Brunschwig 1532, 39; Ryff 1545, 126v; Fries 1546, 130; Bourgeois 1663, 115–16; Rau 1914, 15. The sources cited here are medical opinions, but popular belief allowed greater immoderacy for women in childbed. 12. Anon. [A. T.] 1596, 59r–v. Greensickness was a disease believed to be common among young women. The origin of greensickness is unclear, but it was attributed by some physicians to female disorders such as lovesickness, sudden fright, or menstrual problems. See King 1996, 372–87. 13. See Hailwood in this volume. 14. Keyser 1990, 362–3; Sharma et al. 2010, 10. 15. Tlusty 1998c; Pereira 2000, 143–4; Moran 2005, 17–18. 16. Brunschwig 1532, 2v. The term “water of life” (aqua vitae) may have originated with fourteenthcentury physician and alchemist Arnaud of Villanova: Barnett 2011, 7. 17. Moran 2005, 70–3. 18. Brunschwig 1532, 2r–v; Rau 1914, 15; Zedler 1733, 1084. 19. Fries 1546, 26; Ryff 1545, 126v; Brunschwig 1532, 1r-6v, 41r, 198r-99v; Schrick 1518, 8–11. Brandy was also used at least by the eighteenth century as an aphrodisiac (Zedler 1733, 1084). 20. Ryff 1544, 62v; de Pre 1723, C2; StadtAA, Handwerkerakten, Brandtweinbrenner 2 1537–1698, January 12 and February 6, 1593. 21. Cogan 1584, 221. 22. Taylor 1979, 30, 58; Meyer 2005, 69–70. Prior to the colonial period maguey wine was called octli in the Aztec language (Nahuatl): Nicholson, 1991, 158. 23. Curto 2004, 23–4. 24. Wellcome Library, L0039397, 1368–1644; Lo and Barrett 2005, 397; Xia 2013, 549–50, 552–4. This conclusion was in direct contrast to that of seventeenth-century European physician Hippolytus Guarinonius, who argued that Northern Europeans should water their wine in order to make it more compatible with their cooler temperaments, while the hot-blooded Spaniards and Italians might drink it straight without ill effect; Guarinonius 1610, 671. 25. Tlusty 2001, 106; Smith 2006, 551. On Africa see McMichael in this volume. 26. This relationship has been established not only in the Greco-Roman and Arabic traditions but also in Slavic, Germanic, and African civilizations. Tlusty 2001, 104–6; on Eucharistic wine as medicine see Penniman 2015. 27. Simonds 1997–1998, esp. 543–5, 560–4, quote 562. 28. Smith 2006, 550–1. 29. Nicholson 1991, 159; Bernardino 1900, 1:24, 2:36; Henderson 2008, 53–76; see also Figure 4.2 on p. 87 and Forster’s Chapter 7 in this volume.

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Medicine and Health 30. Frank et al. 2000, 344–51. On the use of alcoholic drinks in ritual libations to Incan gods aimed at ensuring protection from disease, see Forster’s Chapter 7 in this volume. 31. Smith 2007, 119, 183; Xiao 1995. On related African beliefs about alcohol and divinity see McMichael in this volume. 32. Knoll-Greiling 1982, 536–41. 33. Balzer 1990, 12, 547. Similar practices were known among Islamic ascetics (Sufi); however, where wine was forbidden, alcohol was less likely to be used in these rituals, in some cases being replaced by hashish, opium, or psilocybin mushrooms. Halm 1978, 50–1; see also Heine 1982, 114–15. 34. Richards 2014, 178–9, 183. 35. Richards 2014, 180; Tlusty 2001, 56; Lecoutre 2011, 155–6. 36. Fries 1546, 24; Metlinger 1497; Albertus Magnus 1531, 23; Hankinson 2009, 220. 37. Ryff 1544, 65; Anon. 1474, 29; Guarinonius 1610, 604, 672. These sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury definitions drew directly upon classical sources; see similar recommendations in Plato, Laws, 666. 38. Whitaker 1638, 25–9; Cogan 1584, 209–20. 39. Tlusty 2001, 76–9; Schreiber 1980, 314–17. See also Forster’s Chapter 7 in this volume. 40. Cogan 1584, 208–9; Albala 2002, 121–2; Meacham 2009, 7, 12–14. 41. Meacham 2009, 7; Anon. 1473, 27r; Ryff 1544, 62v; Cogan 1584, 208–9. 42. Friese 1546, 24b; Schreiber 1980, 311. 43. Porter 1985, 386; Meacham 2009, 13. 44. StAA, Zünfte 1, 69v, 1515; Unger 2004, 40, 167. 45. Cogan 1584, 206–8. 46. Curth and Cassidy 2004, 149–54. 47. Bourgeois 1663, quote from 82; see also Cogan 1584, 220–4; Metlinger 1497 (n.p.); Meacham 2009, 9. 48. Rau 1914, 25; Schrick 1518; Khunrath 1638, 21–2; Meacham 2009, 14, 110; Pope 2004, 396. 49. Tlusty 1998c. 50. Curth and Cassidy 2004, 143–5; see also Tlusty 2001, 56. 51. Pope 2004, 393–406 (quote from p. 396); see also McMichael in this volume for the broader trade context. On similar views in New England see Meacham 2009, 14. 52. Meacham 2009, 20, 110–11. 53. Meacham 2009, 85–6; including for treating women during labor: Ulrich, 1990, 184, 243. 54. Chatterjee 2005, 211, 220. 55. Fernandes 2014, 49–52. 56. Cogan 1584, 213; Khunrath 1638, 10–11. 57. SuStBA, 2ºCod.S.112 (Gasser 1570); Khunrath 1638, 10–11; Tryon 1692, 145–9. 58. Tyron 1692, 147–9. 59. Curto 2004, 73–5; for more on these trade connections see McMichael in this volume. 60. Ryff 1544, 26, 87v; Friese 1546, 26r; Ryff 1545, 126v. 61. Unger 2004, 100. 62. Tlusty 1998c. 63. Medick 1982, 104–8; Coffey 1982, 106–12. See also Withington in this volume. 64. Weinberg and Bealer 2001, 86. 115

Alcohol in the Early Modern World 65. Ryff, 1544, 62v; StadtAA, Handwerkerakten, Branntweinbrenner 2 1537–1698, January 12 and February 6, 1593. 66. Medick 1982, 182–9. Ironically, a preference for alcohol over water might actually have helped to prevent cholera in the early nineteenth century, since the disease was spread by the polluted water associated with early industrialism: Breslaw 2012, 173. 67. Efron 2001, 24, 111; Ruderman 2001, 216. 68. Matthee 2014, 100–13; on drinking among elite Muslims in Southeast Asia see also Chatterjee 2005, 207; Sharma et al. 2010, 11. 69. Norrie 2002, 35; Kueny 2003; Kueny 2001, 10–11, 75–8; see also Forster’s Chapter 7 in this volume. 70. Schefer-Mossensohn 2009, 36; Heine 1982, 114–15. 71. Wine production eventually declined in many areas due to agricultural interruptions, population decline, and the disappearance of Christian minorities, causing wine prices to go up. The ban on alcohol then became more effective as it was replaced by less expensive hashish, which is not expressly forbidden in the Quran: Heine 1982, 114–15. 72. Schefer-Mossensohn 2009, 36, 90–2. 73. Schefer-Mossensohn 2009, 99; Tavernier also described palace employees smuggling in extra wine in order to hide it among the medicinal supplies (Schefer-Mossensohn 2009, 167). 74. Fries 1546, 24; Brunschwig 1532, 39; Anon. 1474, 28; Ryff 1544, 65, 68; SuStBA, 2ºCod.S.112 (Gasser 1570); de Avila, 1551, 10v. See also Figure 5.1: The sanguine drinker is dressed in clothing appropriate to the upper classes. 75. McHugh 2014, 37. 76. Curth and Cassidy 2004, 152–3. 77. Historians debate the degree to which early addiction theories can be understood as antecedents to later developments in the field of medicine: Porter 1985; Warner 1994; Ferentzy 2001; Nichols 2009; Clemins 2013. 78. Tlusty 2001, 58, 66–7; Clemins 2013, 37–8. 79. Schorer 1667; Pansa 1673, 166–70; Bontekoe 1685, 450; Warner 1994, 688–9. 80. That is, intoxication in English or Rausch in German: Porter 1985, 389–91; Withington 2014b, 13; Graser and Tlusty 2003, 96–8. 81. Levine 1982, 118–24; Porter 1985, 391–3; Clemins 2013. 82. Louden 2000, 17, 79–82. 83. Reinarz and Wynter 2015, 129–34; Lind 1792. 84. Wear 2000, 434–7, 472. 85. Wear 2000, 435–7; Porter and Porter 1989, 106–11; Breslaw 2012, 189. Paracelsus is credited with coining the name laudanum in the sixteenth century (Breslaw 2012). 86. Chambers 2010, 59. 87. Porter and Porter 1989, 49; Wear 1992, 120; Clark and Kelly 2010, 10; Lecoutre 2011, 150–4. According to Elaine Breslaw, Galenic therapies persisted even longer in the colonies: Breslaw 2012, 44.

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CHAPTER 6 GENDER AND SEXUALITY

Mark Hailwood

Early modern culture was profoundly patriarchal, and it is no surprise that this is reflected in the way contemporaries thought about the relationship between gender, sex, and alcohol. Women’s drinking, in particular, was configured as deeply problematic. Understandings of the physical effects of alcohol, based on Galenic theory, held that drinking served to “heat” the temperament, which led to enhanced virility, vigor, and wit: qualities that were often deemed desirable for men, but dangerous in women. Subordination and chastity on the part of women were the two pillars upon which patriarchal society rested, and both were thought to dissolve under the influence of alcohol. A fiery disposition in a woman, it was feared, could lead her to acts of insubordination against husband or master. Heightened sexual impulses could jeopardize her chastity: “How many whores are made by wine?” asked the German spiritualist Sebastian Franck in 1531.1 A state of drunkenness could also lead to the neglect of a woman’s domestic duties, chief among which was childcare. In short, women who drank to excess “threatened to invert the natural order of both their anatomy and household power.”2 It would be tempting to conclude, therefore, that a “drinking double standard” existed in the early modern world: one whereby alcohol consumption was seen as an integral and relatively unproblematic feature of male life, but an activity heavily proscribed for women.3 This chapter will show that the situation was rather more ambiguous than this. Men always had more freedom than women when it came to the contexts and manner in which they could consume alcohol, but women nonetheless played an integral role in its production, retail, and indeed its consumption. The relationship between male gender roles and drinking in this society was also a far from straightforward one, for patriarchal values and the practice of heavy drinking were not necessarily compatible, and the close association between alcohol and sex raised concerns about both male and female drinking. Yet, it is also important to stress that the relationship between alcohol and gender in the early modern period is not one solely of concerns and tensions: this was a culture “deep in its cups,” in which men and women alike drank alcohol on a daily basis for refreshment, nutrition, medication, and routinely enjoyed it as an adjunct to sociability, merriment, and sex. We can see several aspects of the relationship between alcohol, sex, and gender by stepping through the door of one of seventeenth-century England’s many alehouses: the Nag’s Head, in the populous clothing town of Reading in the southern county of Berkshire. On the night before Christmas, 1681, one Soloman Reddatt was there with his sister, Elizabeth, and a friend, George Parfitt, when, at around 9:00 p.m., their sociability was disturbed by the shattering of glass. Moments earlier, Debora Allen had burst into the alehouse in search of her husband Edward, and after locating him in the kitchen drinking with the alehousekeeper, William Newbury, she flew into a rage, picking up a quart pot and throwing it through a window. As a startled Reddatt and his companions looked up from their drinks, Debora Allen emerged from the kitchen into the room where they were drinking, where the angry wife “leveled her passion”

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against Sara Newbury, the alehousekeeper’s wife, who was busy serving customers. Debora Allen called Sara Newbury a whore and a bawd and accused her of running the alehouse as a bawdy house, before turning her fire onto the alehousekeeper William Newbury, labeling him a cuckold. The furious Debora Allen repeated the accusations several times, both within the alehouse and at the street door, ensuring that her opinion of this alehouse and its proprietors received a public airing.4 What does this episode reveal about the relationship between alcohol, gender, and sex in the early modern world? It demonstrates that alehouses and taverns were not exclusively male domains. Women were often present in these institutions in their role running them or, as in this case, co-running them with their husband. If women played an important part in the retail of alcohol that is not to say it was a role without controversy. The ever-present association between alcohol and sex in this culture meant that, as events in the Nag’s Head demonstrate, female publicans were often accused of selling sexual services alongside ale and beer, either directly themselves, or by running a brothel out of their establishment—or, in the case of Sara Newbury, of both: Debora Allen labeled her a whore and a bawd. Yet there is more to this case than simply a misogynistic logic that aimed abuse at any woman involved with the sale of alcohol. For a start, the association between ale-selling and sex-selling was not uncontested. We know about these events because they were recorded in a defamation case that had arisen because Sara Newbury wanted to clear her name and maintain a clean reputation for the Nag’s Head, and male witnesses to the events were prepared to support her claims that the insults leveled at her were unwarranted and unprovoked. It is also interesting to note, of course, that these accusations were not leveled at Sara Newbury by a man, but by another woman. Indeed, both in cases such as these and in popular literature it was often women, especially married women, who most vociferously asserted that female publicans were sexually promiscuous and sought to lead husbands away from the righteous path of patriarchal fidelity. Debora Allen’s angry accusations were not only directed at the commonly scapegoated alewife. She also directed her ire at her husband and the alehousekeeper, and her words have implications for our understanding of the relationship between masculinity and the public consumption of alcohol. Historians of the early modern period have rightly emphasized that sociable drinking rituals often played an important part in the expression and performance of masculine prowess, as we will see, but they have also argued that the relationship between masculinity and alcohol consumption was far from straightforward. Indeed, the sociable drinking that had been taking place between Edward Allen and William Newbury cannot be said either to have reaffirmed dominant gender norms or to have shored up patriarchal order. Instead, both men were exposed by Debora Allen as failing patriarchs. The facts that Newbury was scorned as a cuckold for supposedly allowing his wife to operate as a whore, and that Edward Allen was unable to publicly control his wife—with the clear implication that his alehouse visits were at the root of the marital discord that led to his public shaming—are both unmistakable indictments of male capacity to run an ordered household. Male participation in alehouse sociability could be configured as a threat, rather than as a bolster, to patriarchal values and to male subordination of women. In fact, here it is a woman, Debora Allen, who is attempting to reassert patriarchal values. This, again, chimes with a key theme of early modern popular literature, in which female publicans and drunken husbands are often condemned by angry wives, who emerge as the champions of the central patriarchal standard of the wellordered household. Ballads on this theme often insisted that a man who spent more time in 118

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the alehouse than in ordering his own household forfeited his patriarchal authority, and should submit to being “ruled by his wife”5 (Figure 6.1). If we can see from this case the ambiguities that surrounded both women’s role in the retail of alcohol and men’s public consumption of it, events at the Nag’s Head also raise issues surrounding women’s public consumption of alcohol. Elizabeth Reddat, who sat enjoying a drink with her brother and his male friend, reminds us that women were not only present in alehouses such as this as alewives or angry wives but also as customers. This is an aspect of the relationship between alcohol and gender that has been the subject of much debate. Until relatively recently historians of early modern drinking tended to assert that alehouses and taverns were almost exclusively male in their clientele. This emphasis has now started to shift. Most historians would now acknowledge that there were certain contexts in which women occasionally engaged in public drinking: in the company of their husbands or a male relative for instance, or during certain celebrations and festivities. Some have gone further and argued that their involvement was much more routine—or at least that it was in some countries, such as England. France and Italy are still thought to have been much more conservative in this regard, though this view too might well be challenged by further research.6 The themes raised by these events at the Nag’s Head—the gendered character of alcohol retailing; the extent and character of women’s public consumption of alcohol; the complex relationship between masculinity and drinking; and the close associations between alcohol and sexual activity—will form the principal areas of enquiry for this chapter. Before considering

Figure 6.1  Wives often reminded their husbands that drinking was at odds with being a respectable patriarch. Woodcut detail from A Statute for Swearers and Drunkards, Pepys Ballad 1.214–15. 119

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each of these in more detail, however, we need first to examine the ways in which the production of alcohol also reflects on issues of gender in the early modern world.

Production In the Middle Ages, and in many places in the early modern period, the production of alcohol was considered to be women’s work. Alcohol was often made on a relatively small-scale basis alongside other domestic duties such as cooking, for consumption within the household. This may have been more true for areas producing grain-based rather than grape-based alcohols— wine production tended to be a more masculine affair—but it included Northern European beer-drinking countries such as England, the Low Countries, and areas of Germany, as well as parts of the Americas. In precolonial Mexico, women were responsible for domestic production of the cactus-based drink pulque, and in Peru the production of chicha, a corn-based beer, was also the preserve of women.7 There is some debate as to whether this role in alcohol production conferred any particular socioeconomic status on women. In Incan society, it was possible to be chosen as a mamacona (a woman with special responsibility for making chicha for the king), a role that conferred special status and privileges.8 Such prestige was fairly exceptional, however, and it has been argued that alcohol production was designated as women’s work precisely because it was considered low-status, menial, and non-lucrative.9 A number of changes in alcohol production came to challenge the domination of this task by women during the early modern period. In Northern Europe in particular there was a shift from small-scale domestic brewing to larger-scale commercial brewing.10 As more brewing came to be located in commercial breweries, or at least in larger family-run brew-houses, more capital was needed to set-up as a brewer. It became harder for unmarried women or widows to get established in the trade, and those women who did work in it were now more likely to do so as a subordinate to a male brewer or their husband, who controlled the breweries. As the brewing trade became more commercialized, it also became more formally organized, with brewer’s guilds emerging in larger towns and cities. While these did not necessarily exclude women entirely, they were male-dominated institutions that contributed to the process of marginalizing women within the trade, especially in urban areas.11 England is usually held up by historians as the clearest example of these changes: whereas in the early 1400s the membership of the London brewers’ guild was as high as 42 percent female, by 1500 this had dropped to 7 percent, and the women that remained were widows of deceased male members.12 Women also ceased to dominate the brewing trade in the Low Countries during the early modern period, but a decent number at least remained involved by working in breweries. In sixteenth-century Antwerp, the average brewery had eight male employees and two or three female employees, and some women were still able to achieve a high degree of prosperity in the trade: in the same city, one Anna Janssens, widow of a brewer, was at one stage operating four commercial breweries. The success of Janssens may have been exceptional, but in other areas women continued to play a major role: in Aberdeen in Scotland, in 1509, all 152 of the brewers in the town were women.13 Changes were not restricted to Northern Europe. On the Gold Coast of Africa women had long played a role in producing a palm wine called akpeteshie, but Dutch colonization led to urbanization and commercialization and making alcohol became a male activity by 120

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the 1800s.14 In colonial Latin America, the production of pulque came to be concentrated on large-scale haciendas run by male Jesuits.15 British North America was also witnessing commercialization and masculinization of the trade, although the process was uneven across the colonies: in the rural Chesapeake, where the principal alcoholic beverage was hard cider, women continued to be responsible for its production throughout our period.16 So, it was a varied and uneven process, but for much of the early modern world, alcohol production was becoming increasingly masculinized.

Retail The same cannot be said for the retailing of alcohol, which remained an important form of women’s work across the early modern period. Again, there is some debate among historians over the extent to which women were able to derive any social or economic status from this type of work. Judith Bennett has argued that women in the alcohol retail trade were increasingly subject to misogynistic attacks and portrayals in the early modern period, evidenced in particular by popular literature.17 Alewives were portrayed as commercially dishonest, sexually promiscuous, and incapable of maintaining good order in their establishments. These fears played on the minds of licensing regimes, no doubt, but did not prevent significant numbers of women across the early modern world not only working in alcohol retail but often running their own taverns or alehouses.18 In some places, women made up a relatively small proportion of licensees. In the Swiss city of Bern, only 5 percent of publicans in the early modern period were female, and in sixteenthand seventeenth-century England, the figure was around 10 percent—though in Salisbury in 1630, it was as many as one-third.19 In other places, the percentage was more substantial still. Lists of tavern keepers from Nantes and several other towns in seventeenth-century Brittany reveal that between 20 and 60 percent were owned outright by women, and many more were co-owned by women and their husbands.20 In colonial Mexico, women still played a key role in the small-time trade in pulque, selling it from their doorways or taking it from their villages to Mexico City to sell, and many widows ran small taverns or pulquerias.21 In British North America there were important differences between urban and rural areas. In port cities, the number of taverns run by women often outnumbered those run by men: in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1771 women accounted for over 60 percent of tavern keepers. In rural areas, however, the number of female licensees was 15 percent at most. There were also significant differences in the types of women licensed in different colonies: in the North and East women in economic need, such as widows and unmarried women, were most common—which was also the case in England—whereas in the South, licenses were more often awarded to married women of respectable middling-sort status.22 These figures reflect only women who were licensed to run alehouses and taverns in their own name: the number who worked in them as serving maids or as wives of male publicans would have been considerably higher. Taking these various groups together, we can safely conclude that women represented a key component of the alcohol retail trade across much of the early modern world. In light of such evidence, historians have recently started to question the extent to which alcohol retailing was a hostile and low-status trade for women to work in. Instead, there has been an emphasis on the ways in which running a drinking establishment in the right 121

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way could confer “general esteem” on a female publican, and secure them recognition as an important pillar of the local community.23 Court records show that many women were more than capable of policing any disorder in their house: when a fight over a game of cards broke out in the tavern of a female publican in Bordeaux in 1714, she responded by hurling a bucket of water over the brawlers and carrying the main perpetrator out of her house to be jeered at from the windows by the remaining customers. Yet, it was not only through tough policing that female publicans could garner respect. They also impressed customers through their effective provision of services and hospitality. The English excise officer John Cannon remarked in his diary in 1713 that one Sarah Black, who ran the Catherine Wheel in High Wycombe, “always would provide and accommodate” her customers well, which earned her the reputation of “a mighty civil young woman.”24 The London socialite Samuel Pepys even complemented alewives for their wit and charisma, remarking on one occasion that he had enjoyed “a good deal of mirth with the mistress of the house” at an alehouse in Drury Lane in 1660. Given such evidence, Tim Reinke-Williams has concluded that in spite of the existence of misogynistic criticisms of female publicans “many women ran and worked in welcoming establishments with contented customers.”25 Jane E. Mangan has also argued that selling alcoholic drinks gave women authority in urban centers in colonial Peru.26 Yet, for all this recent revisionism, it is worth sounding a note of caution: many of the favorable comments recorded by diarists such as Pepys focused as much on the physical attractiveness of publicans and serving maids as their quality of provision and robust policing, and as we will see below in the section on sex, neither misogyny or the erotic functionalization of female alcohol retailers were restricted to the pages of popular literature. For all that some individuals were able to achieve a degree of status from running a drinking establishment, this could still be a dangerous trade for women to work in.

Consumption Despite concerns about the effects of alcohol, especially on women, almost all men and women in the early modern world drank it in some form on a more or less daily basis. Women in some holy orders and the very poorest of some regions, who drank only water, were the exceptions— but across the social scale, from slaves and servants to the nobility, alcoholic beverages were consumed with meals, and often between, for refreshment and as a preferred alternative to water. Precisely how much was consumed is more difficult to say, but we do have some evidence: at Toul, France, in 1575, magistrates fixed the daily wine ration for vineyard workers at 2.5 liters for men and 1.25 liters for women.27 In England, in 1561, a Westminster house of correction served men 4 pints of beer a day and women 2 pints, whereas a budget for a London laboring family from 1734 accounted for men drinking 6 pints a day and women 5 pints.28 So although men consumed more than women, women still drank a considerable daily amount. How strong this drink was is difficult to say. In beer-drinking countries, the convention was to produce two brewings of ale or beer from each batch of malt, one strong—somewhere between 5 percent and 12 percent depending on the amount of malt used—and one much weaker— around 2 percent.29 It may be that women and children were primarily drinking the weaker variety. In wine-drinking regions, it was common to drink wine mixed with water, so again this may have been more common on the part of women. As seen in chapter 5, another component 122

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of the routine consumption of alcohol was its use in a variety of medical treatments and remedies. This applied to both men and women, but there were some medicinal uses of alcohol that applied specifically to women: in British North America, for instance, a sweet, thick wine known as a caudle was made for women in labor.30 Early modern men and women both drank alcohol on a regular basis, but the contexts in which they did so were heavily influenced by gender. Historians have emphasized that women’s alcohol consumption was generally confined to domestic contexts, whereas men also drank in public spaces. There were certain exceptions to this that were widespread; weddings and festivals were occasions when both drank together in public. Lying-in rituals after childbirth provided an opportunity for women to gather and drink together in same-sex company, though this was often still in a domestic context. Historians have also argued that this public/domestic division was a particular feature of the early modern period: that as with the production and retail of alcohol, its public consumption underwent a process of masculinization.31 In the Middle Ages, communal public drinking, centered on church grounds and village greens, had been the normal context for recreational drinking and involved all ranks, ages, and genders. During the sixteenth-century, processes of Reformation and Counter-Reformation involved reformers striving for a greater separation between sacred and profane space, with the church distancing itself from this culture of communal public drinking.32 As a consequence, alehouses and taverns increasingly came to replace church grounds as the focus for recreational drinking.33 But these drinking establishments have generally been understood by historians to be almost exclusively male spaces, in stark contrast to the village green. Arguably we need more work on the gendered patterns of medieval sociability, but there has been a considerable amount of attention paid to the question of female patronage of early modern alehouses and taverns. There have been a range of findings. There are some cases, albeit rare, where women were actually officially excluded from drinking establishments. In 1673, the city authorities of Lille forbade women from drinking in cabarets, and in Venice women were only permitted to drink in taverns during periods of carnival.34 In other areas female patronage of taverns appears to have been very rare if not actually prohibited, such as the German principality of Württemberg and the Swiss principality of Neuchâtel, or those parts of Russia where vodka-selling taverns, or kabaki, were concentrated.35 In the courts of eighteenth-century Virginia, not a single women was accused of an alcohol-related offence, suggesting their public drinking was uncommon, a conclusion that has also been applied to the Chesapeake. But there is plenty of evidence that women drank alcohol at home and at private events in these regions.36 More common was a situation in which women routinely formed a minority of tavern-goers, so that their presence was not a rarity, but their attendance was closely governed by a series of conventions. For instance, in Paris in the first half of the eighteenth century, around 7 percent of tavern patrons were female.37 In such places, which included early modern Augsburg, female patronage is thought to have been conditional on a number of contextual factors: if a wife was accompanying her husband or a woman was visiting a tavern to buy or sell goods and conduct business transactions but not to drink, then they qualified as “respectable” guests, a legitimate part of tavern society. However, single women or married women who attended without their husbands would immediately fall under suspicion of prostitution or other sexual crimes.38 Adhering to these conventions did not provide complete impunity for women however; at one Paris tavern in 1691, two women who had gone to a tavern with their husbands were nonetheless accused by the tavern keeper of being 123

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“whores, bitches, and street-walkers,” and one of them was dragged out of the establishment by her hair.39 While there were undoubtedly areas in which female participation in tavern life was either highly unusual or carefully constrained, this is another issue that has been subject to a recent bout of revisionist work. This is especially the case in relation to England, where research on Essex court records for the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries suggests that as many as 36 percent of individuals socializing in alehouses were women,40 and work on seventeenthcentury London has argued that there was no marked decline in levels of female attendance at drinking establishments across the period.41 The range of “respectable” contexts for taverngoing appears to have been wider in England than parts of the continent.42 Alehouses and taverns were recognized as important centers of courtship where groups of young single men and women could legitimately meet and socialize; women often went to alehouses with male relatives or even unrelated male friends; and there is also evidence of all-female drinking companies. Groups of married women might go to the alehouse together after church, or on a market day, though such examples are much more commonly found for London than for rural areas.43 We should be cautious about drawing too stark a division between “liberal” urban areas and more “conservative” rural ones, though. The 1660s diary of the Lancashire apprentice shopkeeper, Roger Lowe, portrays a rural world in which both single and married women went to alehouses with relative impunity.44 There may then have been important differences here between England and the Continent. Indeed, the Swiss traveler Thomas Platter remarked on a visit to London in 1599 that “the women as well as the men, in fact more often than they, will frequent the taverns and alehouses for enjoyment.”45 That said, it is only recently that the view that women were largely absent from the alehouse scene in England has ceased to be the orthodoxy, so it may be the case that further research on other areas will redraw the picture elsewhere. There has, for instance, been some revisionist work on early modern Germany, with Beat Kümin emphasizing that although conventions regarding “respectable” attendance at taverns undoubtedly existed, boundaries were often pushed in practice,46 and there is evidence of all-female drinking companies using taverns in sixteenth-century Augsburg.47 There is also evidence that the principle taverns of early modern Ukraine, the korchmy, were mixed-gender establishments that facilitated courtship and were routinely patronized by whole families, women and children included.48 Of course, the reputation of different establishments could also be important here. Women would have had more freedom to visit institutions that were known to keep “good order” without risking their reputation, but a visit to a disreputable alehouse would leave a stain. Even the timing of a visit would have mattered. A married woman visiting an alehouse unaccompanied during the day to gossip with her neighbor the alewife would have aroused little controversy, whereas the same woman entering an alehouse alone at night, especially if she was not known to the publican, would almost certainly have attracted negative attention. We will return to the issue of those women whose presence was associated with prostitution and other sexual activity below, but what the best recent work on the issue of female taverngoing has emphasized is that context was everything, and that there were in fact quite a wide variety of contexts—at least in England and Germany—in which women could enter alehouses and taverns that were deemed acceptable, if not always straightforwardly “respectable.”49 If historians have now established that women often did drink in public drinking spaces in certain parts of the early modern world, there has been less attention paid to the reasons why. 124

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Did recreational drinking carry the same meanings and appeal for female participants as it did for male participants? For Augsburg, Ann Tlusty suggests that artisans’ wives accompanied their husbands to taverns, but rarely took part in their drinking bouts themselves.50 In other contexts, though, they were more than just observers, and drank heavily themselves. Historians have suggested that women may have seen drinking as empowering: given the concerns regarding female drinking, it was a way to subvert patriarchal conventions and claim a cultural space that men sought to deny them.51 Yet, we should not understand all-female drinking as an act of deliberate defiance of men. Female drinking more often than not took place in the company of men, and thus with the approval of at least some men. Evidence from England reveals women joining in toasts and the buying of rounds with male drinkers, competing against them at pub games such as “shovelboard,” and even insisting that they could hold their drink as well as their male counterparts.52 Such women may have been the exception rather than the norm, and their behavior inevitably aroused negative comment and heightened suspicions about their sexual conduct, so they were not able to break away entirely from gendered restrictions on appropriate drinking behavior. Yet, their antics suggest that there were elements of drinking culture that appealed to both men and women alike. These forms of mixed-gender cultural activity could provide an interesting and understudied angle for historians of alcohol and of gender.

Masculinity The alcohol consumption of early modern men was not as constrained as that of women, but nor was it seen as entirely unproblematic. In fact, contemporaries identified a number of ways in which chronic drunkenness was thought to undermine the central values of early modern manliness. These values centered on the role of men as patriarchs: married headsof-households with authority over and responsibility for their wives, children and servants. Moralists across the early modern world pointed out that a man who spent considerable time in taverns neglected his work, which affected his duty to provide for his family, not to mention the fact that money spent on recreational drinking was money that could be better spent on the household. If a good patriarch was supposed to be industrious and thrifty, qualities rarely associated with drunkards, he was also required to exhibit his reason and self-control, for it was these attributes that justified his superiority. It was the capacity to exercise reason that underpinned the early modern hierarchies that placed man above woman and woman above beast.53 It was a common complaint that drinking “unmanned a man,” making him effeminate, or even worse, reducing him to the level of a mere beast.54 A man reduced to this state was also thought to be prone to acts of undue domestic violence that would further destabilize the proper functioning of the household, a functioning that was deemed fundamental to achieving stability throughout society as a whole.55 Women often played a key role in reminding men that heavy drinking threatened their patriarchal status in these ways. Popular literature often assumed a “female voice” to encourage men to put their household before the alehouse, and in early modern Augsburg these warnings were backed up by the city authorities, to whom women could appeal to implement a yearlong tavern ban on husbands deemed to be jeopardizing their patriarchal responsibilities56 (Figure 6.2). 125

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Figure 6.2  Men were warned that excessive drinking “unmanned a man” and would reduce them to the level of beasts. Woodcut detail from Looking-Glass for Drunkards, Pepys Ballad 4.258.

Despite such concerns, many men in the early modern world saw heavy drinking as a central component of asserting their masculinity. This was especially true for men who fell outside of the “patriarchal pale.” Those who were too young to head up their own household, or indeed too poor to do so, often looked to drinking as a means to assert an alternative form of masculinity to that of patriarchy. They engaged in drinking rituals that turned patriarchal values on their head; they drank to excess, they spent liberally, they womanized, and they engaged in acts of violence.57 To some extent, this was tacitly accepted by society as a whole, if rarely enthusiastically encouraged, as a phase of the life cycle for young men who were permitted to indulge in such behavior before the responsibilities of adult patriarchal life began to bite. Students, in particular, were notorious for maintaining this type of drinking culture.58 Yet boisterous excessive drinking was not solely the preserve of the young. There were a variety of masculine subcultures that rejected the model of “the self-controlled man” in favor of a code of manliness based on a more hedonistic notion of “the uncontrollable man who succumbed to wine, women and song.”59 There was a strong strand of this running through seventeenthcentury English elite drinking culture, in evidence in Robert Herrick’s cavalier poetry of the 1630s; in Royalist drinking rituals during the English Civil War; and in the libertinism of high culture in Restoration England.60 Indigenous drinking cultures in Latin America also appear to have emphasized drinking to induce a loss of bodily control as a beneficial, cathartic experience.61 Cultures of excessive drinking may in some cases have been as much about escapism as pleasure-seeking, especially for vagrant men tramping the countryside in search of work, for poor men desperate to escape the pressures of patriarchal responsibility, or 126

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perhaps for soldiers and sailors seeking relief from the grueling realities of life in the field or at sea.62 For many men in the early modern world, excessive drinking opened the door to a form of hedonistic, defiant, escapist masculinity that was a deliberate inversion of the patriarchal shackles of thrift and self-control. For other men, drinking was intended less as a rejection of patriarchal values, and more as an opportunity to display them. Sharing drinks with neighbors or coworkers was seen as an important part of “oiling the wheels of social intercourse,” and it was common across the early modern world for men to seal business deals by drinking together.63 Social drinking of this sort often took on an air of liberality, with individuals insisting on reciprocating drinks bought for them, and drinking toasts to one another. It was also a point of honor to the men involved in these drinking bouts to insist on paying their fair share of the bar bill, or the “shot” as it was termed in England, to demonstrate that they were hardworking and creditworthy individuals who could comfortably afford to engage in a degree of conspicuous consumption. For artisanal classes in particular such rituals can be seen as constituting important “public displays of largess” that were every bit as important to running a successful household as those qualities outlined above.64 They were a way of demonstrating to the wider community that you were in good economic health, a crucial projection for the artisanal classes in a society in which credit relations played such an important part in everyday economic exchange.65 While it was important for a patriarchal male not to be seen as profligate, it was equally the case that nobody wanted to enter into credit relations with a miser. Tavern violence can also be reinterpreted in this light. It was not always about youthful masculine bravado; just as often tavern brawls were sparked by men seeking to defend their honor and good name from insults that could damage their reputation and thus their ability to trade and function within their community.66 Male drinking practices were often highly ritualized and structured affairs, a characteristic that suggests they were often intended to provide ways for men to test and display their manliness. Indeed, historians often describe taverns as “theaters” in which men were expected to “perform” their masculinity.67 Men commonly competed at games of cards, dice, shovelboard or bowling, which variously provided the opportunity to display skill, courage, or judgment, usually with the cost of a round of drinks as the forfeit for the loser.68 Urban and literary elites also engaged in forms of competition over their wine glasses in upscale taverns, sparring with each other in contests of witty wordplay, extemporized versifying, or competitive displays of their Latin and Greek.69 Most commonly, of course, men of all classes competed over how much they could drink. Cities across early modern Europe produced customized drinking vessels—containing pegs, for instance, from which each drinker in a company had to take their turn at taking the contents “down a peg or two”—and printing presses turned out specialized guides to drinking, such as Brathwaite’s Law of Drinking, that included various rules that drinkers had to strictly adhere to during a drinking bout.70 Gina Bloom has labeled such rituals as a form of “disciplined play”; the intention was in part of course to get drunk and to have fun, but these drinking contests almost always required drinkers to simultaneously display a degree of discipline by sustaining sufficient co-ordination to drink from an awkwardly shaped drinking vessel, for instance, or staying focused enough to observe any rules that had been laid down.71 The ultimate intention, then, was to test just how much a man could drink while nonetheless remaining in control of his physical and mental capacities; after all, it was the capacity for self-control that was the cornerstone of patriarchal masculinity. While some moralists may have seen abstaining 127

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from tavern culture altogether as the best expression of this attribute, many early modern men appear to have thought that demonstrating their ability to consume copious amounts of alcohol while not losing control made the point rather more effectively. Subsequently, those men who were “overcome” by drink and lost control were subject to elaborate shaming rituals. The man who lost a drinking contest in an Essex alehouse in 1604, and ended up soiling himself in a drunken stupor, had a bag placed over his head and his codpiece untied by his fellow drinkers; and when in 1673 a Yorkshireman became so drunk in a York alehouse that he could not lift his head from the table, his companions exposed his “yard or prick” from his trousers and held a hot tobacco pipe to it.72 In both cases, the targeting of the penis was undoubtedly intended as a comment on the manhood of the individuals whose drinking had led to an unmanly loss of control. What recent work has revealed, therefore, is a multifaceted relationship between alcohol and masculinity in the early modern world. In many respects, drinking alcohol beyond its routine consumption for nutrition and refreshment was thought to be at odds with the dominant model of patriarchal masculinity; yet for many men, heavy drinking was seen as a means to defy patriarchal codes of manhood and a way to establish an alternative set of masculine values based on hedonism and excess. Others still saw drinking heavily—but crucially not to excess, or the point of losing control of mind and body—as key to displaying creditworthiness and to demonstrating a man’s powers of self-control. What is also clear is that men from right across the social scale saw drinking rituals as central to expressions of masculinity. This conclusion seems to counter another narrative of change that has conventionally been associated with the early modern period, one that suggests that elite men, in particular, came to distance themselves from forms of medieval masculinity based on rituals of drunken excess and violence, and came instead to embrace a set of Renaissance values that emphasized more “civil” and sober forms of behavior. This process is one that, by the eighteenth century, is seen to have culminated in elite men defining their masculinity in relation to ideas about restraint and “politeness,” qualities that were deemed more compatible with the consumption of milder stimulants such as coffee and tea than with alcohol.73 Yet those Englishmen most influenced by Renaissance ideas were just as likely to draw on them for their celebrations of wine-fuelled intoxication as they were for messages about abstinence; those famous centers of “politeness,” the coffeehouses, sold alcohol alongside the new more “sober” hot drinks; and eighteenth-century upper and middling sorts enjoyed punch parties that were every bit as boisterous as the feasts enjoyed by their medieval forbears.74 Throughout the early modern period, men across the social scale continued to define their masculinity through engaging in the consumption of alcohol, more often than they did through expressing their opposition to it.

Sex Central to the relationship of both men and women with drinking was the close association between alcohol and sex. This had its roots in both scriptural and classical influences—the story of Lot’s drunken incest with his daughters; the erotic comparison of sex and wine in the Song of Solomon; the affinity between Bacchus and Venus in Roman culture—and remained a prevalent feature of the early modern cultural landscape.75 It was, however, an ambivalent legacy, with alcohol condemned by many as a dangerous catalyst to impious desires and 128

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actions, but celebrated by other writers as a valuable aphrodisiac, or more innocently as a kind of love potion. As women were thought to be more prone to immoral impulses—at least before the eighteenth century—there was undoubtedly greater concern over female drinking leading to unchaste behavior, but moralists worried about drunken men’s infidelity too. If alcohol was thought to aid virility, there was also a caveat here; drinking to excess was thought to have the opposite effect, or as the porter in Shakespeare’s Macbeth put it, drinking “provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.” Still, alcohol benefited by comparison with the rival drink beginning to take hold in early modern Europe, coffee, which was linked to impotence by many contemporary writers.76 The strong association between alcohol and increased amorous and sexual activity manifested itself in early modern society through the close equation of taverns and alehouses with prostitution. It was widely perceived that one of the services offered by public houses was commercial sex, and female publicans in particular were often tainted by this association. But how real was the link? In large urban centers it appears to have been real enough; various Florentine taverns operated under double-entendre names to advertise such provision, and some London alehouses may also have doubled-up as brothels.77 No doubt some female publicans and serving maids did occasionally supplement their income by selling sex,78 but what appears to have been more common than alehouses and taverns formally operating as brothels were individual prostitutes using them as a base to attract customers, and perhaps using private chambers to ply their trade in, and such examples can be found from across the early modern world.79 Perhaps just as significant as the actual levels of prostitution occurring in drinking establishments were the myriad cases in which accusations of the same were leveled, especially at female publicans, which called their reputation and that of their tavern into question. For instance, when the Bordeaux cabaret owner Izabeau Constantin was accused by a male neighbor of being a “rotten whore and a dirty poxed bitch” in 1712, we have no way of knowing if there was any truth to the accusations. Nonetheless, Constantin complained that this insult had “destroyed her honor and reputation” and that she was consequently “unable to make a living.”80 And while it may be the case that formal prostitution was more a feature of the urban landscape of drinking establishments, the strong association between selling drink and selling sex was deeply embedded in rural areas too. In another defamation case from the village of Stogursey, Somerset, in 1600, a man who was ejected from a drinking establishment for being abusive responded by shouting through the window for all the customers to hear that the alehousekeeper’s wife “selleth small pots and she fucketh in every corner with every knave that cometh to thy house.”81 Whatever the real extent of prostitution in early modern alehouses and taverns, the association between them had implications for any woman who stepped through their doors. Indeed, this association created a dangerous environment for female alehouse workers, who were often treated as “public property” by male customers.82 Attempts on their virtue went with the territory, something that was undoubtedly fuelled by bachelor drinking cultures that encouraged misogynistic jests and boasts about sexual conquests, and sexual assault was a common feature of tavern life.83 At its most extreme, this erotic functionalization of female alehouse workers resulted in some appalling instances of rape.84 One particularly shocking example, which occurred in an alehouse in early seventeenth-century Kent, included the gangrape of a serving maid who later died of her injuries, an incident that was originally dismissed 129

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by magistrates as “but a trick of youth.”85 When students at the University of Leiden perpetrated similar crimes of rape and gang-rape, the University officials there also passed them off as mere “vices of youth.”86 Cases of sex crimes committed in alehouses and taverns do, more often than not, tend to relate to female workers, rather than to female customers. This was possibly a result of the fact that, as we have seen, in the majority of cases female customers tended to be accompanied by their husbands or by male friends and relatives. But even in mixed groups of friends, unwelcome sexual advances could be made. A Dorset maidservant who went to an alehouse with a mixed group of agricultural laborers from her master’s farm was subjected to one of the men, Thomas Dike, “toyeing and playeinge with her,” an unwelcome assault that “made her to come away againe”87 (Figure 6.3). There is, however, another side to the story of the relationship between alcohol consumption and sex. Public houses routinely acted as a venue for consensual sexual activity. Often this was adulterous, with both married men—such as Samuel Pepys—and married women using alehouses as venues for an illicit rendezvous, making use of private backrooms and upstairs chambers.88 Courtship rituals, which we have seen were commonly conducted in alehouses, might involve kissing and fondling on the alebench, and it was not uncommon for men and

Figure 6.3  Dutch Golden Age painters such as Cornelis Bega often placed women in their tavern scenes, in this instance indicating that they served as important sites of courtship. Cornelis Bega, “Young Couple in a Tavern,” 1661. Hallwylska Museet, Stockholm. Heritage Images/Getty. 130

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women to sneak off from the alehouse or tavern into neighboring ditches and fields to engage more fully in sexual intercourse.89 Of course, it was not only these drinking establishments where such activities took place; communal festivals and fairs also provided opportunities for drinking and consensual sex to come together.90 So, while we should not underestimate the potentially terrifying culture of sexual assault that undoubtedly pervaded many drinking establishments, nor should we overlook that for many men and women, the prospect of sexual adventure was part of the appeal of alcohol consumption and pub-going—though once more this may have been more of a feature of English drinking culture than it was elsewhere.91 Little evidence has yet been uncovered to support any claims that homosexual acts were a prominent part of this sexual culture of the early modern tavern, despite contemporary fears that homosociality could easily blur into same-sex sexual relations.92 This close association between alcohol consumption in public drinking spaces and sex was not, however, entirely uncontested. In popular literature male “good fellows” often declared that “wenching” was an unacceptable distraction from male camaraderie, and had no place in the alehouse.93 Perhaps of greater consequence was the fact that many proprietors were keen to avoid any stain on their reputation that allowing sex—especially illicit sex and adultery—to take place under their roof could bring. Publicans peered through cracks in doors, or burst into private chambers, if they thought anything untoward was occurring.94 Other customers might also object. Respectable married men, for instance, could take exception to the crude boasts of young bachelors, fearing to be tainted by association.95 The consumption of alcohol in public places where both men and women were present was probably never entirely free from suspicions that sexual activity could follow, but there were some at least who sought to challenge the sexualized culture of alehouses and taverns. Conclusion This chapter has aimed to draw out some of the general features of the relationship between alcohol, sex, and gender in the early modern period. It is important to emphasize in conclusion, however, that the precise relationship was subject to important variations across time and space. For instance, important changes in the eighteenth century had an impact on gendered patterns of alcohol consumption. New beverages such as coffee and tea came to rival alcoholic drinks as the staple of everyday consumption, and while coffee tended to be consumed in public coffeehouses that were primarily male spaces, tea increasingly came to be consumed in the home. It may be that by the mid- to late eighteenth century both men and women were more likely to be drinking tea on a daily basis than ale and beer. Moreover, rounds of domestic sociability based on tea drinking became more common as well, so that both married women and young single women may have been found more often socializing over a pot of tea in each other’s homes than visiting the alehouse.96 On the other hand, the eighteenth century also saw an explosion in the consumption of gin, especially in London, a development that was closely associated with female consumption of the spirit. Perhaps for the first time in history, women gained a reputation as “heroic drinkers in their own right”;97 albeit heroic in the sense of heavy, rather than celebrated, for these developments were condemned as a threat to national prosperity, especially as the gin epidemic was thought to be having a serious impact on the ability of working-class mothers to produce and raise healthy children to serve as the next 131

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generation of laborers and soldiers.98 So, while women’s drinking was once again deemed more problematic than men’s, the character of the concern had shifted from an emphasis on chastity and obedience to utilitarian fears about national prosperity.99 If the growing popularity of certain alcoholic and nonalcoholic beverages in the eighteenth century put a different spin on the relationship between alcohol and gender, geographical variations across the early modern world also put different inflections upon it. Much of the discussion in this chapter has focused more on the well-researched beer-drinking regions of Northern Europe than elsewhere, and further research is needed—especially on the winedrinking regions of Southern Europe and on non-European contexts—to allow us to establish a fuller picture of such variations. Some conclusions can nonetheless be ventured. England, for instance, appears to have been unusual in the extent to which women frequented public drinking establishments, but their ongoing involvement in the production of alcohol also seems to have been more restricted here than elsewhere. Differences between the classic “beer” and “wine” regions, or Protestant and Catholic areas, do not appear to have been particularly pronounced, at least with regard to the ways in which the retail and consumption of alcohol were gendered.100 Urban and rural differences may have been more significant: the rural Chesapeake certainly differed from the port cities of British North America, in relation to both production and retail; and across the early modern world, taverns operating as brothels were more of an urban phenomenon. Major cities may also have been more likely to witness allfemale drinking companies, but rural areas could offer a degree of freedom too. If any universal conclusions can be drawn, it may be the fact that while women’s drinking was always more circumscribed than men’s in the early modern world, most women would have drunk routinely and many more recreationally in this period. Moreover, the fact that this was a profoundly patriarchal society does not mean that men’s drinking was seen as entirely unproblematic. Although at times men were under considerable pressure to drink to assert their masculinity, at others their drinking was deemed to be at odds with dominant masculine values. It seems less likely, though, that men’s drinking was ever significantly circumscribed by these concerns in the same way as was women’s drinking, and we can safely conclude that the vast majority of men in the early modern world would have consumed alcohol both routinely and recreationally.

Notes 1. Tlusty 2001, 137; on Galenic theory see also Tlusty in this volume. 2. Tlusty 2001, 136. 3. Martin 2001, 134. 4. This case comes from the Wiltshire and Swindon History Centre, D1/39/1/fols 132r–133r. 5. Hailwood 2014, 152–68. 6. Martin 2001, 78. 7. Bennett 1996; Unger 2004; Hames 2012. 8. Hames 2012, 36. 9. Bennett 1996; Meacham 2009, 3–4. 10. Bennett 1996; Unger 2004. See also Chapter 1 on Production in this volume. 132

Gender and Sexuality 11. Bennett 1996, ch.4; Unger 2004, ch.13. see also McMichael in this volume. 12. Bennett 1996, 64, 73. 13. Unger 2004, 226–7. 14. Meacham 2009, 25–6. 15. Hames 2012, 55. 16. Meacham 2009. 17. Bennett 1996, ch.7. 18. For the concerns of licensing regimes in British North America see Salinger (2002, 162–3). For an argument that these concerns did force women out of alcohol retailing see McIntosh (2005, 158–60, 180–1, 208). 19. Clark 1983, 79; Kümin 2007, 61–2; Reinke-Williams 2014, 119; Martin 2001, 71. 20. Collins 1994, 101. 21. Hames 2012, 55–6. 22. Salinger 2002, 162–4, 170–3. 23. Jackson 2013, 17. 24. Jackson 2013, 21, 24. 25. Reinke-Williams 2014, 123–4. 26. Mangan 2005. 27. Martin 2001, 21. 28. Muldrew 2011, 126, 136. 29. Muldrew 2011, 80–2. 30. Salinger 2002, 4. 31. Kümin and Tlusty 2002, 45. 32. Martin 2001, 59–62. 33. Clark 1983; Hailwood 2014. 34. Martin 2001, 62, 74. 35. Snow 2002; Kümin 2007, 70. 36. Salinger 2002, 126; Meacham 2009, 3. 37. Brennan 1988, 147. 38. Tlusty 2001, 140–1. 39. Brennan 2011, 377. 40. Flather 2007, 112–13. 41. Reinke-Williams 2014, 144–5. 42. Capp 2007. 43. Reinke-Williams 2014, 146; Hailwood 2014, 196–7. 44. Martin 2006. 45. Reinke-Williams 2014, 144. 46. Kümin 2007, 72. 47. Tlusty 2001, 143; Kümin and Tlusty 2011, 177–8. 48. Snow 2002. 49. Capp 2007; Flather 2007.

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Alcohol in the Early Modern World 50. Tlusty 2001, 140. 51. Martin 2001, 136–7. 52. Hailwood 2014, 195–8, 204–6; Reinke-Williams 2014, 146–9. 53. Tlusty 2001, ch.7; Roberts 2004; Shepard 2005. 54. Shrank 2013. 55. Martin 2001, 137. 56. Tlusty 2001, 118. 57. Roberts 2004; Shepard 2005. 58. Shepard 2003; Roberts 2004; Bloom 2010; Ellinghausen 2010. 59. Roberts 2004, 245. 60. Scodel 2002; McShane 2010. 61. Earle 2014, 92. 62. Fumerton 2002. 63. Wrightson 1981. 64. Tlusty 2001, 122–6; Hailwood 2011. 65. Muldrew 1998. 66. Tlusty 2001, 126–33. 67. Tlusty 2001, 122. 68. Brennan 1988, 249–57; Hailwood 2014, 205–7. 69. O’Callaghan 2007; Withington 2007. 70. Roberts 2004; Bloom 2010; Harvey 2012. 71. Bloom 2010. 72. Hailwood 2014, 171–3; Withington 2007, 291. 73. Smith 2007; Elias 2000; Harvey 2005. 74. Withington 2011a; Cowan 2005, 80–2; Harvey 2012. 75. Martin 2001, 9. 76. Evans 2014. 77. Clark 1983, 148–9; Rosenthal 2015. 78. Martin 2001. 79. Clark 1983, 149; Salinger 2002, 55; Kümin 2007, 72; Brennan 2011, 367. 80. Jackson 2013, 16. 81. Hailwood 2014, 209. 82. Gowing 2003, 60–1. 83. Hitchcock 1999; Reinke-Williams 2009; Bloom 2010, 35–7; Hailwood 2014, 209–10. 84. Brennan 2011, 383–91. 85. Hailwood 2014. 86. Roberts 2004. 87. Hailwood 2014, 210. 88. Martin 2001, 88; Capp 2007. 89. Martin 2001, 89; Hailwood 2014, 211. 90. Martin 2001, 87. 134

Gender and Sexuality 91. Martin 2001, 91–2. 92. Shepard 2003, 116. There is an account by a traveler in Switzerland who was subject to homosexual advances by a clergyman in a tavern, though this dates from the 1780s, see Kümin and Tlusty (2011, 326). 93. Hailwood 2014, 165–6. 94. Brown 2009; Jackson 2013; Brennan 2011, 369. 95. Hailwood 2014, 211–12. 96. Smith 2007, Tadmor 2013. 97. Warner 2004. 98. It is worth noting that the connection between women and spirit consumption appears to have emerged earlier in France: see Martin 2001, 27. 99. See, for instance, the centrality of a drunken mother to Hogarth’s famous “Gin Lane” print in Withington in this volume, 51. 100. Martin 2001, 139–40; Jackson 2013, 2.

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CHAPTER 7 RELIGION AND IDEOLOGY

Marc R. Forster

Alcohol, particularly wine, has rich ritual and symbolic meanings for the monotheistic religions that developed in the Mediterranean basin in the ancient and medieval periods. Wine is an integral part of a variety of Jewish rituals, including on Shabbat and a variety of holidays, circumcisions, weddings, and the Passover seder.1 In Christianity wine has a central place in the celebration of the Eucharist. In the Middle Ages the Catholic Church developed and enhanced the importance of the Eucharist, expanding on Jesus’s enigmatic statement “Drink from this all of you, for this is my blood” (Matt. 26:28) with the doctrine of transubstantiation, which asserted that the wine and bread of the Eucharist transform into the blood and body of Christ during the Mass.2 Islam defined the role of alcohol in line with the four revelations Mohammed received from God on this subject. The final revelation “states clearly that wine, gambling, idol worship, and divination are all abominations of Satan that must be avoided.”3 Yet this clear prohibition was debated by various legal schools, and in practice, Muslims consumed a variety of intoxicating beverages. As in Judaism and Christianity, Islamic leaders were concerned with the impact of drunkenness on religious practice—unlike its predecessor religions, however, Islam went a step further by prohibiting the consumption of alcohol for theological reasons. In the early modern period, the established religions in the West, particularly Christianity, sought to promote upright moral behavior that followed religious precepts. This inevitably led to efforts to restrain the consumption of alcohol, which the “godly” believed could lead to a variety of immoral and sinful behaviors, especially sexual sins. Labeled by Peter Burke the “reform of the godly” and the “triumph of Lent,” this program gained proponents and power in the sixteenth century.4 It highlighted the tension between the symbolic importance of wine and the general sense, particularly among groups within the clergy and some of the educated elite, that the consumption of alcohol endangered individual souls and invited the wrath of God upon the community. The Protestant Reformation was an important contributing factor in this growing tension. Theological debates erupted over the Eucharist, with Catholics upholding the doctrine of transubstantiation, while Protestants took a variety of positions, ranging from Luther’s moderate view (consubstantiation) to the position of Zwingli that the Eucharist was simply a commemoration of the Last Supper. Protestants also allowed the laity to partake of the wine during the Eucharist, something permitted only to the clergy in the Catholic Church. This new theology thus in one way reduced the symbolic significance of wine, making it part of a commemoration rather than a sacrifice, but, by having the laity drink from the chalice, in another way made wine ritually more important. Furthermore, the intensive debates over the Eucharist, within the Protestant camp as well as between Protestants and Catholics, did much to make wine (and by extension all alcohol) a charged aspect of the religious debates and conflicts of the period.

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In the seventeenth century, the “reform of the godly” developed further among both Protestants and Catholics. The strongly religious perspective that had informed sixteenthcentury attempts to discipline the population (for example in Calvin’s Geneva, or in the diocese of Milan under Carlo Borromeo) remained vital, at least until about the 1650s.5 Thus the Puritans in England struggled to regulate taverns and alehouses in an effort to reduce or eliminate them as alternative communal centers of sociability to the church, or even as centers of “irreligion.” This goal was shared by Catholic officials in France and Italy, and by state officials of all confessions in Germany. Rabbis and Jewish community leaders also sought to restrain the consumption of alcohol so as to enhance the solemnity of religious services and celebrations. Increasingly, however, it was state officials who promoted restrictions on alcohol consumption or who attempted to regulate taverns and other drinking establishments. These men were responding to an ideology that sought to enhance discipline and self-discipline in the population, with the goal of bringing order, peace, and prosperity to society. For these authorities, drinking undermined the work ethic of artisans, servants, and farm laborers, and was thus dangerous for society. This new ideology, like the reform of the godly, met opposition from a population for whom the consumption of alcoholic beverages was of central importance to social life, including the highly communal religion of much of traditional Christianity.6 In the eighteenth century, this ideology of discipline (and self-discipline) developed further, increasingly informed by the appeal to reason so characteristic of the Enlightenment. From this perspective, drinking led to a loss of reason and self-control, a kind of unreason. Sociability among European elites, especially the growing bourgeoisie in England, France, and the Netherlands, increasingly took place in coffee and tea houses, creating a perceived divide between a (theoretically) sober elite and a wider populace that continued to drink alcohol in the traditional way. The fairly sudden introduction of distilled liquors, most infamously during the “gin craze” in England (1730–40), also altered the nature and impact of drinking, providing another context for lawmakers and moralists to express concern about the deleterious effects of alcohol.7 Meanwhile, religious concerns about drinking were gradually moving in the direction of abstinence and even prohibition, the movement that would dominate the response of the Christian churches to alcohol in the nineteenth century, particularly in the Protestant world.

Judaism Judaism inherited an ambiguous biblical tradition about wine that informed the lived experience of its followers as it developed in Europe and the Mediterranean. The Hebrew Bible describes wine as “bringing joy to God and man” (Judg. 9:13) and says that God created wine “to gladden the heart of man” (Ps. 104:15).8 There are, however, warnings about the excess use of wine in the Bible. “Be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess” (Eph. 5:18) is a frequently cited passage.9 The Shulhan Arukh (Code of Jewish Law), completed in the 1550s by Joseph ben Ephriam Karo, laid out Jewish dietary laws and regulations for the celebration of religious holidays. Gradually accepted as authoritative, especially after clarifications and commentaries by Moses Isserles, the Shulhan Arukh reinforced and clarified the important ritual role of wine at the Kiddush and Havdalah, at the Passover seder, and at circumcisions, weddings, and funerals. 138

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The code reflected traditional concerns about overindulgence in wine as well. In Chapter 561, for example, it warned people not to mix wine and singing at the service in memorial to the destruction of the Temple.10 Traditional Talmudic warnings that Jews, and rabbis in particular, should not participate in religious rituals while drunk were reinforced and reiterated in the early modern period. These efforts ran parallel to reforms within Christianity that sought to bring greater piety and solemnity to religious services and enforce a clearer distinction between the sacred and the profane. In Italy and Germany, for example, rabbis and community leaders sought to tone down the celebrations that took place the night before a circumcision, the veglia in Italy and the Wachnacht in Central Europe.11 They did this for several reasons, including out of concern that “superstitious” ideas that the baby boy needed to be guarded from evil spirits would bring disdain from the surrounding Christian community. They also attempted to prohibit, or at least restrain, the gambling and heavy drinking that were traditionally part of these all-night celebrations. Finally, they wanted to limit the role women had traditionally played in the festivities, which included drinking and dancing through the night. As Elliott Horowitz argues, these reforms reflected a “dominant religious sensibility [that] turned increasingly austere.”12 Jewish communities in Italy and Germany were small and closely intertwined with their Christian neighbors and they participated in this European wide “reform of the godly.”13 Spiritual developments within the Jewish diaspora in Europe may also have affected the role of alcohol. The growing popularity of Kabbalistic spirituality, which spread throughout the Mediterranean world from its center at Safed, led to new religious practices.14 One of these practices involved “nocturnal forms of piety,” including prayers and Talmudic readings at midnight and at dawn. As a practical matter, wine and beer did not help make these practices proceed effectively, as a number of rabbis pointed out. Coffee, however, which arrived in Europe in the late seventeenth century, did. In 1673, an Italian rabbi in Mantua prohibited the drinking of beer and wine before early morning prayers but approved of the consumption of water and “medicinal drinks,” including coffee.15 The Jewish confraternity in Worms dedicated to promoting Kabbalistic piety continued to pay for wine and brandy for its banquets in 1731, but by 1763 coffee was also included as an “official beverage.”16 Here, too, developments within Jewish spirituality reflected changes within the wider European world, as coffee came to be seen as an appropriately respectable drink that could replace alcohol for occasions, such as religious services, that should be sober and austere. The demographic center of European Jewish life shifted to the East, particularly to Poland, during the early modern period. Jews often ran taverns and other drinking houses in Poland, as they did elsewhere in Central and Eastern Europe, leading to regulations restricting the selling of alcohol and the brewing of beer on Sundays.17 Other laws attempted to restrict JewishChristian social interactions, with Christian authorities showing particular concern about the place of Christian servants working for and living with Jewish families. Intimacy involving drinking and eating as well as serving as wet nurses, Catholic authorities feared, might lead to conversions to Judaism. Jewish authorities were similarly concerned about “feasting, drinking, and dancing” involving Jews and non-Jews. Whereas the Jews of Italy and Germany lived in ghettos or in rural settlements outside the cities, the large Jewish communities of Poland lived intermingled with the Christian neighbors. Drinking was an important form of sociability, and in combination with dancing, celebrations of weddings, confirmations, baptisms, and 139

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funerals, could lead to dangerous familiarity and even sexual relations.18 These interactions were considered a religious threat by community leaders, Jewish and Christian. Christianity Christianity, perhaps even more so than Judaism, developed in a world saturated with wine. Christians of course inherited from the Jews the same scriptural ambiguity about wine, while also confronting a Greco-Roman world where the consumption of wine was central to a number of important religious cults.19 The New Testament contains multiple references to wine, from Jesus’s miraculous transformation of water into wine at the wedding at Cana to the consumption of wine at the Passover Seder in the Garden of Gethsemane. At various points, Jesus, very much in the Jewish tradition, referred to himself as the vine, and his followers as the branches.20 Ultimately, of course, Jesus’s equation of his blood with wine, which led to the sacrament of the Eucharist, cemented the enormous symbolic place for wine in the Christian tradition. If this ritual owed something to earlier Roman rituals, like the Bacchus and Dionysus rites, its link to Christ’s personal sacrifice was something new and dramatically different.21 Like the Jewish Bible, the New Testament contains warnings about the consumption of alcohol. In 1 Corinthians, Paul specifically says that drunkards (as well as quite a long list of other sinners) shall not inherit the Kingdom of God. Scriptural admonitions emphasize that drunkenness will lead to other sins; drinking alcohol is not usually labeled as sinful in and of itself. “Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit” (Eph. 5:18). And, perhaps even stronger: “The acts of the sinful nature are obvious: . . . drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God” (Gal. 5:19-21). This language was cited, used, and reused by Christian leaders of all stripes in the early modern period. Although the importance of wine in medieval Christianity was linked inextricably to the sacrament of the Eucharist, over the course of the Middle Ages, the chalice was restricted to the clergy, so that the host (the body of Christ) acquired a greater symbolic importance than the wine. The Elevation of the Host, a highly visual moment, became the highlight of the ritual.22 The increased emphasis in the later Middle Ages on the feast of Corpus Christi is an indication of the importance of both the Eucharist and the host in popular religiosity,23 as are the development of “bleeding host” shrines and devotions. John Bossy has argued that the Eucharist in traditional, pre-Reformation, Christianity had “socially integrative powers” and was an important part of an intensely communal religion.24 Despite the fact that most people only took communion once a year, and then only partaking of the host, Bossy emphasizes a number of ritual aspects of the weekly Mass to substantiate his point. One of these was the Pax, the kiss of peace that was shared by the congregation after the Elevation of the Host, a practice that apparently spread from England to other parts of Europe. And, although the laity did not receive consecrated wine at communion, wine remained part of the ritual of taking communion in the form of ablution wine, drunk after receiving the host. “I doubt if the insistence of the orthodox clergy that the wine was not sacramental deprived the act of all symbolic effect,” argues Bossy25 (Figure 7.1). As Bossy points out, parish feasts, church ales, and other forms of communal celebration often followed services, particularly on important feast days, sometimes inside the church 140

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Figure 7.1  Images linking Christ to grapes and vines, which symbolize rebirth through the Eucharist, were common throughout Europe. Hieronymus Wierix, Antwerp, “Christ in the Wine Press.” Engraving (before 1619). Metropolitan Museum of Art.

itself (or right outside), and such celebrations of course included drinking wine, beer, or ale, depending on the part of Europe.26 In these moments, the socially integrative function of religion and of alcohol overlapped and reinforced each other. Or, perhaps put differently, the symbolic importance of wine for Christianity enhanced the symbolic power of all alcohol for social interactions. Also loaded with symbolism, Carnival, celebrated in southern Europe, Germany, and France (but not in the British Isles or Scandinavia) was both the great communal social event of the year and also closely integrated into the Christian calendar.27 Taking place during the 141

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period leading up to Ash Wednesday and culminating in the celebration of Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras), Carnival was consciously structured in opposition to Lent, the period of fasting and repentance leading up to Easter.28 Drinking and indeed drunkenness were part of both the image and the actual experience of Carnival. As one historian puts it: “Drunkenness fueled the spirit of temporary disorder and communal freedom (tinged with the palpable threat of violence) that defined carnival periods.”29 In the pre-Reformation era, despite the disapproval of some clerics, Carnival was a sanctioned event, and one that celebrated “the transgressive behaviors associated with drinking.”30 As Peter Burke emphasizes, Carnival was understood to be part of two oppositions, that between Carnival and Lent and that between Carnival and everyday life.31 Pieter Bruegel’s famous painting, “The Battle between Carnival and Lent” (1559) depicts Carnival as a fat man astride a barrel of ale (or perhaps wine), jousting with the emaciated figure of Lady Lent, dressed in a nun’s habit. Drink, food, sex, and violence characterize the Carnival side of the picture; abstinence and religion the Lent side. An allegorical painting, of course, Bruegel’s masterpiece lays out the place of Carnival in the religious world and the liturgical calendar of the Catholic Church. Burke is certainly correct that Carnival had multiple meanings, some less religious than others, but the festival had little meaning except in the context of the coming of Lent and, ultimately, Easter32 (Figure 7.2). In the background of Bruegel’s painting, on the Carnival side of course, is a tavern. In some ways, the tavern had always served as the counter-point to the church in communities, urban and rural. When the early Tudor bishop Stephen Gardiner wrote in 1547: “When the vicar

Figure 7.2  Peter Bruegel the Elder, “Fight between Carnival and Lent.” 1559. Photo by Leemage/Corbis via Getty Images. 142

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goeth into the pulpit to read that [he] himself hath written, then the multitude of the parish goeth straight out of the church, home to drink,” it is clear that the alehouse could compete effectively with a sermon.33 Similar complaints can be heard from clergymen across Europe, who lamented the fact that men in particular came late to church services and left immediately after the Elevation of the Host to hustle to the tavern.34 The tavern was the location of a kind of permanent Carnival, a place different from the parish church. At least in the era before the Reformation, however, the tavern was not (yet) a counter-church, even if it was frequently a place where anti-clerical and blasphemous language could be heard.35 In 1500, then, drinking and Christianity were linked, symbolically and in practice. The symbolic and ritual importance of wine would shift with the theological conflicts and changes of the Reformation era, but not yet to the point that Christian leaders sought to forbid drinking. Religious leaders also made efforts to move drinking customs further away from a religious realm they wanted to sanctify and separate from a corrupt world. By the seventeenth century, we find religious and state leaders trying to limit the consumption of alcohol, hoping to reduce the “opportunity for sin” they believed came from excessive drinking. Increasingly influenced by notions of social discipline, these men also saw the reduction of drinking in secular terms, as a way of reducing crime, increasing productivity, and bringing greater order to society. The European expansion across the world also meant the expansion of Christianity and the spread of European alcoholic beverages, particularly wine, to the rest of the world. This “expansion” was of course also an exchange, as commodities like coffee, tea, and tobacco came to Europe, in some cases replacing alcohol as the focus of sociability. Meanwhile, populations in the Americas, for example, shifted, or were forced to shift, their interaction with alcohol in the context of Christianization.36 The place of alcohol and its relationship with religion evolved in significant ways. The Impact of the Reformation The early evangelicals were influenced by a number of intellectual and cultural strands that had particular resonance in the German-speaking lands in the early sixteenth century.37 One element of this culture was the idea that the times were out of joint, that traditional values and habits had changed for the worse, and that the sinfulness of man would soon lead to a punishment from God, if not the Apocalypse itself. Not surprisingly, social criticism and satirical writings in this tradition catalogued the sins of the Germans, almost always referencing gluttony and excessive drinking.38 Luther’s “Sermon of Sobriety and Temperance” of 1539 reflects this tradition and makes a strong statement against drunkenness, while also defending moderate and appropriate drinking.39 Luther laments the reputation of the Germans as heavy drinkers, something they should be embarrassed about. He argues that the Turks are defeating the Christians because they do not drink and their armies are therefore superior. But, of course, these practical considerations take a backseat to the idea that drinking is a danger to people’s souls, and (another) sign that the Germans have not taken advantage of the blessing of the true preaching of the Word brought by Luther. Other Reformation leaders, such as Martin Bucer and John Calvin, were stronger advocates for ecclesiastical discipline and pressed for more regulation of drinking than Luther. Calvin, 143

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despite his reputation as a disciplinarian, only proposed moderate regulation of drinking in Geneva, including that taverns be closed during church services, that the buying of rounds be prohibited, and that public drunkenness be fined.40 Bucer went further, arguing that the secular authorities should outlaw public drinking of all kinds.41 Like all Christian religious reformers, they believed that drunkenness led to further sins. Calvin for example was especially concerned about fornication and adultery. Yet mainstream reformers of all stripes also knew that beer and wine were basic elements in people’s diets, and they understood that abstinence was not a practical goal. A number of radical Protestants did advocate abstinence, something that was easier to support as part of a smaller sect than as a leader of an established church. Ludwig Haetzer, who was initially allied with Zwingli in Zürich, denounced alcohol in a pamphlet published in Augsburg attacking drinking parties held by evangelical-minded guildsmen. “Not Christ but Bacchus,” he said, “was leading people together here.”42 While Haetzer was briefly influential in the 1520s, his radical religious views led him to anti-Trinitarianism and his execution in 1529 in Constance.43 Sebastian Franck was more influential than Haetzer but was also a solitary figure who ended his life as a mystical thinker. He wrote a 1528 treatise “Concerning the Horrible Vice of Drunkenness” which echoed pre-Reformation writings in seeing the increasing incidence of drunkenness as a sign of the end times and of the failure of religious reform. Although he refused to link himself with any confession or sect, Franck’s writings were influential within Anabaptism.44 Ultimately, it was the Anabaptists, of all the major denominations emerging out of the Reformation, who came out most strongly against drinking. The Anabaptist Schleitheim Confession of 1527 forbade the patronage of taverns, and during the sixteenth century, refusal to visit taverns was considered a marker of allegiance to Anabaptism.45 There were no Catholic advocates of abstinence like the Anabaptists in the sixteenth century, nor did Catholic reformers at the Council of Trent (1545–63) spill much ink over drinking, only stating that celebrations of saints should not be an excuse for drunkenness.46 In the later sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries, however, leaders of all mainstream Christian confessions instituted measures to create more “godly” societies, aiming to separate the sacred and the profane and encourage the development of better Christians, and these measures included restrictions on drinking. The Reform of the Godly The religious reforms of the sixteenth century boosted attempts to regulate drinking and to limit access to taverns. This movement was part of a wider effort to create a more “godly” society, one where people looked first and primarily to religious precepts to guide their behavior.47 The idea of a reformed society was, of course, not a new one in the Christian tradition. Girolamo Savonarola’s campaign in the 1490s to turn Florence into a Christian republic included not only political reforms, but promises of religious renewal and policies aimed at eliminating vice, including public drunkenness.48 From an elite perspective, humanist writers like Erasmus also criticized excessive drinking; Erasmus ends his sophisticated satire, “In Praise of Folly” with, “Wherefore farewell, clap your hands, live and drink lustily, my most excellent disciples of Folly.”49 144

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The Reformation gave this “reform of the godly” a new impulse, as Peter Burke has emphasized.50 The godly were clergymen and educated elites, often working in positions of power and authority. Their reforms included efforts to curtail, or even outlaw Carnival, as well as attempts to clearly separate the sacred from the profane by removing celebrations, plays, dancing, and drinking from churches, and from religious activities such as pilgrimages and processions.51 Excess consumption of wine (in particular) was also reminiscent of “pagan” practices. For reformers, most of whom had a classical education, Carnival, for example, was clearly heathen in inspiration; both Protestant and Catholic theologians including Thomas Naogeorgus, St Carlo Borromeo, and the archbishop of Milan, among others, found reason to compare Carnival rituals to ancient Bacchanalia.52 Protestant reformers often went further in their attack on “paganism,” identifying “popish” practices as pagan. As Keith Thomas notes, “Much energy was spent in demonstrating that holy water was the Roman aqua lustralis, that wakes were the Bacchanalia, Shrove Tuesday celebrations Saturnalia, Rogation processions ambarvalia, and so forth.”53 Since many of these Roman rites involved drinking, the attack on “paganism” also meant regulating drinking. The godly objected to drinking for more practical reasons as well. As we have seen, reformers like Calvin were more concerned with sins clearly outlined in the Bible, particularly fornication and adultery, than they were with drinking itself. Excessive drinking (along with dancing) led, in the reformers’ view, to these more serious sins, and therefore needed to be curtailed. Reformers of all kinds attempted to outlaw various practices that led to drunkenness, such as the buying of rounds or the toasting of healths, both practices that logically, if not always in practice, led to drunkenness.54 One way of instituting this program was to regulate taverns. These regulations were also part of a broader effort to more clearly distinguish the sacred from the profane. As Burke has emphasized, “the godly were out to destroy the traditional familiarity with the sacred, because they believed that familiarity breeds irreverence.”55 Authorities were also convinced, probably not incorrectly, that drinking contributed to this irreverence, whether as part of public festivities or in taverns. A 1601 episode in an English alehouse is a classic example of this irreverence. After church in the local alehouse a tailor from Wisbech riffed on the topic of the day’s sermon, Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my church. He in an alehouse taking a full pot in his hand in jesting manner pronounced these words: “upon this rock I will build my faith.” And there being in the company one whose name was Peter he applied the matter unto him saying, “Thou art Peter,” and then, taking the pot, he said, “But upon this rock I will build my church.”56 The tailor’s wit was not appreciated by the authorities, and it confirmed their tendency to view the tavern as a kind of anti-church, the place where irreverence fueled by drinking fed irreligious sentiment. The result of this view was the imposition of curfews and other regulations, with the special aim of closing taverns and alehouses during church services.57 English regulations came down regularly in the early seventeenth century, including a 1604 act forbidding “tippling,” defined as drinking for “the entertainment and harbouring of lewd and idle people.”58 In 1606 new fines were decreed for drunkenness, a licensing law was promulgated in 1618, and several more acts passed in 1623, 1625, and 1627.59 The regularity of these laws says something about their (lack of) effectiveness. English authorities also punished tavern 145

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and alehouse keepers who kept “disorderly houses,” a category dominated by those selling drinks on the Sabbath. French priests considered innkeepers their enemies and sought their punishment as well.60 In his classic study, The English Alehouse, A Social History 1200–1800 (1983), Peter Clark argues that the alehouse replaced the parish church as the principle popular social center in most communities in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as the church came under the control of the elites.61 Alehouses became the location for sports, music, dancing, and gambling, activities that had been driven inside by the suppression of traditional public festive life in the aftermath of the Reformation. He goes further to argue that the alehouse functioned as a “centre of popular irreligion.”62 Alehouses were full on Sundays, even during services: “people meeting together at sermon time ‘upon the alebench [would] there blaspheme God, abuse his ministers, scoff at religion, slander and disgrace his servants.’” Yet Clark admits that, despite some impressive alcohol-fueled attacks on established religion, “tippling houses or boozing dens did not present any organized opposition to the ecclesiastical establishment.”63 English Puritans were the group “more militantly hostile to alcohol than any other sect or denomination in early modern Europe.”64 The Calvinist view that drinking led to other sins was accompanied by a concerted effort to establish Sundays as a day devoted exclusively to honoring God. During the Puritan rule of England (Commonwealth/Protectorate, 1649– 60), an important aspect of this program was the attack on drinking in and around churches. This campaign was accompanied by an effort to better enforce regulations of taverns and alehouses, which Puritan leaders saw as politically dangerous, possibly providing space for planning conspiracies and plots against the regime, as well as being settings for all kinds of sins.65 Ironically, the successful suppression of public drinking around parish festivals, church holidays, and communal celebrations of various kinds may well have driven popular sociability into the alehouses, making them in fact centers of opposition to the Puritan regime.66 Furthermore, Royalists in this period made drinking to the king’s health a political statement. With the Restoration, tavern and alehouse legislation moved away from moral and religious concerns and focused on the collection of fees and excise taxes.67 A similar trend can be found in Germany, where drinking was a major theme of the Teufelsbücher, or devil literature. “When the devil has caught us with wine, deprived us of our senses and made fools of us, he uses us for his mockery, amusement, and carnival games, driving us from one vice to the other” wrote Franck.68 As Ann Tlusty has shown, the city council of Augsburg embraced the reform of the godly and instituted ordinances attacking drunkenness as dangerous to people’s souls and the good order of society.69 Imperial ordinances also forbade the drinking of healths in 1500, 1530, and 1548. Augsburg’s punishments for drunkenness peaked in the 1530s, when drunks could be confined overnight in the Narrenhaus (fool’s house), a cage outside city hall where the miscreant was subject to public ridicule. Yet, as Tlusty also makes clear, wine remained an ambivalent symbol to Christians of all confessions throughout the period, as it appeared as a symbol of spiritual plenty and of Christ’s gifts to believers.70 Beat Kümin points out that objections to taverns were not confined to Reformed countries like England and Holland. Catholic priests in places like Savoy, Westphalia, and Bavaria lamented the influence of the tavern, particularly on youth. Early modern courts dealt frequently with cases of violence, blasphemy, and absenteeism from divine services fueled by alcohol and often 146

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taking place in taverns.71 Yet Kümin also reminds us that the notion of the tavern as the “contreEglise” can easily be overstated. Clergymen grew, brewed, and profited from wine and beer, and Catholic monks and Protestant ministers operated drinking establishments in a number of places in the Holy Roman Empire.72 Religious figures of all confessions also visited taverns, alehouses, and inns, often finding it useful for pastoral purposes to go to the local drinking hole. Taverns were also needed at pilgrimage shrines in Catholic areas and for large parishes where people came from long distances for important church holidays. As Kümin points out, during pilgrimages “spiritual and secular activities intermingled in a complex pattern, with the visit to the tavern the profane equivalent of participation in processions and other religious observances.”73 There are other examples of what Kümin calls the “cultural exchange” between the tavern and the church. Religious feasts, weddings, baptisms, and funerals were not complete without a celebration (or a wake) at the local tavern. Religious issues were discussed in taverns and people sang religious songs while drinking. Indeed, in mixed confessional areas or inns with a diverse clientele, religious songs were deployed as signs of regional and religious identity and could lead to brawls. “In the final analysis [argues Kümin], church-tavern relations could be ‘complementary’ and ‘symbiotic’ as well as ‘antagonistic.’”74

Protestant-Catholic Differences We have seen above that religious concerns motivated both Protestant and Catholic authorities to regulate drinking and taverns. There were, however, differences in the attitudes of the Christian confessions toward alcohol. The religious division of Europe that hardened in the later sixteenth century paralleled the divide between the beer-drinking north and the winedrinking south. Mack Holt has suggested that this division may have influenced the religious choices made in different parts of Europe and, furthermore, that the Reformation may have impacted the geography of wine and beer-drinking cultures.75 Holt supports this general (and somewhat speculative) point with a more specific argument about particular regions. “[T]here are a number of areas in which wine was linked to the Catholic Church that may help explain the sharp religious division in Western Europe.”76 Holt’s study of the Reformation and Counter-Reformation in the city of Dijon in Burgundy provides a case study for this argument. While Protestantism made some early progress in Dijon, Holt demonstrates how “potent . . . social and cultural factors” strengthened Catholicism in the city and the whole region.77 Holt recognizes that the decisive defeat of the Huguenots in Dijon in the early 1560s was the result of consistent and effective suppression of heresy by local authorities. But he goes further to argue that the local elite chose both Catholicism and a strong anti-Huguenot policy because of pressure from the local wine-growers, a large group in Dijon. Because of their number, their politicization and the cultural ties they felt to the traditional church, their presence went a long way towards defining a sense of community in the city understood by all Dijonnais, which excluded Protestantism. It was this Catholic culture, forged by wine-growers from below and protected by magistrates and clerics from above, that ultimately worked to eliminate Protestantism in most of Burgundy.78 147

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These wine-growers’ ties to Catholicism were multifaceted. Catholicism provided traditional processions and other devotions appealing for protection against insects that attacked the pinot noir vines. In 1562, the notion of “extirpating vermin” was linked to “cleansing” the community of heretics, and 1,500–2,000 Huguenots were expelled from Dijon.79 Active in this movement were the wine-growers, a literate, well-off, politically active group that had profited from the expanding market for high-quality Burgundian wines. Holt argues that an important tie to Catholicism came from the fact that the Burgundian wines gained “preeminence” at the same time as the cult of the Eucharist exploded in the late medieval period. For the male vignerons, the restriction of the chalice to the priest actually enhanced the ritual status of the wine, and made the notion of women and heretics drinking the wine at communion a desecration.80 Other links between wine and Catholicism were found in the practices of confraternities and in the social uses of wine within the local community. The Calvinist Huguenots, Holt argues, favored a different mode of “sociability and commensality,” one focused on the individual and a community of the godly that did not fit well with the communal traditions of the Burgundian vignerons. A telling example of the religiously tinged traditions of the wine-growers is found in the jurés vignerons, which took place each September. The city aldermen came to inspect the vineyards in order to determine the time of the harvest, [and] they would ceremoniously share a loaf of bread and a pint of wine. Though hardly a “carousal,” this was an act fraught with as much Eucharistic imagery and symbolism for the humble wine-grower as communion itself: both were seen as sacraments of sociability.81 We can see in the dynamic described by Holt the continued strength of the communal religiosity of the late medieval period and the links of that tradition with wine in particular. Similar evidence can be found in the wine-growing regions of Germany, most of which remained Catholic in the early modern period.82 Regional Weinpatrone, patron saints of wine, like St. Morand in Alsace, St. Cyriacus in the Palatinate, or St. Urban in the Rhineland, Swabia, and South Tirol, as well as local saints, were at the core of communal religion in wine villages.83 According to Georg Schreiber, the Winzerprozessionen, processions by the wine-growers, were occasions where “piety and the local atmosphere [were] in full harmony.”84 In general, the liturgical year in wine regions was filled with feast days that were linked to the particular agricultural calendar of the vines. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the cult of the Virgin, which was so much a part of the Baroque revival of Catholicism, was fully integrated into these traditions. The Maria in vineis became an important Baroque motif, part of the decoration of churches and chapels. On the Feast of the Ascension (Maria Himmelfahrt) statues of the Madonna were decorated with vines. Bittgänge, supplicatory processions, were common, particularly when bad weather threatened the grape harvest. Not surprisingly, there were wine miracles as well, many of which recreated Jesus’s turning of the water to wine at the wedding at Cana.85 These examples show how embedded Catholic traditions could be in wine-growing regions. As Holt shows, however, these links are complex, political, religious, social, and cultural, and the particular dynamic in Burgundy may not be replicable elsewhere. The same can be said of Germany. The fact that wine regions along the Rhine and Mosel, in Franconia and Austria, and on Lake Constance were primarily Catholic is suggestive, but the nature of the Catholicism/ 148

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wine connection remains speculative. A similar analysis of beer-drinking regions is much less definitive, since beer was consumed in both Catholic areas (e.g., Westphalia and Bavaria) and Protestant regions.

The Americas European expansion in general, and particularly the conquest of the Americas, had important consequences for the interaction of alcohol and religion in both Europe and in the Americas.86 Especially in the seventeenth century, new products such as coffee and tobacco arrived in Europe and began to supplement alcohol as lubricants of sociability, particularly among middle-class people. At least initially, religious leaders criticized these alternatives as dangerous to souls in ways similar to alcohol.87 Over time, however, coffee and tea came to be seen as healthier and morally safe alternatives to alcohol and were favored by the “godly,” both clergymen and prosperous members of the laity. For people in Central and South America, the arrival of the Europeans also meant the arrival of Christianity, and Christianity brought with it wine, which was of course central for the celebration of the Mass. Alcohol already had important ritual purposes in the preconquest ceremonial practices of all kinds in both Mexico and the Andes. The interaction between preconquest ideas about the ritual use of alcohol with the Christian liturgical traditions led to new social and religious behaviors, the appropriateness of which Spanish missionaries of various kinds as well as Spanish officials debated for centuries, often disapproving of the behavior of their colonial subjects. William B. Taylor’s study of drinking in central Mexico in the early modern period outlines the ritual importance of pulque, an alcoholic drink made from the fermented juice of the maguey plant.88 In precolonial times there were two kinds of drinking in Mexico, both with strong religious and ritual connections. The first was drinking by the elites, with pulque usually being consumed as a ritual intoxicant. According to early Spanish chroniclers, the common people were forbidden to drink in this way and severe punishments were threatened (and sometime enforced) if they did. Secondly, these accounts noted that popular, mass drinking also occurred on ritual occasions, such as weddings, births, funerals, and warriors’ rites of passage. These latter occasions often involved drinking to the point of complete intoxication and took place in a communal context. Pulque was “a powerful, almost sacred substance, with unpredictable effects, and generally controlled by rules of periodic, ritual use.”89 In the sixteenth century, Spanish authorities, including local officials and priests, lamented that the Indians90 drank far too much, a sign, in their view, of their basic inferiority and lack of good government.91 The consumption of pulque was facilitated by the commercialization of the product, as Spaniards created large maguey plantations and a network of taverns and other drinking places expanded, first in Mexico City, then in the countryside. Taylor believes that the native peoples did drink more in this era, though he admits the evidence is hard to interpret. Like governments in Europe, the Spanish authorities attempted to regulate and tax the sale and consumption of alcohol, primarily pulque, although the local beverage was now supplemented by wine and brandy imported from Europe. Ordinances aimed at limiting the number of drinking establishments were published in 1572, 1594, 1637, and 1640.92 149

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In the early colonial period, Spanish and Indian ideas of what constituted “moderate drinking” clashed—ideas that were clearly refracted through religious lenses. Grape wine to Spaniards was a symbol of civilization and Catholic heritage and a culturally essential part of the diet. One Mexican friar called it “a most noble, useful, and necessary drink in these Kingdoms; a drink venerated and honored by Christ; and as the most noble of drinks. He chose to transform it into His most precious blood.” Spaniards generally valued a Mediterranean ideal of drinking mostly at mealtimes and being able to “hold” their liquor without losing control of the dignified demeanor and “natural reason.”93 For the indigenous communities, moderate drinking was about “traditional conceptions of appropriate occasions and gastronomic privileges rather than according to the amount consumed or whether the drinkers showed signs of intoxication.”94 Throughout the colonial period, Indians consumed large amounts of pulque in community settings, on Sundays and particularly on feast days, like Easter, Christmas, Corpus Christi, and the day of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Spaniards considered this kind of drinking “a barbarous vice of a barbarous people” and assumed that drinking led to rebellion and backsliding into “idolatry.” There is little evidence of either.95 In the eighteenth century, peasant drinking in Mexico came to be even more associated with Catholic holidays. As Taylor reminds us, “pulque had been used in religious ceremonies in pre-Hispanic times, and its carryover to ceremonial occasions in the new religious practice could be an example of syncretism.”96 Peasant communities still had rules against solitary and daily drinking, though people escaped this social pressure in cities, particularly in Mexico City. Furthermore, the ritual-drinking link was eroded by the popularity of distilled drinks, which had few of the religious associations of pulque and wine, and by the continued commercialization of alcohol. Taylor further argues that, while drinking remained intensely social and communal, in the later colonial period it lost much of its religious meaning.97 By the later eighteenth century, efforts to “reform” peasant drinking were justified exclusively on secular and practical grounds.98 In the Andes, the sacred drink was chicha beer, a brew made from fermented corn. Chicha had great ritual significance in preconquest religious, political, and agricultural ceremonies. Among the ruling Inca, the production of chicha was managed through the aclla, women who brewed the chicha and served it during the ceremonies of the official cult of the sun.99 A Spanish observer of an Incan harvest festival of Inti Raimi in 1535 saw llamas sacrificed and hundreds of young women offering jars of chicha and baskets of coca leaf to the sun. Chicha was also poured into ushnus, rocks with underground channels that provided a “sacred link” between the “world of daylight and the earth beneath it.” It was also fed to the dead, part of the daily contacts between the living and the dead in Andean society.100 During the winter solstice, the Inca “drank with the sun,” since the small weak sun “needed strengthening with sacrificial chicha.”101 At the important shrines at Lake Titicaca, a Spanish observer was shocked at the reverence to a “great stone” on an island in the lake: “There are more than six hundred Indians serving in this place and a thousand women make chicha in order to throw it upon that stone.”102

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More prosaically, llama meat and blood, chicha, and coca were offered to local divinities, the huacas, and ancestors in exchange for divination, protection from disease, and good weather for harvests. Religious specialists who received the messages of the huacas drank chicha while speaking to the gods and also poured it over rocks and other objects that were the physical manifestations of the huacas.103 In the period before the Spanish invasion, the imperial cult of the sun overlay and operated in parallel to these local and regional cults, sometimes cooperatively and sometimes in competition with them. Exchanges of food, drink, and coca were also important in reinforcing reciprocal political, social, and economic bonds, for example between the kurakas, local ethnic chiefs, and their subjects. The Spanish conquest did great damage to the imperial religion of the Incas, but was less successful in eliminating devotions to the huacas. Beginning in the later sixteenth century, the Spanish persecution known as “the Extirpation” drove indigenous religious specialists into hiding, but they continued to provide divination, healing, burial rites, and harvest ceremonies. Both Sabine MacCormack and Nicholas Griffiths emphasize the adaptability and flexibility of these local cults, which found space in local communities, sometimes by challenging the priest and official Catholicism, more often by adapting and co-opting Catholic ceremonies.104 The use of chicha is a good example of this process. In the seventeenth century, during fiestas on saints’ days or other Catholic holidays, women poured chicha on the ground or over rocks to honor the local huacas. Griffiths refers to these ceremonies as a kind of religious accommodation, where “the native religious system had absorbed the alien supernatural deities into its own structure.”105 Priests of course often considered this accommodation “backsliding” or apostasy. Wine came to the Andes with the Christian missionaries and parish priests, who promoted the cult of the Eucharist here as they did across the Catholic world. The ritual importance of the blood/wine connection, celebrated in the Corpus Christi ceremonies, resembled the Inti Raimi harvest celebrations of the Inca to both Spaniards and Andeans. In the Inca celebration blood was also central, coming from llama and (sometimes) human sacrifices. In the area around Cuzco, these two ceremonies were blended, both falling in May/June, a time of harvest and tax collection.106 In the colonial period, then, chicha continued to have a ceremonial and ritual significance, but one that was increasingly hidden from public view. At the same time, chicha, like pulque in Mexico, was increasingly commercialized. In cities like Cuzco and Potosí, drinking establishments sold chicha to people of all social classes. In Potosí, the great silver mining city, people consumed 1.6 million bottles of chicha in 1603, “such an enormous quantity of chichi . . . that it seems an impossible thing to imagine.”107 Even if the number was exaggerated, the level of consumption led Spanish officials to attempt regulation of various kinds. In the middle of the seventeenth century, officials in Potosí felt that the many chicha taverns in their city led to crime and “offended God and the neighborhood.”108 The reform of the godly was found here, too. In Potosí and everywhere in the Andes, the brewing and sale of chicha was in the hands of women, initially Indian women, but by the seventeenth century also women of Spanish and African descent. Needless to say, the indigenous tradition of women producing chicha was important in their domination of the trade in the colonial period. Chicha sellers could also tap into indigenous ritual traditions by bringing ritual specialists into their shops to provide divination services or to bless their beer.109 Nevertheless, commercialization does seem to

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have undermined the religious significance of chicha during the later colonial period, while grape brandy and cane alcohol provided alternate and more potent intoxicants by the later seventeenth century.110

The Eighteenth Century In eighteenth-century Europe, concerns over the consumption of alcohol remained a part of public policy. States continued to regulate taverns and attempted to limit excess consumption, mostly through licensing and taxation. The methods used in this period were hardly new, but the motives behind these policies were no longer primarily moral and religious, but rather practical and secular, with a focus on maintaining public order and health and inculcating social discipline. In the eighteenth-century debates about the regulation of drink, particularly in England and France, we can see the development of the issues that would frame the discussion of alcohol in the modern era, including the notion of drunkenness as a disease; a focus on issues of social utility; and the development of a working-class culture for which drink played a central role, often in opposition to a bourgeois culture in which sobriety was a defining value. The “gin craze,” made famous by William Hogarth’s 1751 paired prints “Gin Lane” and “Beer Street,” struck England in the 1730s and 1740s and provides a good window on these transitions (see Figures 2.1 and 2.2).111 Distilled liquors were not new in Europe, but gin came to England from Holland with William and Mary, and consumption exploded in the first decades of the eighteenth century.112 Gin was inexpensive and came to be seen as a poor people’s drink, especially in the rapidly growing metropolis of London. Debates over what to do about gin circled around two poles. Moral concerns focused on the destructive effect of gin on children, women, and families. It may be that women could drink gin as a way of bypassing the gender exclusions of the alehouse. In any case, the polemicists believed that drinking gin was bad for fertility and weakened offspring. Others argued that gin needed to be prohibited in order to restore “religion, sobriety and industry to the people.”113 The moral panic that developed among well-meaning English elites was, in the long run, less important to public policy than a more pragmatic discourse about drinking. Gin did not have the symbolic baggage of wine, and could not be defended as a traditional foodstuff, as were beer and ale. Instead, people began to speak of drinking gin as a disease, claiming that gin created a “slavery of compulsive habit” and that the state needed to protect people from themselves.114 Politicians also debated the social costs of gin, trying to balance the loss of work time and work discipline caused by drunkenness with the huge profits made in the trade. The 1736 Gin Act effectively outlawed gin by setting prohibitively high duties on its sale. The law was, however, circumvented by smuggling and illegal sales, and also criticized as an attack on liberty and free trade. It was repealed in 1743.115 By the 1750s, consumption of gin had started to decline, and the craze was over. The discourse in England around gin reflected a general shift in focus in discussions about alcohol. The religious and moral language of previous centuries was recast as a concern for the practical effect of drinking on society. At least in Western Europe, there was also a growing perception among the elites that alcohol played a different role in elite circles than it did in

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popular sociability. Middle-class people emphasized that they met to discuss the issues of the day in coffeehouses, and claimed that coffee and tea were “wakeful and civil” drinks.116 Reforming literature argued that alehouses, cafés, and local taverns were centers of a socially and morally dangerous plebian sociability. Not surprisingly, some in the popular classes understood drinking in taverns in opposition to elite meeting places, and in these communities, drinking, including drinking gin in England, was at the heart of this sociability.117 Enlightenment-inspired elites were, says Thomas Brennan, caught between “parallel traditions of utilitarian disapproval and classical tolerance.”118 The latter viewpoint had been expressed by Montaigne in the sixteenth century, who wrote that drinking was a vice, but that “it costs our conscience less than the others.”119 The utilitarian position held that drinking was responsible for poverty, and taverns were useless. The Encyclopédie saw drinking not as a vice, but as an offense against reason: “The abuse of wine produced irrationality (la déraison).”120 Over the course of the eighteenth century, elite views in France became less tolerant of drinking and drunkenness, labeling it a lower-class problem. The traditional moral contrast between church and tavern was now replaced by the “antithesis between cabaret and work.”121 Perhaps the Spanish conquests of Mexico and Peru and the imposition of Christianity are symptomatic of what was also happening in Europe, as the place of alcoholic beverages and their relationship to the sacred evolved, particularly across Christian areas of the world. On the one hand, both pulque and chicha maintained a special significance for the indigenous populations, a significance that evolved and was adapted to new conditions. On the other hand, consumption of alcoholic beverages on a wider scale reduced their religious or spiritual significance. Even where many traditional ritual and ceremonial practices survived, as they did in the Andes, those rituals were driven from public life, which also served to undermine the link between alcohol and religion. Finally, commercialization and the arrival of other alcoholic beverages tended to make pulque and chicha more a part of everyday life—and meant they were also subjected to a version of the reform of the godly found in Europe. Similar developments were found in Christian European and in Jewish communities in the early modern period. The withdrawal of the elite from popular culture, including a withdrawal from popular taverns, pubs, and cafés, led to the development of a more classbased sociability, even as the elites kept drinking heavily.122 In this world, concerns about alcohol consumption were focused on the failings of the common folk, just as colonial authorities lamented the drinking of the “natives.” This “modern” perspective was further enhanced by new religious sensibilities about alcohol. Religious groups such as the Baptists and Methodists in the English-speaking world, or the free churches in Scandinavia, now advocated abstinence and even prohibition, something that even the most godly of reformers in the early modern period had rarely favored. The relationship between alcohol and religion had shifted onto new ground. Until the later eighteenth century, however, the practice of religion and consumption of alcohol remained closely intertwined, and in many ways. Christianity, in particular, maintained its traditionally ambivalent attitude toward drinking. For the clerical and lay elite, drinking certainly led to sin, but the general consensus was that drinking alcohol was not in itself sinful. Furthermore, the role of wine in Christian ritual could not be easily set aside. Thus, religious reformers found themselves pressing practical reforms, regulating taverns, outlawing Carnival, and attacking public drunkenness. But, ultimately, the godly could not argue that

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God disapproved of drinking. The link between religion and prohibition, then, was a modern development, not a consequence of the religious reforms of the early modern period. Notes 1. Posner n.d. 2. Douglas and Douglas 1994, 370–3. 3. Kueny 2003. 4. Burke 1978. 5. Chatellier 1989. 6. Bossy 1985. 7. Medick 1982; Tlusty 1998c. 8. Tlusty 2001, 69; Posner (n.d.). 9. There are strong warnings about the dangers of alcohol consumption in the stories of Noah and of Lot and his daughters. But, the planting the vine after the flood was a meaningful act, prefiguring the role of wine in salvation. 10. Karo 1565, ch. 560. 11. Horowith 1989/1. 12. Horowith 1989/1, 46. 13. Burke 1978. 14. Horowitz 1989/2. 15. Horowitz 1989/2, 28. 16. Horowitz 1989/2, 42. 17. Teter 2006, esp. ch. 4; see also Dynner 2010. 18. Teter 2006, esp. 74–6. 19. Unwin 1996, 86–93. 20. For example, John 15: Unwin 1996, 140. 21. Unwin 1996, 141. 22. Rubin 1992, esp. chap. 1; Duffy 2005, 96. 23. Bossy 1983, 59; Rubin 1992, chaps. 3–4. 24. Bossy 1983; also Bossy 1985, ch. 4; Duffy 2005, ch. 3; Holt 2006, 26–30. 25. Bossy 1983, 53–4. 26. Bossy 1983, 54. See also: Hutton 1994. 27. Scribner 1987. 28. Burke 1978. 29. Nicholls 2009, 8–9, quote on 8. 30. Nicholls 2009, 9. 31. Burke 1978, 188. 32. Burke 1978, chap. 7. 33. Thomas 1971, 161. 34. Forster 1989, 115.

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Religion and Ideology 35. Kümin 2007, 173. 36. See also McMichael, Chapter 4 in this volume. 37. Strauss 1971, esp. ch. 10. 38. A good example of this tradition is Sebastian Brant’s Ship of Fools, first published in 1497. 39. Luther 1908, 47:757–1. 40. Calvin 1541; Holt 2006, 34. 41. On Bucer, see Burnett 1994. 42. Goeters 1956. 43. Holt 2006, 31–2. 44. Hayden-Roy 1994, 19–24; Neff et​.a​l. 1956. 45. Kobelt-Groch 1997; Clasen 1972, 142–3, 148. 46. Holt 2006, 36–7; Burke 1978, 220. 47. Holt 2006. 48. Weinstein 2011, 156. 49. Erasmus 1511. 50. Burke 1978, 289–334. 51. Burke 1978, 208. 52. Burke 1978, 209. 53. Thomas 1971, 65. 54. Tlusty 2001, 80–102. 55. Burke 1978, 212. 56. Thomas 1971, 162. 57. Martin 2001, 63–6; Martin 2009, ch. 5. 58. Nicholls 2009, 14. 59. Nicholls 2009, 13–16; Clark 1983, esp. ch. 8. 60. Martin 2009, 112, 118; Martin 2001, 63–4. 61. Clark 1983, esp. ch. 7. 62. Clark 1983, 157. 63. Clark 1983, 158. 64. Holt 2006, 35–6, quote 35. 65. Clark 1983, 177; Nicholls 2009, 16–17; Capp 2012, ch. 8. 66. Clark 1983, ch. 7. 67. Clark 1983, ch. 8. 68. Tlusty 2001, 73–4. 69. Tlusty 2001, 75–6. See also ch. 5. 70. Tlusty 2001, 69–70, 84–7. 71. Kümin 2007, 173. 72. Kümin 2007, 173–4. 73. Kümin 2007, 174–5. Hersche 2006. 74. Kümin 2007, 175–6. For a brawl resulting from the singing of religious songs: Generallandesarchiv Karlsruhe 61/13334 (Salem Oberamts Protokolle), 8b.

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Alcohol in the Early Modern World 75. Holt 2006, esp. p. 25. 76. Holt 2006, 25. Note that there are clearly exceptions, such as in the southern Netherlands, which was beer-drinking but Catholic. But the divide generally holds true in religiously divided countries such as Germany and France, where wine regions stayed Catholic. 77. Holt 1993, 60. 78. Holt 1993, 65. 79. Holt 1993, 69. 80. Holt 1993, 82–5. 81. Holt 1993, 86–8. 82. Forster 2007. 83. Schreiber 1980, ch. 24. 84. Schreiber 1980, 389 (“Dort klingen die Frömmigkeit und Stimmung der Landschaft ineinander”). 85. Schreiber 1980, 392–412. 86. I want to thank my Connecticut College colleague, Leo Garofalo, for his invaluable assistance with this section. 87. Schama 1987, 188–220. Tabak trinken, the “drinking of tobacco,” was outlawed in many places in Germany too. 88. Taylor 1979, esp. Introduction and Ch. 2. 89. Taylor 1979, 34; see also Chapters 4 and 5 in this volume. 90. Colonial sources typically subsumed a diversity of indigenous groups populating the Americas under the term Indian. This term is used here where specific identification of indigenous communities is not possible. 91. Earle 2014. 92. Taylor 1979, 38. 93. Taylor 1979, 41. 94. Taylor 1979. 95. Taylor 1979, 43–5, 58. 96. Taylor 1979, 59. 97. Taylor 1979, 59–62, 68–72. 98. Scardaville 1980. 99. Mangan 2005, 82–3. 100. MacCormack 1993, 66–76, quote 72. 101. MacCormack 1993, 151. 102. MacCormack 1993, 73. 103. Griffiths 1996, 88. 104. MacCormack 1993; Griffiths 1996. 105. Griffiths 1996, 205–6. 106. MacCormack 1993, 180. 107. Griffiths 1996, 83. 108. Mangan 2005, 91. 109. Garofalo 2006, 65. 110. Garofalo 2006, 77.

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Religion and Ideology 111. Nicholls 2009, ch. 3. 112. For Germany, where gin was popular beginning in the sixteenth century, Tlusty 1998c. 113. Nicholls 2009, 40–3 (quote on p. 43). 114. Nicholls 2009, 39–40. 115. Nicholls 2009, 43–45. 116. Nicholls 2009, ch. 4, esp. 52; Schivelbusch 1993, ch. 2. 117. Medick 1982; For France, Brennan 1988. 118. Brennan 1988, 196–7. 119. Brennan 1988, 195. 120. Brennan 1988, 197. 121. Brennan 1988, 203–4. 122. Porter 1985.

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CHAPTER 8 CULTURAL REPRESENTATIONS

Beat Kümin

Just as early modern Europe was awash with drink and taverns, alcohol consumption pervaded the discourses and imaginations of its people. In many ways, “expansion” was the catchword of the age1: rising population figures (especially in the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries); technological advances (with print and distilling as prominent examples); globalization of trade in many commodities (including wine and spirits); an increasing number and spectrum of drinking houses (mirroring the formation of a consumer society from the 1600s); and a concurrent amplification in the range and intensity of drinks-related debates. Understanding drinking “culture”—with Peter Burke—as encompassing all related norms, values, and representations,2 we are opening a broad field of investigation. Whether we think of families, neighbors, contract partners, lovers or complete strangers, sharing a measure of beer, wine or spirits underpinned social exchange, forged bonds, and allowed participants to send out important signals. The latter have reached us in records of different media: oral, written, visual, musical, and material communication. Each of these, in turn, encompasses countless varieties: “texts,” for example, consist not only of deliberate “tradition” (in the form of chronicles, diaries or literary reflection) but also of incidental “survival” (through ephemeral records such as fines or receipts). Aspiring to an even remotely inclusive survey of our topic would be futile: Dutch still lives of richly-laid tables, French treatises on viticulture, Puritan rants against alehouses, fragments of Russian excise accounts, sketches of Jewish taverns in Poland, imports of colonial beverages, Bacchanalian motives in Italian art, collections of aquavit spoons from Scandinavia, German sermons against gluttony, the prohibition of alcohol in the Ottoman Empire—an infinite wealth of aspects would merit discussion here, each worthy of an essay in its own right. Furthermore, as even such a random sample underlines, no one message or meaning can be identified; rather we get a cacophony of eulogies, warnings, incidental references, and outright condemnations. Mindful of these parameters, the main aim in this essay is to offer an overview of the diversity of cultural “representations,” understood both as portrayals of drink(ing) for the communication of specific or symbolic messages and as ways in which consumption practice reflected the society in which it occurred. Its argument is structured in four parts: first, a sketch of the kind of signals contemporaries might have encountered in the period itself (for representations resonated with contemporary as well as later audiences); second, samples drawn from different media; third, a closer look at some principal themes for cultural historians; and finally, preliminary conclusions on what, if anything, we might consider particularly “early modern” about the evidence reviewed here. The geographical focus lies on Central Europe, with spotlights onto other regions of the globe.

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The Early Modern Experience At the mention of “cultural representations,” thoughts naturally turn to the celebrated plays, paintings and compositions associated with artists like Shakespeare, Rembrandt or Vivaldi, i.e. protagonists of dynamic movements like the Renaissance and Baroque. With equal regularity, scholars zoom in on the most dramatic manifestations, relating to “altered states,” loss of bodily control, sexual transgression, physical/verbal violence, and moral panics.3 For present purposes, however, let us start with more ordinary examples. At the most basic level, thirst is a recurrent physiological phenomenon, which can be quenched with water, milk or juices— unspectacular, “natural” options unlikely to generate profound reflection in premodern times. Alongside, however, Europeans had developed a liking for fermented beverages, including regionally diverging preferences for ale, beer, wine, mead, or cider. Since these involved specific production techniques, commercial transactions, and intoxicating effects, we are entering the realm of “culture” and its manifold “representations.” Much alcohol consumption occurred purely for sustenance, be it in domestic settings (especially wealthier households having the resources to generate or purchase their own supplies), workplaces (with many laborers receiving part of their payment in kind), and in institutions such as monasteries or hospitals. Sometimes the choice of drinks also reflected health concerns (where, for example, due to pollution caused by certain trades, the quality of the local water supply appeared unsafe). But the lion’s share of our evidence derives from “public” drinking on convivial occasions, a universal practice involving the lower orders, middling groups, and elites alike. Even here, although such matters are notoriously difficult to quantify, there is good reason to believe that most people did not imbibe to get drunk, failed to engage in any kind of antisocial behavior and simply appreciated drink as a key “social lubricant” and sign of “good fellowship.”4 As always, therefore, empirical biases have to be borne in mind: the apparent deluge of pictures, tracts, and court records on “noteworthy” aspects is probably just the colorful tip of a rather more ordinary iceberg. For some glimpses under the surface, let us pretend to be visitors to an early modern town. Drinking representations would have been ubiquitous. For a start, they helped travelers to move from one place to another, for both road maps and early guidebooks highlighted roadside taverns as staging posts and landscape markers, also recommending inns for meals, stables, and accommodation.5 Having reached an intermediary or final destination, new arrivals would look out for hostelries not just as providers of sustenance and services, but also as components of “mental maps” helping them “to understand and describe their physical environment. In places without street names and house numbers, signboards were crucial landmarks by which the early modern town or city could be navigated”6 (Figures 8.1 and 8.2). Being in need of refreshment and company, we could have chosen from a wide range of beverage providers, many vying for custom through early forms of advertising on doors, windows and walls as well as in newspapers and their own trade cards (Figure 8.3). Crossing any threshold, we would have had a sense of anticipation or apprehension about the clientele, services, and peculiarities waiting inside (although certain basics, like restricted opening times and regulations of prices were nearly universal). Indicators such as location and size, furnishings and lights, the publican’s welcome, male or female waiting staff, dress codes, table arrangements, glasses and crockery, cleanliness, and the available infrastructure would have sent signals about whether/where to sit down, what to order, how to behave and the chances of 160

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Figures 8.1 and 8.2  The board advertising the inn at Kandersteg in the Bernese Alps, dated 1789 (on the left), features an officer on horseback, suggesting superior quality and elite patronage, and the caption “One stops at the rider” (the name Rÿtter, probably deriving from an eponymous seventeenth-century publican, also translating as “knight”); while the inscription on the slightly earlier sign of the Red Bear at Freiburg im Breisgau (Baden-Württemberg/Southern Germany, documented since 1311) stakes one of the better claims among the countless establishments purporting to be “Germany’s oldest inn.” Pictures: BK.

an enjoyable experience—not really that different from an equivalent situation today. Looking around, we might have seen a copy of the latest government mandate pinned to the door (addressing issues like beverage quality), a series of woodcuts on the walls (perhaps with drinks-related themes), possibly even a religious picture or crucifix, and maybe glass panels with the crests of princes or cities in some of the windows.7 Each table/partition/lounge would have had a distinct social profile, with married couples, groups of artisans, apprentices, and strangers tending to sit among their peers, sharing a particular type of drink in line with their resources, traditions, and—increasingly—also fashions or desire for conspicuous consumption. The latter could be satisfied by ordering, say, a sweet liqueur (alluringly advertised on a fancy label) or a bottled Champagne (picked from the wine menu of a premium hostelry, where wellstocked cellars allowed ever-expanding choice)8 (Figures 8.3 and 8.4). Reemerging from the premises in due course, with a much clearer impression of the participants, materialities, and customs of local imbibing, we would be better equipped to find our way around and access essential resources. The scenario just sketched may be fictitious, but we know from many written representations how important it was to comport oneself appropriately in an unknown public house: [In 1788 at Thun in the Bernese Oberland, the party of German traveler von Reinach decided] to lodge at the so-called Freienhof, reputedly the best inn in town . . . [They conversed with each other] before dinner in the large guest lounge, which (since it happened to be the time of the fair) was filled with a large number of country people 161

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Figures 8.3 and 8.4  Left, the label for Barbados Cream Liqueur, made by Robin, Distiller, Au Caffé Militaire de La Tour du Pin, c. 1780. Etching and engraving on paper; 80 x 70mm; courtesy of Waddesdon, The Rothschild Collection (The National Trust) Bequest of James de Rothschild, 1957; acc. no. 3686.3.19.50. Photo: University of Central England Digital Services; right, this elaborately carved wooden wine menu of an upmarket German inn from the early seventeenth century features regional choices (e.g., from the Rhine/Mosel valleys) and foreign denominations (Champagne, Malaga, etc.) as well as dry and sweet varieties. Weintafel HG 10565, reproduced with permission from Mitteilungen aus dem germanischen Nationalmuseum, Nuremberg (1894), p. 58. Discussed in Bösch 1894, 57–60 (online at: http:​/​/www​​.lexi​​kus​.d​​e​/bib​​lioth​​ek​/Zw​​ei​-We​​intaf​​eln​-d​​es​-17​​-Jahr​​hunde​​rts​-i​​m​-ger​​manis​​c​hen-​​Museu​​m​ -Nue​​rnber​​g; accessed 2/6/2020).

and some rather ridiculous fellows. [Among them,] the most beautiful girls, blossoming like roses, sat beside their companions at various tables and embellished the meals with songs of love. [When some of the strangers tried to make passes at these ladies,] the local men frowned and made it very clear that their sweethearts were not for sharing. In order to avoid unpleasant complications, we thus admonished the gentlemen to behave with more modesty, a counsel they readily accepted. As a result, the peasant company calmed down again.9 Walking the streets on a Sunday or religious feast, be it in a Catholic or Protestant area, travelers would have passed churches and chapels reverberating with appeals for moderation in sermons warning of alcohol’s propensity to turn humans into “pigs” (as Luther had done in 1539) or denouncing the “rapturous” feeling after a few glasses as a most “deficient kind of well-being” (according to the Bavarian Jesuit Jordan of Wasserburg in the early eighteenth century).10 Sooner or later, any visitor made contact with the authorities’ growing endeavors to promote the “common weal.” Thun’s Bernese overlords, for example, supervised drinking through the so-called Vennerkammer (an executive and judicial body of the treasury) which generated no fewer than 228 volumes (roughly 75,000 pages) of business minutes between 1530 and 1798. These archival records, still awaiting systematic scrutiny, contain painstakingly 162

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detailed reports on anything to do with wine sales, taxes, imports, and regulations, from the granting of licenses via the issuing of orders to the punishment of offenders.11 Here, as in any other source documenting the relationship between rulers and subjects, both parties attempted to “represent” their cases and interests as effectively as possible. On March 31, 1650, at the bottom of the government hierarchy, villager Hans Flühmann was hauled before his parish consistory for drinking wine at the inn[,] staying well beyond closing time; and . . . in particular, for abusing wine as a divine gift by spilling a whole glass and offending the name of Hl. God by coarse swearing . . . . However, since he was able to defend himself to a degree by claiming that he did not spill the wine deliberately, but only negligently in the course of an argument, he has on this occasion been punished only with a [small] fine. Regardless of what had “actually” happened, Flühmann successfully minimized the consequences of his behavior by pleading carelessness mitigated by the context of a heated dispute.12 Representation Media Which kinds of communications are still accessible to modern observers? Starting with the medium of music, the relationship between drinking and song has always been close. Building on classical precedents, premodern writers, composers, and imbibers perceived drinking songs as a congenial genre for convivial occasions where there was a “natural” demand for musical embellishment, be it simple tunes for the revelers themselves or more demanding fare for skilled professionals performing in front of an audience. From the twelfth century, for example, the “Goliard Poets”—a name alluding to gula (gluttony)—mounted a concerted campaign against the distrust of the body in contemporary theology. The collective oeuvre of Latin works, disseminated by itinerant scholars, featured titles like “Belly-worship,” “Small Beer,” “The Debate of Wine and Water,” and “Homage to Bacchus,” some of which were thinly veiled satires of religious hymns. In taberna quando sumus [“When we are at the tavern”] illustrates stock themes such as pleasurable company, mixed social/gender interaction, and the combination of drinking and games: When we’re at the tavern, we care not what this world may be, But we set ourselves to dicing – Sport of all sports most enticing. . . . First we throw a round to settle Who shall pay, like men of mettle; . . . Host and hostess, he drinks, she drinks, Even the parson on a spree drinks, The captain drinks, nor drinks alone, The tapster drinks with greasy Joan . . . To quench their thirst what would avail 163

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A hundred mugs of penny-ale, When all are drinking without measure And all in drinking find their pleasure?13 The Renaissance reinvigorated and expanded this tradition, both in terms of languages and regional spread to Burgundy, France, England, Spain, the Holy Roman Empire, and beyond. Thanks to growing literacy levels and the advent of print, source survival improves not just for lyrics but also for musical annotations, allowing a more immediate impression of the aesthetic experience. A recent interpretation of the anonymous Trinkt und Springt (Drink and Leap About), a song from a collection made by Johann Pühler at Munich in 1585, conveys the sense of a joyful celebration of imbibing. The lyrics reassure the audience that “a small drink now and again will do you the world of good and the landlord is such an obliging fellow that he is bound to extend credit until tomorrow!” Far from being an easy sing-along, however, the sophisticated composition for several voices would have been aimed at connoisseurs, perhaps assembled in an urban guild hall or a princely court.14 Further down the social scale, printers and minstrels entertained alehouse companies with the production and performance of countless ballads, featuring sensational events, moral tales, and patriotic appeals set to popular tunes. Many explicitly refer to the joys (and dangers) of convivial drinking and we know that literally millions of copies were snapped up by patrons for little more than the price of a pot of ale. Led by a literate companion, the singers would have struggled to drown out the background noise of clanging tankards and boisterous jokes, but no doubt the tavern company appreciated the chance to hear the latest news stories packaged in an accessible style with plenty of double-entendres. Many reflect gender stereotypes of dominant and predatory men, but some—like the late medieval “Wives at the Tavern,” featuring a single-sex group of women cherishing good wine and the chance to complain about their husbands—suggest a potential for subversion.15 Early modern visual heritage is equally rich in tavern connections, albeit with certain chronological and regional biases. Early examples include the Kermis prints of woodcut artists active during the German Reformation. Capturing rural sociability through the lens of religious festivals at a time of spiritual fervor, the messages are equivocal. Yes, the contrasting physical states of (sturdy) churches and (run-down) drinking houses or the inclusion of carousing and vomiting peasants invite moral censure, but the intermingling of different social groups over a drink simultaneously evokes nostalgia for an inclusive world threatened by confessional strife and economic polarization (Figure 8.5). More general analysis of the depictions of imbibing in cheap print underlines the ambivalence of messages conveyed, ranging from simple denouncements of gluttony via echoes of carnivalesque inversion to unambiguously positive associations of wine with the blood of Christ.16 The Dutch Golden Age in the seventeenth century brought an unprecedented expansion in “secular” and nonaristocratic art, reflecting the need to find representations congenial for a mercantile, multi-confessional, and republican environment. Alongside landscapes, street scenes, still lives, and domestic interiors showcasing the natural and human resources of a prosperous and industrious society, rural feasts and urban tavern scenes constituted two distinctive genres. Works by painters like Adriaen Brouwer; Frans Hals (or his brother Dirck: see Figure 0.4 in this volume); Jan Steen; Adriaen van Ostade (see the cover image on this volume); and others supply a wealth of “incidental” information on settings and furnishings 164

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Figure 8.5  A socially mixed group of male revelers—peasant, clerical, and seigniorial—drinking alongside a number of women outside a rural tavern in southern Germany. Extract from one of the Kermis woodcuts carved by the Beham brothers in Reformation Nuremberg (c. 1534–5): Geisberg ed. 1924–30, plates 150–3. Dates, attributions and variants of Barthel and (Hans) Sebald Beham’s Kermis woodcuts are discussed in Stewart 2002, 95–115; cf. for example, the reproductions of “Large Kermis” by Sebald Beham c. 1530 (Figures 3–4; pp. 100–1). For general methodological guidance see Burke 2001.

in drinking houses,17 displaying such technical mastery and powers of perception that they have been conceptualized as an “art of describing” fundamentally different from the classically inspired canon conveying deeper meanings and morals.18 Yet, at the same time, everyday scenes populated by country folk and the lower orders were targeted at patrons from the urban elites, often treating stock characters with condescension if not outright ridicule. Peasants appear with coarse features, in awkward poses, and unable to control their tempers and bodily fluids, although this might have simply served to amuse viewers or—more subtly—feed a lingering nostalgia for the “bucolic freedom” of country life.19 Within drinking houses, the postures, clothes, and surroundings of keepers and guests carry equally rich symbolism, with 165

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Figure 8.6  “Mr Peeckelhaering,” a print of Jonas Suyderhoef (d. 1686) after a painting by Frans Hals (c. 1628–30). The “pickled herring” character, who—according to the caption—always enjoys a fresh mug of beer because of his permanently dry throat, represented intemperance and self-indulgence in Renaissance comedy and art. Intriguingly, Jan Steen—a prolific tavern artist and indeed publican himself—bought the Hals painting and included it in the background of some works of his own, for example, Doctor’s Visit of 1662. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum: http:​/​/hdl​​.hand​​le​.ne​​t​/109​​34​/RM​​0001.​​COLLE​​​CT​.18​​ 1410 (accessed 2/6/2020).

broken eggshells, disheveled dress, phallic symbols, and so on suggesting a pervasive concern about the consequences of loose sexual manners and excessive consumption, some even illustrating Dutch proverbs or sayings. The traditional dichotomy between a more “realist” and morally censorious tendency in northern European paintings versus a more “symbolic” and sympathetic southern tradition thus deserves to be questioned. Although Bacchanalianism could be idealized in Italian art, the god’s more sinister aspects were never far away, while works from the Dutch Golden Age struck a careful balance between the benefits of sociability and the praise of temperance as a “prerequisite of civic harmony.” In fact, given the complex combination of “positive” and “negative” signals in the oeuvres of southerners like Caravaggio as well as northerners like Hals (even within the same individual work, as Pieter Bruegel the

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Elder’s “Peasant Dance”), “early modern visual art must be seen as particularly well-suited to register cultural ambiguities on its delusional surfaces”20 (Figure 8.6). Apart from its appearance in art history, much information on material culture can be gained from early modern inventories drawn up for auctions, property sales, and testamentary provision. Glasses, cups, and jugs were needed in every household, with the biggest and— again—ever-expanding ranges naturally found among publicans’ possessions.21 Entire drinking lounges from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries survive at the Tiroler Volkskunstmuseum in Innsbruck, where visitors can step into rural taverns complete with wooden benches and tables, wall decorations, and tiled stoves: a tantalizing prospect for historians of drink, but now—without their erstwhile patrons—also a frustratingly stale experience.22 Searching the holdings of other specialized institutions like London’s Victoria & Albert Museum, meanwhile, produces dozens of hits, ranging from simple wooden earthenware and pewter cups for everyday consumption via delicate Venetian glasses for higher social groups to largescale decorative vessels used on ceremonial occasions (Figure 8.7).23 Similarly, many colleges, guilds, and cities preserve extensive treasuries of plate, including “loving cups” that were filled to the brim with wine or beer and passed from member to member during feasts and on commemorative occasions. This was done according to prescribed rituals of friendship and bonding, in essence analogous to the “healths” (toasting routines) practiced by drinkers all across the social hierarchy, which in turn had intriguing similarities to religious rites. For post-Reformation England, in fact, attention has been drawn to striking overlaps between the Protestant Holy Communion and the classically inspired “loyal-healths,” “creating a new kind of ‘prophane sacrament’ (as it was dubbed), with which any and all who professed loyalty to the monarchical state and Protestant religion were expected to comply.”24 While most beer and wine continued to be stored in wooden barrels of up to several hundred liters capacity each, glass bottles also appeared surprisingly early and seem to have become widespread in more elite environments by the seventeenth century. At Oxford, keepers of taverns such as the Crown or Three Tuns used them for consumption on and off the premises, marking each with a personalized seal to distinguish them from those of other suppliers.25 Upmarket vintners did the same. We know from Thomas Jefferson’s accounts and correspondence that his stint as US minister to France in the late 1780s kindled a life-long passion for sophisticated French wines. In a notorious auction some 200 years later, Christie’s sold a bottle etched with the word “Lafitte” and the initials “Th.J.,” allegedly retrieved from a wall in an old Parisian house, for no less than £105,000, although subsequent scientific tests and legal proceedings have cast doubts on its credentials.26 Moving to written sources, drinking scenes offer authors (of all periods) opportunities to engage audiences through a universally familiar experience and to reveal the virtues or weaknesses, emotional states or innermost thoughts of their characters. The settings of public houses, furthermore, afford prime stages to bring protagonists (whether friends or complete strangers) together, to get them interacting with each other (be it in a friendly and cohesive or acrimonious and subversive manner); and—through techniques such as allegory and symbolism—mold taverns into microcosms of the world around them.27 Dramatists, in particular, appreciate them as “natural” venues for chance encounters and the advancement of plots. From the late fifteenth century, German (and especially Nuremberg) carnival plays— often actually performed on drinking premises by groups of players moving from one convivial

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Figure 8.7  According to its inscription, this Bohemian Reichsadlerhumpen (imperial eagle tankard), a gilded and enameled drinking vessel of 27 cm height, dates from 1571. It features the so-called Reichsquaternionen, a symbolic representation of the Holy Roman Empire which became widespread from the fifteenth century. Below the double crown and flanking the crucified Christ, the affiliated estates of electorates, secular/ecclesiastical principalities, cities, and even villages appear with four members each, a number and selection which owed more to the desire of symmetry and harmony than the infinitely more complex political reality. British Museum, Online Collection, no. S.836.

gathering to another—were full of stock characters like naïve or manipulative keepers/ landladies and attractive maidservants alongside a coterie of patrons including cuckolds, impostors, and drunken peasants.28 Throughout Europe, the rapid expansion of print allowed for the emergence of a publishing industry and unprecedented dissemination of an everwidening range of works.29 In England, this included Renaissance plays such as Shakespeare’s Henry IV (Part I, Act 2 has the young prince and his irreverent companion Sir John Falstaff drinking in Eastcheap’s Boar’s Head tavern) and Ben Jonson’s New Inn (set at the Light Heart in Barnett), alongside a wide spectrum of cheap literature which included not only ballads, but also chapbooks and tracts like Ned Ward’s London Spy (1700), an account of metropolitan low 168

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life offering some of the “best tavern scenes in literary history.”30 Arguably the early modern “poet laureate” of public houses was the English waterman John Taylor (1580–1653). His prolific oeuvre examined the trade from all imaginable angles, encompassing odes to drinking, accounts of personal experiences, and drinking trade directories.31 Many literary genres thus provide valuable perspectives on our themes. Among the most relevant are conduct books (sketching out acceptable social behavior for both men and women32), picaresque romances/novels (like Cervantes’s Don Quixote from the Spanish Golden Age, Grimmelshausen’s Simplicissimus of 1668, and Fielding’s Tom Jones of 1749, whose narrative structures depend on a network of inns for their protagonists’ progress), and moral literature (as in the Teufelsbücher series flourishing in the Reformation era, in which the devil of drink is held responsible for the decline in personal manners, popular piety, and sexual propriety33). Qualitatively and quantitatively, however, the most detailed written insights into early modern drinking culture derive from diaries and travel reports. There can be few individual works with more captivating information than the copious shorthand notes taken by Samuel Pepys during the 1660s. As an upwardly mobile navy official with a fondness for public house conviviality (variously involving family, friends, workmates, and strangers for both business and pleasure), he recorded what he drank where and with whom practically every single day. No less than four index pages of the modern edition are taken up with entries for London taverns alone, ranging from the Anchor by Doctors’ Commons to the World’s End at Knightsbridge. Readers thus gain an unrivalled picture of metropolitan drinking culture in the Restoration period: on November 25, 1661, for example, Pepys met with Captain Lambert at the Dog in Westminster’s Palace Yard (“where we had oysters and good wine”) in the morning, with two knights and a major general at the nearby Swan inn for lunch at noon, and—following visits to a play and opera in the afternoon—with a friend at the Mitre tavern in Cheapside for evening entertainment (well “past 12 at night, till I had drank something too much”).34 Three years later, we catch him in a somewhat less respectable establishment after office done . . . I to the [Royal Ex]Change: and thence [William] Bagwell’s [a ship carpenter’s] wife with much ado followed me through Moor-fields to a blind alehouse, and there I did caress her and eat and drank, and many hard looks and sithes the poor wretch did give me, and I think verily was troubled at what I did; but at last, after many protestings, by degrees I did arrive at what I would, with great pleasure . . . and so home to bed—weary and full of thoughts.35 Alongside, travel writings feature among our most informative sources. Surviving from the late Middle Ages and reaching a peak in the age of the coaching inn and aristocratic Grand Tour during the eighteenth century, thousands of texts await systematic perusal. Admittedly, the methodological hurdles are legion: all straddle the boundary between factual report and artistic imagination; many tell us more about the authors’ cultural prejudices than the customs of the time; most come from the pens of social elites; and some simply copy from others. But there is surely nothing more tantalizing than to play “fly-on-the-wall” when early modern people raised their glasses in different companies and locations.36 Another bonus is the genre’s propensity toward comparison: many travelers note similarities and differences between the various destinations they visited or indeed between conditions at home and abroad. During 169

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the 1590s, the Cambridge-educated scholar Fynes Moryson embarked on a tour of Continental countries with the explicit intention to study their various customs and cultures. Commenting on regional and social peculiarities of the Swiss, he observed that they showed: for drinking . . . farre lesse excesse then the Saxons, somewhat lesse then they of vpper Germany. They haue strict lawes to imprison Drunkards for a yeere, and at solemne feasts, the vulgar sort are admonished to behaue themselues modestly, yet drunkennesse hath such patronage among the best sort, as it cannot be banished. They bragge of their ancient temperance, and say, that excesse came into the Commonwealth, together with the accepting of military stipends from forraigne Princes.37

Drink, Identity, and Early Modern Society Two important themes keep reappearing in recent scholarship on cultural representations: the role of drink in identity-formation and the complex negotiation of social benefits and costs.38 Starting with the former, alcohol consumption reflected/affected virtually all components influencing how individuals or collectives were perceived by themselves and observers. Like other markers, such as confession or political orientation, beverages interacted with emerging national identities. Written on the back of England’s strong brewing tradition, notably smallscale domestic production by alewives, John Taylor’s Drinke and welcome: or the Famous Historie of the most part of Drinks (1637), disapproved of corroding foreign influences: For now our Land is overflowne with wine: With such a Deluge, or an Inundation As hath besotted and halfe drown’d our Nation. Some that are scarce worth 40 pence a yeere Will hardly make a meale with Ale or Beere: And will discourse, that wine doth make good blood . . . Thus Bacchus is ador’d and deifide, And We Hispanializ’d and Frenchifide: Whilst Noble Native Ale, and Beeres hard fate Are like old Almanacks, Quite out of Date.39 Depending on the political climate, consuming imported Claret, Malaga, or Port could become decidedly “unpatriotic,” especially at times of war with the respective countries of origin.40 Regional differences provided further variables, for among the most important features of the European drinking topography were the boundaries separating areas dominated by wine (in the south and west), beer or ale (in the center and northwest), and spirits (in the northeast of the Continent). Pear- and apple-based perry and cider, meanwhile, were associated with much smaller units like northeastern Switzerland, Normandy, and the English southwest. Religion mattered too: guided by Tridentine standards of restrained consumption and the Catholic association of sacramental wine with the blood of Christ, Spanish travel writers recorded their abhorrence at how inebriation seemed to be tolerated by the Germans and the Dutch.41 170

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Figure 8.8  Inca drinking cup (qero) from the colonial period (wood and lacquer, 20.3 × 17.5 cm, eighteenth century). Sean Pathasema/Birmingham Museum of Art, Wikimedia Commons: http://commons​ .wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Cup_(Qero).jpg (accessed 2/6/2020).

Drinking also shaped people’s view of spatial dimensions further afield. Overseas expansion brought explorers and settlers into contact with entirely unknown and mysterious cultures. Some, like the Ottomans, advocated abstention; others challenged post-Reformation ideals of moderation by—what appeared to outsiders—extreme overindulgence. A prime example is the highly developed civilization of the Incas in America, whose pre-Columbian customs included long periods of sobriety punctuated by moments of socially acceptable excess during religious rituals. The customary choice for both regular and celebratory occasions was chicha, a fermented drink made from maize by women, heavily regulated and served in lavishly decorated vessels (Figure 8.8).42 Once the colonial masters had established themselves, New World observers presented contrasting assessments of indigenous and European drinking habits. Many interpreted the former’s apparent dedication to drink as a sign of despair (at the traumatic loss of self-determination); clerical missionaries saw it as a symptom of inherent “paganism” and “barbarism” (legitimizing Christianization and civilization campaigns); while a rare native voice—the Peruvian Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala in the early seventeenth century—actually blamed the corrupting influence of his Spanish overlords (and the import of strong wine and spirits). Similar debates reverberate in modern scholarship, with the addition of new—and equally controversial—explanations like genetics. Firm conclusions remain elusive, apart from the recognition that we should be less concerned with retrieving “facts” and more with what period discourses reveal about prevailing aspirations and fears.43 But globalization did not just bring clashes and “negative” demarcations between different cultures. 171

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In more favorable circumstances, the cultivation, trade and marketing of new beverage brands like “Madeira” could forge lasting transnational bonds, even helping to shape a supra-regional construct like the “Atlantic World.”44 Sharing drinks also transmitted messages about gender relations (Figure 8.9). There has been much historiographical discussion of the respective norms, especially the double standard of male bravado/female restraint (justified not least with reference to sex-specific humoral constitutions), and whether “boisterous” adolescents and established patriarchs subscribed to diverging ideals of masculinity.45 The same can now be said for social identities, as the conventional post-Reformation polarization between an increasingly “sober” elite culture (flourishing in the new coffee houses) and a resiliently “bibulous” popular world (left behind in alehouses and taverns) comes under growing critique.46 Studies on the Holy Roman Empire, Swiss Confederation, and England have all emphasized the continued presence of the middling and upper sorts in public houses and the importance of (at times copious) alcohol

Figure 8.9  By offering her husband H[e]inrich a drink, Mrs Johansen symbolizes marital bonds of love and friendship. Sharing a measure of beer or wine at a public house was in fact a very common “leisure” activity for early modern couples, both before and after their wedding. Glass panel of 1635 reproduced with permission. © St. Annen-Museum—Fotoarchiv der Hansestadt Lübeck, Germany. 172

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consumption for early modern civic culture, including that of merchants and magistrates.47 This did not equate to a blurring of status distinctions; drinking groups were acutely aware of the existence of hierarchies, but also the possibility of transgression and inversion. In the humorous dialogue Wine, beere, ale, and tobacco. Contending for superiority (London: John Grove, 1630), “Wine, A Gentleman,” “Beer, A Citizen,” “Ale, A Country-man,” “Water, A Parson,” and other personified Intoxicants “move in and out of each other’s ‘society’ and ‘company’ . . . discussing their relative social standing and superiority over each other.”48 In everyday sociability, such roles and positions were constantly renegotiated through rituals of inclusion/exclusion, as described by Barnabe Rich in 1617: The institution of drinking an Health, is full of ceremony, and observed by Tradition, as the Papists doe their praying to Saints. He that begins the health . . . first uncovering his head, he takes a full cup in his hand, and settling his countenance with a grave aspect, he craves for audience . . . [he names] some Honourable personage . . . worthy of a better regard than to have his name polluted . . . among a company of drunkards . . . [and] turnes the bottome of the cup upward. The cup being newly replenished to the breadth of an haire . . . thus it goes round through the whole company.49 Moving to the second theme, early modern representations explored a wide spectrum of benefits and dangers. At one end, there were unambiguous celebrations of the joys of drinking. We have come across ballads extolling good fellowship and merry-making at the level of the alehouse, but leading Renaissance writers—building on classical precedents like the Greek Symposium and the medieval Goliard poets—showed equal appreciation of liquid inspiration. In early seventeenth-century London, literary societies like the “Sons of Ben [Jonson]” met in fashionable taverns such as the Mitre, where they discussed aesthetic theories, their latest works, and perhaps also the current affairs of the day.50 A couple of generations later, when the interlude of Puritan austerity had given way to the more permissive environment of the Restoration, convivial imbibing lubricated much of courtly society and libertarian circles such as that around John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. His “Nestor” (c. 1673), “a delightful drinking song with a problematic last stanza,” opens a window to a world of copious consumption and sensual pleasure: Vulcan, contrive me such a cup As Nestor used of old; ... Make it so large that, fill’d with sack Up to the swelling brim, Vast toasts on the delicious lake Like ships at sea may swim. Engrave no battle on its cheek: With war I’ve nought to do; ... But carve thereon a spreading vine, Then add two lovely boys; 173

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Their limbs in amorous folds entwine, The type of future joys. Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, May Drink and Love still reign! With wine I wash away my cares, And then to love again.51 At the other extreme, as we have also seen, numerous voices joined in resounding denouncements of drinking excess. Government mandates, Church ordinances, and moral literature unanimously warned against its financial, physical, and spiritual dangers. “Do you want to see the house of sins and actions against God?,” asked a Tyrolean medic in a diatribe against all devastators of the human race; “Well look no further than the tavern!.”52 Yet hardly anyone called for total abstinence (except in some Anabaptist circles53), since wine possessed impeccable scriptural credentials. Even the most austere Calvinist preachers could not deny that it was a gift from God,54 and the rather less radical Luther—himself not averse to the odd glass or two—happily conceded the psychological benefits of “a little elation” in his 1539 “Sermon on Soberness and Moderation.”55 What mattered in most representations was not to cross the line. Since the ability to hold one’s drink formed an important part of male honor, contemporaries abhorred the loss of bodily control. In a pioneering study for France, Matthieu Lecoutre found a wealth of normative, moral, medical, economic, and judicial sources directed against overindulgence, but at the same time plentiful—written, visual, and musical—evidence for the tenaciousness of the phenomenon. All across the social spectrum, from noble elites to humble laborers, a deeply ingrained and colorfully described “culture of inebriation” persisted throughout the Ancien Régime, leading in practice to a kind of informal toleration.56 But how homogenous was this social negotiation across time and space? As has recently been argued with respect to “intoxication [as] a universal and essential feature of the human condition,” its rituals, connotation, and sociology require careful “culturally and historically specific” analysis.57 Here, much painstaking research remains to be conducted. The great majority of period opinions, of course, were not extreme, but reflective of society’s ambivalent attitudes toward drink. Alongside restrictive policies, directed above all against unauthorized and disorderly uses, early modern authorities certainly acknowledged legitimate grounds for consumption. In seventeenth-century Bern, for example, groups as diverse as church-goers, travelers, the sick, and women in childbed received official encouragement to refresh and strengthen themselves with good wine.58 Early Modern Representations of Drink: Some Preliminary Conclusions Concerns over inebriation and its social effects are salient, but hardly unique features of this period; the same is true of links between drinks and social or gender identity. The chronologically distinctive characteristics of the discourses examined above relate to the larger developments of early modernity: state building in the political realm (manifesting itself, negatively, in “social disciplining” and indirect taxation; positively, in a more proactive promotion of the “common weal”); post-Reformation fragmentation in religion (adding 174

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confessional angles to all areas of social exchange); widening spatial horizons in both the economic and cultural spheres (prompting not just imports of tea, coffee, and chocolate, but also deeper reflection on what it meant to be “European”); the rise of middling-sort consumers (able, as in the Dutch Republic, to commission “tavern scenes” and enjoy a growing range of alcoholic as well as nonalcoholic drinks); and the first mass medium of print (allowing unprecedented circulation of ever-expanding forms of written, musical, and visual communication).59 From the sixteenth century, beverages of all kinds became important commodities boosting the globalization of trade, linking nearly all continents, but also creating new problems in the colonies, as we have found in Latin America.60 Overall, perhaps, the early modern drinking landscape appears more regimented, fragmented, and commercialized than in the late Middle Ages, but—at least in the Christian World—as yet unaffected by the pressures for prohibition that the modern period would bring. Among a cacophony of messages, the most influential was “moderation,” boosted—at various stages and in differing degrees—by neo-stoicist strands in Renaissance thinking, the fear of divine censure in the (Counter-)Reformations, and—ultimately—the pervasive emphasis on reason in the Enlightenment. Not everyone always lived up to this ideal, of course, not even the philosophers, governors, and churchmen themselves.61 In contrast to previous scholarly views, early modern social elites did not withdraw from “traditional” drinking culture; many consumed alcohol in vast quantities, but new venues like coffee houses augmented their conviviality options.62 Returning to a point made at the outset, faced with the period’s unprecedented “expansions”—of choices, horizons, rules, concerns, and genres—cultural representations strove ever harder to strike the right “balance.” Notes 1. Dürr 2005. 2. Burke 2004. 3. Martin 2009; Lecoutre 2011; Withington and McShane 2014. 4. Martin 2001, 2; Hailwood 2014. 5. Denecke 2002, 459–69. 6. Dent 2011, with reference to Gould and White 1974; cf. Kümin 2009. 7. See evidence from inventories: Pennington 2002, and research on early modern visual culture: Watt 1993; Butts et al. 2000. 8. A search of the richly stocked cellars of the Golden Falcon in Bern in the late eighteenth century resulted in the discovery of prohibited foreign brands: State Archives of Bern [hereafter: StAB], B VIII 517, p. 61. 9. Von Reinach 1790, 62–4; translated in Brennan ed. 2011, vol. 3, ch. XII. 10. Doberstein ed. 1959, 291–9; Moser-Rath 1991, 302 (Jordan). “The vices available in inns and taverns were stock targets for sermons and homilies” already in the late Middle Ages: Hanawalt 1998, 111. 11. StAB, B VII 32-255. 12. Gemeindearchiv Neuenegg, Chorgerichts-Manuale, vol. I.1, transcribed in Brennan ed. 2011, vol. 3, ch. XIV. More generally on the use of drunkenness as a legal defence see Tlusty 2001, 80–1. 13. Whicher ed. 1949, esp. 2, 221 and 227–31 (quote). 175

Alcohol in the Early Modern World 14. The Orlando Consort 2001, CD and explanatory notes by Angus Smith; for audio samples, see http://www​.harmoniamundi​.com/#!​/albums​/619 (accessed 2/6/2020). 15. Marsh 2010, esp. ch. 5 and alehouse ballad examples like ‘My Dog and I’ (1675) performed by the Dufay Collective (track downloadable from www​.cambridge​.org). The intriguing “Wives at the Tavern” appears in Kowaleski 2006, 196–9. On political aspects see McShane 2016. 16. Tlusty 1998a, 177–203. 17. For samples see the artists’ pages in the Web Gallery of Art; a specialized, if somewhat dated, study is Renger 1970. 18. Alpers 1983. 19. Tlusty 1998a, 187. 20. Nichols 2014, esp. 163, 167. 21. Pennington 2002; for the 1792 handover of the Abbey Tavern at Worb (Bern), serving guests in just two small rooms, keeper Benedicht Lenz recorded several calibrated jugs holding one-fourth, half, and full measures of wine, 68 standard-size bottles of 1.67 litres and no fewer than 242 glasses. His sales regularly exceeded 16,000 l./year (over 43 l. a day): StAB, HA Worb Bücher 9, p. 546, and associated manorial documents. For excavation evidence relating to a Southwark public house see Pearce 2016. 22. See its online Stuben collection at http://www​.tiroler​-landesmuseen​.at (accessed 2/6/2020). 23. Online catalogue available at http://collections​.vam​.ac​.uk/ (accessed 2/6/2020); cf. Glanville and Lee 2007. On research potential and interpretive challenges see Richardson et al. 2017. 24. McShane 2014, 248. 25. Banks 1997. 26. Radden Keefe 2007. 27. Kaemena 1999, esp. 207–13; and Earnshaw 2000, passim. Earle 1675 originally formed part of the author’s “Micro-Cosmography,” a collection of vignettes illustrating seventeenth-century society; Tschudi 1719, 118–28, similarly used public houses as windows into human nature. 28. Simon 2003. Earlier still, in Jacobus de Cessoli’s association of chess figures with late medieval estates, one of the pawns represented the publicans’ profession: Kramer 1995, e.g. 37–9. 29. For a debate on the wider sociocultural impact see Grafton, et al. “How revolutionary was the print revolution?” 2002. 30. Earnshaw 2000, 2, 111 (quote) and ch. 6. 31. Collected in Taylor 1967–; for context and interpretation see Capp 1994. 32. Sample documents and commentaries appear in the online database Defining Gender, 1450–1910. 33. The best-know example of the latter is Friderich 1552/1980, 1–114 . 34. Pepys 1970–83, vol. 2, 219–20; the 1893 edn by H. B. Wheatley is online at: http://www​.pepysdiary​ .com/ (accessed 2/6/2020); cf. Earnshaw 2000, ch. 6, and Westhauser 1994. 35. Pepys 1970–83, vol. 5, 322 (November 15, 1664). For lists of other diarists see for example Lyons, “The Diary Junction” and Jancke 2008. 36. Mączak 1995; Turner 2001. 37. Moryson 1617/1967, Part 3, Book 2, Chapter 3, p. 91. 38. See for example Tlusty 2001, chs 7–8; Martin 2009, passim; and Kümin 2020. 39. Taylor 1967, Second Collection, 8, 20. For the brewing tradition cf. Bennett 1996. 40. Ludington 2013. 41. Earle 2014, 87.

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Cultural Representations 42. Hames 2012, 35–7. 43. Earle 2014, 85, 97. 44. Hancock 2009. 45. See, for example, Tlusty 1998b; Shepard 2005; and Chapter 6 by Mark Hailwood in this volume. 46. Classic formulations in Wrightson 1981, and Muchembled 1985. 47. Tlusty 2001, esp. ch. 8: “Drinking and Social Identity”; Kümin 2002; Withington 2011a. 48. Withington 2011a, 631. 49. McShane 2014, 260. 50. O’Callaghan 2004. 51. Accessed at http:​/​/www​​.lumi​​nariu​​m​.org​​/eigh​​tlit/​​roche​​ster/​​​nesto​​r​.htm​ (accessed 2/6/2020); in some editions, an alternative last line (“And then to cunt again”) tilts the meaning toward the obscene, a not entirely implausible variant given Rochester’s general reputation: Hammond 2006, esp. 202. 52. Guarinonius 1610/1993, 828. 53. The need for separation from all abominations required bretheren to “shun and flee from . . . drinking houses”: “Schleitheim confession of 1527,” Article IV. 54. Blanke 1953. 55. Doberstein ed. 1959, Sermons vol. 1, 292–3. 56. Lecoutre 2011, which includes reproductions of paintings, illustrations of archival evidence and a frequency analysis of over 100 different terms for inebriation in different types of sources (with “être emboicté de vin,” “pris de vin,” and “dans le vin” emerging as the most common: Appendix 1). 57. Withington’s introduction to Withington and McShane 2014, esp. 10, 24–5. 58. StAB, B V 143: Register of Public Houses (1688), pp. 8 (ill and pregnant inhabitants), 19 (tavern needed at Eggiwil, “considering that peasants from distant valleys and mountains go to church there, and that old and sick people would not be able to do so without the availability of some food and drink”), 36 (travelers). 59. See for example Raeff 1983; Greengrass 2014, esp. ch. 6: “Europe in the World.” 60. Through payments to African traders and the production of Caribbean rum, drinks also played a major part in the promotion of slavery: Hames 2012, 46. 61. “It is deeply misleading to argue . . . that intoxication was and remains primarily the distraction or solace of the subordinate classes”: Withington’s introduction to Withington and McShane 2014, 23. 62. Soon creating problems of their own: see for example Charles II 1675.

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199

CONTRIBUTORS

Volume Editor: B. Ann Tlusty is Professor of History at Bucknell University and the author of Bacchus and Civic Order: The Culture of Drink in Early Modern Germany (2001), The Martial Ethic in Early Modern Germany: Civic Duty and the Right of Arms (2011), and has edited and authored numerous source collections, anthologies, and articles on early modern life and culture. Her primary focus is on gendered behaviors including drinking, gambling, personal violence, military culture, and masculine magic.

Contributors: Thomas Brennan is Emeritus Professor at the US Naval Academy. He has written extensively about alcohol production, trade, and consumption in early modern France, including Public Drinking and Popular Culture in Eighteenth-Century Paris (1988) and Burgundy to Champagne: the Wine Trade in Early Modern France (1997). Marc R. Forster is the Henry B. Plant professor of history and College Marshal at Connecticut College. He is the author of three books about German Catholicism, most recently Catholic Germany between the Reformation and the Enlightenment (2007). A former president of the Sixteenth-Century Studies Society, Forster’s current research is about conflict and conflict resolution in German villages in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Mark Hailwood is a lecturer in history of the period 1400–1700 at the University of Bristol, UK. His research focuses on the everyday lives of ordinary women and men in early modern England, and in particular on the histories of drinking and working. Hailwood is the author of Alehouses and Good Fellowship in Early Modern England (2014) and a coordinator of the international and interdisciplinary Drinking Studies Network. Matthew Jackson completed his MA in Religious and Social History 1500–1700 at the University of Warwick, for which he was awarded the Sir John Elliot Prize for Most Outstanding Performance in an MA, after which he embarked on comparative doctoral work researching drinking cultures in early modern Bristol and Bordeaux. He is the author of “A Contested Character: The Female Publican in Early Modern England and France,” in Brewery History (2013). Beat Kümin is Professor of Early Modern European History at the University of Warwick and cofounder of the Drinking Studies Network. He is the author of Drinking Matters: Public

Contributors

Houses and Social Exchange in Early Modern Central Europe (2007), editor of A Cultural History of Food in the Early Modern Age (2014), and coeditor (with B. Ann Tlusty) of the source collection Public Drinking in the Early Modern World, vols 2–3: Holy Roman Empire (2011). Andrew McMichael is Professor of History and the Dean of the College of Liberal Arts and Social Sciences at Auburn University at Montgomery. He is the author of Atlantic Loyalties: Americans in Spanish West Florida, 1785–1810 (2008) as well as other articles and chapters on Atlantic World history and the history of alcohol. He has also coauthored three pedagogical texts to help K-12 teachers more effectively use primary sources in the classroom and is currently finishing a book on the history of Prohibition. Phil Withington is Professor of Social and Cultural History at the University of Sheffield. He oversaw the creation of the freely accessible database “Intoxicants and Early Modernity” (https​:/​/ww​​w​.int​​oxica​​ntspr​​oject​​.org/​​publi​​catio​​ns​​/da​​tabas​e) and currently runs the European project “Intoxicating Spaces” (https://www​.intoxicatingspaces​.org/). He also coedited the Past & Present  Special Supplement,  Cultures of Intoxicants (2014) and is now working on a monograph about the world of intoxicants in early modern England.

201

INDEX

abstinence  110–11, 128, 138, 142, 144, 153, 174 addiction  5, 7, 50, 111–13 affordability  62, 64 Africa/Africans  10, 16, 21, 79, 82–6, 88, 90, 93, 103, 120, 151 African trade of alcohol  79, 82–6, 90, 93 aguardiente  82, 84–5 cachaça  82, 84–6, 92 gerebita  84–5, 108 Agrippa  103 aguardiente  82, 84–5, 107 air (element)  99, 100 akpeteshie  120 alcohol alternatives to  43, 47–8, 54, 149 consumption  41–57, 62, 65, 70, 72–5, 79, 82, 84, 88, 143, 159, 175 conspicuous consumption  11, 49, 127, 161 and gender  117–32 and religion  137–40, 143, 146, 149, 151–3, 167, 170–4 cultural representations and  159–75 dietary importance of  6, 23, 43, 47, 50–1, 62, 73, 105–7, 117 with divine power  6, 10–11, 98, 103–5, 113 European trade of  11–12, 16–17, 23–4, 26–7, 32, 49, 79–93 (see also Africa; America) intoxication  5–7, 10–11, 46, 73, 83, 100, 104–5, 113, 128, 149–50, 174 (see also drunkenness) and divine possession  8, 104 in medicine and health  6–7, 34, 50–1, 80, 97–113, 117, 123, 139 and political economy  43–5, 47–53 production  1–2, 12, 15–17, 21–36, 44, 46, 48–9, 61, 65–6, 68–9, 75, 80–93, 97–8, 101, 104, 110, 113, 120–1, 123, 132, 160, 164 and gender  22, 26, 81, 88, 120–2, 150, 170 regulation of  1, 11, 15, 25, 34, 36, 46, 61–75, 80–1, 91, 114 n.8, 138–9, 143–7, 149–53, 160, 163, 171 types of (see aguardiente; ale; arrack; beer; cachaça; chicha; cider; garapa; gerebita; gin; malavu (palm wine); mescal; pitau; pulque; rum; walo; wine) violence, role in  11, 13, 71, 125–8, 142, 146, 160 alcoholism  5, 7, 18 n.19; see also addiction ale  22–5, 51–2, 62–4, 66, 68–9, 81, 89, 91, 103, 106–8, 118, 122, 131, 141–2, 152, 160, 164, 170, 173 alehouse keepers  146; see also tavern keepers

alehouses  23, 55, 71, 73, 117–19, 121, 123–4, 129–31, 138, 145–7, 153, 159, 172; see also taverns ambarvalia  145 ambivalence  61, 164 Americas  14–16, 21, 34, 45, 48, 79, 104, 120–1, 123, 126, 132, 143, 175; see also New Spain colonial trade  15–16, 34–6, 48–50, 84–93, 120–1, 175 distilleries  92 religion  86–8, 104, 143, 149–52, 171 Amerindians; see Native Americans Antwerp  46, 120 apothecaries  70, 97, 100–1, 105, 112 home  97 arrack  107 art  17, 142, 160, 164–7 Asia  16, 21, 48, 100, 111 Assize of Bread and Ale  81 Augsburg  46, 49, 53, 69, 75, 123–5, 144, 146 authority  7–8, 10–11, 13, 34, 53, 62, 64, 68, 70–2, 74–5, 92, 97, 100, 106, 108–10, 112, 119, 122–3, 125, 138–9, 144–5, 147, 149, 151, 162, 174 Aztecs  86–7, 103–4 bacchanalian(ism)  145, 159, 166 ballads  2, 118, 164, 168, 173 barley  21–2, 90, 108 Beaujolais (place)  29, 30, 38 n.35 beer  2, 5, 8, 12, 36, 37 n.4, 41, 46–7, 50–2, 62, 65–8, 79–91, 108–11, 118, 122, 131–2; see also milhio; pitau; porter; walo corn–based  84, 86–8, 91, 120 hopped  8, 23–6, 49, 79–82, 89, 108 licensing  41, 46, 49, 66, 69–72 medicinal properties of  101, 103, 106–9 prices  25–6, 80 production of  21–6, 29, 34, 46–7, 67–8, 79–84, 88–91, 120–1 sale of  26 small beer  23 sorghum beer  82–3 taster  62 transatlantic trade in  12, 89 wheat beer  108–9 “Beer Street” (Hogarth)  50, 52, 109–10, 152 Bellet, Abbé  66 bells  71 Bennett, Judith  48, 81, 121 Bible  1, 138, 140, 145

Index Bittgänge  148 blanc des noirs, method of  28 Bland, John  41–3, 57, 64 Block, Adrian  89 blood  10, 45, 99–106, 137, 140, 150–1, 164, 170 Bloom, Gina  127 body, human  7, 44–6, 97–113, 126, 128, 160, 163, 165, 174 of Christ  137, 140 Bohemia  65 Bonny, Anne  79 Boogaart, Ernst Van Den  84 Bordeaux  30–3, 62, 66–71, 122, 129 bordeaux (wine)  31–3 Bossy, John  140–1 Boston  85 bottles  32–4, 84, 151, 161, 167 Brandenburg–Prussia  65 brandy  2, 4–6, 31–6, 62, 65, 70, 80, 82–6, 88–9, 91–3, 101–3, 105–7, 109, 139, 149, 152; see also wine Brazil  85, 107–8 Brennan, Thomas  16, 49, 153 breweries  23, 25–6, 62, 81, 89–90, 120 brewers  21–7, 37, 62, 64, 66, 80–1, 90 brewing  2, 22–5, 36–7, 43, 48, 50–1, 62, 67–8, 79–81, 89–91, 93, 106, 120, 122, 139, 150–1, 170 by clergy  147 license  69–71 rotation  70 brewsters  81 Bristol  62, 65–7, 75, 85 Broadway, John  64 Brouwer, Adriaen  164 Brown, Kendall  92 Bruegel, Pieter  142, 166 Bruman, Henry J.  86 Brunschwig, Hieronymus  101–2 Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel  65 Bucer, Martin  73, 143–4 Bundle, good  47–8 Burgundy  30–1, 33, 38 n.35, 147–8, 164 burgundy (wine)  49 Burke, Peter  137, 142, 145, 159 Burton, Kristen  81 cacao  86–7 cachaça  82, 84–6, 92 café  49, 153 Calvin, John  73, 138, 143–5 Calvinism  146, 148, 174 Cana  10, 140, 148 Cannon, John  122 Caribbean  90–3, 103 Caribs  10, 86, 88, 103 Carnival  123, 141–3, 145–6, 153, 167 Catholics, Catholicism  8, 72–4, 83, 132, 137–9, 142, 144–51, 162, 170

Champagne  28, 30, 32–3, 39 n.72 champagne (wine)  32–3, 161 Chateau Margaux  31 Chesapeake  89, 121, 123, 132 Chevet, Jean-Michel  31 chicha  87–8, 120, 150–3, 171 China  10, 103–4 choleric temperament  99, 103, 106 Christianity, Christians  1, 8, 10, 54, 100, 105, 108, 110, 112, 137–51, 153, 171, 175 Christiansen, Hans  89 cider  5, 46, 51, 89, 91, 121, 160, 170 Clark, Peter  12, 146 clergy  54, 91, 111, 137, 140, 143, 145, 147, 149; see also monks; nuns; preachers climate  26, 29, 32, 100, 103, 106–7, 113 coca  150–1 coffee  8, 17, 46–9, 109, 128–9, 131, 138–9, 143, 149, 153, 175 coffee houses  48–9, 128, 131, 138, 153, 172, 175 Cogan, Thomas  106 commodities  30, 41, 43–50, 80, 82, 84, 88, 143, 159, 175 communion  167; see also Eucharist communities  46, 55, 68, 72, 88, 142, 146, 150–1, 153 alcohol  8–9, 88 colonial  48 godly  2 Jewish  139, 153 parish  69 company  2, 13, 15, 55–6, 74–5, 119, 123, 125, 127, 145, 160, 162–4, 173 confessions  8, 72–4, 138, 144–7, 164, 170, 174–5; see also Catholic; Protestant Constantin, Izabeau  129 consumption  41–57, 62, 65–70, 72–5, 79, 82–3, 86, 91, 93, 97, 105, 110 conspicuous  11, 49, 127, 161 and gender  117–32, 172 levels of  11, 42–4, 47, 49–50, 52–6, 72–5, 79, 93, 117, 127, 131, 137, 143, 151–3, 166, 173 vicious  42–4, 50, 53, 56–7 corn  84, 86–8, 91, 120, 150; see also maize corn beer  84, 86–8, 91, 120 Cowan, Brian  48 Culpepper, Thomas  52 cults local  151 regional  151 religious  140 Curto, José  83 d’Angliera, Pietro Martire  45 de Acuna, Cristobel  45 Decades of the New World or West India, The (d’Angliera)  45 decay  42, 74 de Medici, Marie  72 Dent, Daniel  73

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Index diaries  13, 15, 122, 124, 159, 169 diet  21–3, 43, 47–8, 50–1, 62, 105–7, 113, 138, 144, 150 Dijon  30, 68, 147–8 disease  26, 99–100, 103, 106–13, 151; see also illness drunkenness as  7, 111, 152 distillation, distilling  2, 5, 12, 22, 31, 33–6, 43, 50–1, 65, 79–80, 82–93, 97, 100–2, 106–8, 111–12, 138, 150, 152, 159; see also brandy; gin; rum domestic consumption  29, 43, 50, 56, 123, 131, 160 duties  22, 117, 120 economy  24–6, 46–7 production  22–4, 26–7, 36–7, 43, 48, 64, 120, 170 space  13, 50, 52, 56, 123, 164 violence 125 Don Quixote (Cervantes)  169 Drinke and welcome: or the Famous Historie of the most part of Drinks (Taylor)  170 drinking healthy  6, 8, 11, 43, 62, 68, 97, 100, 103–13, 160 and Judaism  137–40 male (see masculinity) public  7, 17, 43, 49–50, 119, 123–4, 131–2, 160 sex and  117–19, 121–2, 124–5, 128–31, 137, 140, 142, 160, 166, 169 songs  163–4, 173–4 spaces  7, 9, 11, 13–14, 124, 131 (see also public houses) unhealthy  97, 107–12 women’s (see women) drinking houses  18, 61–2, 64–5, 68–9, 71–5, 139, 159, 164–6; see also alehouses; breweries; inns; public houses; taverns drinks 5–7; see also alcohol, types of quality of,  23, 27, 29–31, 33–6, 61–4, 82, 89, 148, 161 drunkenness  2–3, 5–6, 8–9, 11–12, 41–4, 47, 49, 53–6, 69, 72–5, 77 n.54, 79, 91, 103, 105, 108–9, 111, 117–18, 125, 127–9, 137–40, 142–6, 152–4, 160, 168, 170, 172, 174; see also intoxication chronic  5, 108, 111, 125 habitual  6, 73–4, 105, 108, 111 Dutch merchants  31–2, 68 earth (element)  99 Eden, Richard  45 elements  99–103, 113 Eltis, David  84 Elyot, Thomas  44–5 emulation 53–5 England  2, 8, 12, 15–18, 23–6, 32, 35–6, 41, 46, 48–50, 53, 55–6, 61–2, 64–5, 70, 74–5, 79–82, 88–93, 107–9, 111, 117, 119–22, 124–7, 132, 138, 140, 142, 146, 152–3, 168–72 English Alehouse, A Social History 1200-1800, The (Clark) 146

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enlightenment  2, 12, 17, 111, 138, 153, 175 entertainment  4, 11, 54, 145–6, 163, 169; see also gambling; music; singing enzymes 21 Eucharist  137, 140–1, 148, 151, 164; see also communion; Host evening bell  71 excess; see also superfluity drink  11, 23, 44–7, 53–4, 71–2, 74–5, 88, 108–10, 113, 117, 126–9, 138, 143–5, 152, 166, 170–1, 174 fluids  99–101, 103, 105–6 excise taxes  12, 24, 41–2, 46, 65, 68, 91, 109, 122, 146, 159; see also taxes on alcohols fellowship  2, 17–18, 54, 160, 173; see also friendship fermentation  21–36, 79–93, 103, 107, 149–50, 160, 171 Fielding, John  68–9 fire (element)  99, 102, 105 France  8, 15–16, 26–7, 29–30, 32–5, 49, 61–3, 68–70, 74, 119, 122, 138, 141–2, 152–3, 164, 167, 174 Franck, Sebastian  117, 144 Frederick II  8, 109 friendship  6–7, 9, 11, 54, 167; see also fellowship Friese, Lorenz  106 Galenic system  98–100, 103, 105–6, 110–13, 117 gambling, games  122, 125, 127, 137, 139, 146, 163 garapa 107 Gardiner, Stephen  142–3 gender  7, 9, 15–18, 50, 61, 82, 89, 100–5, 113, 117–32, 152, 163–4, 172, 174; see also masculinity; women George Inn  65, 67 gerebita  84–5, 108; see also rum Germany  2, 8, 12, 16, 23–6, 34, 46, 48, 56, 61–3, 74, 108–9, 111, 120, 124, 138–41, 146, 148–9; see also Holy Roman Empire gin  2, 5, 8, 12, 17, 50, 93, 108–10, 131, 138, 152–3 Gin Act (1736)  152 "Gin Lane" (Hogarth)  50–2, 109, 152 Gloucester 65 Gloucestershire  64, 68–9 Good, Peter  64 grains  21–6, 29–30, 34, 36, 68, 80, 82–4, 86–8, 109, 120, 174; see also barley; corn; maize; wheat grapes  21–2, 26–8, 30–2, 35–6, 66, 88–9, 92, 103, 108, 110, 120, 141, 148, 150, 152 greensickness  101, 114 n.14 grey wine  28, 32, 39 n.70 Griffiths, Elizabeth  50–1 Griffiths, Nicholas  151 Guarinonius, Hippolytus  114 n.24 Habermas, Jürgen  3 Haetzer, Ludwig  144

Index Hals, Dirck  164 Hals, Frans  164 Hancock, David  48–50, 52 Hanseatic League  80 health, public  42, 62 healths, drinking to; see pledging healths Health's Sickness (Prynne)  53, 55 healthy drinking  6, 11, 43, 62, 68, 97, 100, 103–13 Henry IV (Shakespeare)  168 Herrick, Robert  126 Hippocrates  98 Hogarth, William  50–2, 109–10, 152 Holland  12, 24, 35, 81, 90, 146, 152 Holt, Mack  147–8, 156 n.76 Holy Roman Empire  15, 147, 164, 172; see also Germany home apothecaries  97 honor  13, 17, 72, 127, 129, 151, 174 Hooker, Richard  56 hopped beer  8, 22–6, 49, 79–82, 89, 108 preservative quality of  80, 87, 93 hops  8, 22–6, 37 n.3, 51, 80–1, 87, 90, 93, 106 Horowitz, Elliott  139 Host, holy  140, 143; see also Eucharist hotels; see breweries; inns; taverns human bodies; see body, human humanism/humanist  1, 44, 53, 97, 100–1, 144 human trafficking  17; see also slaves humoral theory, humors  44–5, 99–101, 105, 111, 113, 172; see also Galenic system

Kabbala  139 Kabbalistic spirituality  139 Karo, Joseph ben Ephriam  138–9 korchmy  124 Kümin, Beat  3–4, 124, 146–7

Iberian wines  30, 33–4 identities  2, 7–9, 11, 15, 17, 55, 68, 86, 88, 147, 170–4 illness  98–105, 110–13; see also disease Incas  87–8, 91, 120, 150–1, 171 India  10, 48–9, 107 Indians, American; see Native Americans inebriation; see drunkenness; intoxication innkeepers  13–14, 63–4; see also publicans; tavern keepers inns  2–4, 9, 12–14, 65, 67, 70, 147, 160–3, 169; see also breweries; taverns intoxicants  6–7, 11, 17, 46–8, 69, 84, 87, 103–4, 110, 113, 137, 152, 160, 173–4 intoxication  5–7, 9–11, 46, 73, 83, 87, 100, 104–5, 113, 128, 149–50, 174 Islam  16, 110, 112, 137; see also Muslims Istanbul  110 Italy/Italian  2, 26–7, 28, 61, 63, 71, 74, 119, 138–9, 159

MacCormack, Sabine  151 Madeira (islands)  33–4, 49, 91 Madeira (wine)  33–4, 48–50, 83, 172 maguey plant  10, 87, 103, 149 maize  21, 83–4, 86, 88, 171; see also corn malavu (raffia palm wine)  5–6, 82–4, 103 malt, malting  21–3, 25–6, 80, 90, 93, 122 Malynes, Gerard  46, 57 n.21 mamacona  120 Mangan, Jane E.  122 Maria in vineis  148 Martin, Thomas  55–6 masculinity  2, 13, 22, 55, 118–19, 121, 123, 125–8, 132, 172; see also gender mashing  21–3, 25 Matthias, Peter  48 Mayans  86–7, 104 measures, drink  61–5, 80, 159, 164 media, representation  159, 163–70 medicine  6–7, 34, 42–6, 50–1, 80, 97–113, 114 n.26, 116 n.77, 117, 123, 139 preventative  97, 105–7 Medick, Hans  3 melancholic temperament  99–100, 105 mercantilism  49, 109, 164 mescal  86–7 Mexicas  87

Jennings, Lawrence C.  84 Jewish Bible  140 Jews  8, 10, 100, 110, 112, 137–40, 153, 159 Johnson, Samuel  45 Jones, Thomas  70 Judaism  137–40

language  16, 42, 47, 54–6, 61, 101, 140, 143, 152, 164 Law, Robin  83 law(s)  2, 8, 11, 15, 30, 74, 81, 90–2, 106, 138–9, 145–6; see also regulation dietary laws  138 Law of Drinking (Brathwaite)  127 leisure  2, 4, 11 licensing, alcohol  12, 36, 42, 46, 49, 52, 62, 68–72, 121, 145, 152, 163 and women  121 Lindenau, Katja  70 literacy  1–2, 50, 97, 101, 148, 164 literature  1–2, 7, 47, 82–3, 101, 118, 121–2, 125, 131, 146, 153, 168–9, 174 local perspective  75 Locke, John  45 London  25–6, 50–3, 70, 81, 88–9, 91, 120, 124, 129, 131, 152, 167, 169 London Spy (Ward)  168 Luso-Brazilian commerce  85 Luther, Martin  73, 137, 143, 162, 174 luxury  12, 43, 46, 49, 83, 89; see also conspicuous consumption; excess

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Index Middle East  16, 47, 100, 110 milhio  82 moderation  101, 105, 108, 137, 143–4, 150, 162, 171, 174–5 modernity  11, 44, 47–8, 56, 174 molasses  32, 36, 79, 84, 90–2, 108 Molasses Act (1733)  92 molle  91 monks  147 Moquegua wine  91–2 Moryson, Fynes  9, 170 Moscow  68 Muldrew, Craig  51–2 music  3, 146, 159, 163–4, 174–5; see also songs, singing Muslims  8, 137; see also Islam Nantes  34, 63–4, 121 Naogeorgus, Thomas  145 Narrenhaus (fool’s house)  146 nationalism/nationhood/nationality  7–8, 17 Native Americans  10, 79, 86, 89–90, 93, 149–51, 171 Aztecs  86–7, 103–4 Caribs  10, 86, 88, 103 Incas  87–8, 91, 120, 150–1, 171 Mayans  86–7, 104 Mexicas  87 necessity  14, 41, 62 neo-Platonism  9 Netherlands  16, 23, 34–5, 89, 108, 138 New Inn (Jonson)  168 Newport  85 news, newspapers, newsrooms  3, 97, 99, 101, 103, 160, 164 New Spain  87–8, 91 Norton, Marcy  48 nuns  142 occult  97, 100, 101–3 octli  10, 114 n.22 oüicou  103 palm wine  82–5, 103, 108, 120; see also malavu date-palm wine  110 Paris  12, 29, 31–2, 49, 123, 167 Passover  137–8, 140 Pax  140 Pepys, Samuel  122, 130 Petty, William  43, 57 peyote  86, 104 phlegm  99–100, 105–6 phlegmatic temperament  99–100, 105 pilgrimage  106, 145, 147 pirates  79 pitau (Pitu)  82 plague  74, 101–2, 106 Platter, Thomas  124 plays  3–4, 145, 160, 167–9

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pledging healths  3, 8, 18 n.5, 54–5, 145–6, 167, 173; see also toasting poetry  126, 170 Poland  139, 159 political meetings/politics  1–3, 6, 8–9, 11, 13–14, 16–17, 42–7, 49–50, 53, 55–7, 61–2, 66–7, 69–71, 75, 81, 83, 86, 90, 144, 146–8, 150–2, 170, 174 Pope, Peter  107 porter  26, 52 Porter, Roy  44 Portuguese wine  33–4, 84, 92 practices  7–8, 27, 31–4, 42–3, 46–7, 50, 53–6, 62, 69, 71–4, 83, 91, 97–9, 103–5, 111, 113, 117, 124, 127, 137, 139, 143, 145, 148–50, 153, 159–60, 167, 174 preachers  74, 174 preventative medicine  97, 105–7 prices alcohol  25–7, 29–31, 37 n.30, 38 n.34, 61–4, 80, 89, 91–2, 160, 164 grain  25, 29–30, 36, 38 n.34 vineyards  29 priests  88, 146, 148–9, 151; see also clergy printing  1–2, 45–6, 53, 74, 97, 101, 127, 159, 164, 168, 175 private consumption  23, 30, 52, 110, 123 spaces  13, 17, 36, 52, 129–31 processions  62, 145, 147–8 prohibition  36, 68, 72–3, 110, 137–8, 153–4, 159, 175 prostitution  69, 71, 123–4, 129; see also sex, selling Protestantism/Protestants  8, 72–5, 78 n.76, 83, 132, 137–8, 144–9, 162, 167; see also Reformation Prussia/Prussians  8, 65, 109 Prynne, William  53–6 publicans  4–5, 11, 13, 25, 62, 64–5, 68–9, 71–5, 118, 121–2, 129, 131, 160, 167; see also alehouse keepers; brewers; innkeepers; tavern keepers women as  118, 121–2, 129 public drinking  7, 17, 43, 49–50, 117–19, 121–5, 137, 140, 142, 160, 166 places  43, 49, 124, 131–2 public houses  2–4, 8–9, 11–13, 15, 18, 62, 68–9, 72, 129–31, 167, 169, 172 pulque  5, 10, 86–8, 103–4, 120–1, 149–53 Puritans  11, 53–4, 74, 138, 146, 159, 173 quality, drink,  23, 26–7, 29–31, 33–6, 61–4, 82, 89, 148, 161 Quran  110 race  7–8, 17, 174 Rackham, Calico Jack  79 Radford, Richard  64 Read, Mary  79

Index Reformation  1–2, 12, 69, 74, 109, 123, 137–47, 164–5, 167, 169, 171–2, 174–5 reformation of manners  53, 55 reformers, religious  47, 55, 62, 69, 73–5, 123, 137–9, 144–7, 153; see also Bucer; Calvin; Luther; Prynne; Zwingli reform of godly  137–8, 144–7 regulation of alcohol  1, 11, 15, 25, 34, 36, 46, 61–75, 80–1, 91, 114 n.8, 138–9, 143–7, 149–53, 160, 163, 171 drunkenness  2, 72–5, 144–6 licensing  12, 36, 42, 46, 49, 52, 62, 68–72, 121, 145, 152, 163 measures  61–4, 80 price  25–7, 30–31, 36, 37 n.30, 38 n.34, 61–4, 80, 89, 91–2, 160, 164 quality  23, 61–4, 161 taxation (see taxes on alcohols) Reims  30, 32 Reinke-Williams, Tim  122 religion  1–2, 6–8, 17, 97, 112, 137–54 Americas  86–8, 104, 143, 149–52, 171 Asia  104 Christianity  2, 10–11, 62, 70–1, 74, 109–10, 140–9, 152–4, 161–4, 167, 170, 174–5 (see also Catholic; Protestant; Reformation) Islam  16, 110, 112, 137 Judaism  137–40 Renaissance  1, 97–8, 101, 128, 159–60, 164, 166, 168, 173, 175 Renaissance medicine  97–8, 101 representation media  163–70 retailers  33, 41, 43, 46, 48, 61–71, 75, 117–19, 121–3, 132 revenue, state,  12, 23, 41–2, 46, 61, 64–9, 72, 81, 85, 88, 91, 109; see also taxes on alcohols Rio de Janiero  85 ritual  13, 42, 51, 53–4, 56, 83, 86, 88, 110, 115 n.33, 118, 123, 126–8, 130, 137–40, 145, 148–51, 153, 167, 171, 173–4 Rorabaugh, W. J.  89, 91 rum  5, 36, 79, 82, 84–6, 89–93, 107–8, 177 n.60; see also gerebita Russia  8, 12, 41–2, 64–5, 123, 159 Ryff, Walter  100 saccharification  21 sailors  34, 72, 107, 127 Salvador  85 sanguine temperament  99 satire  109, 143–4, 163 Saturnalia  145 Savonarola, Girolamo  144 Saxony  65 Scandinavia  16, 141, 153, 159 Schreiber, Georg  148 seconde  36 sermons  2, 74, 143, 145–6, 159, 162, 174

sex/sexuality  16, 105, 117–31, 137, 140, 142, 160, 164, 166, 169, 172; see also gender and alcohol  117–22, 125, 128–31 crimes  123, 129–31 selling  118, 124, 129 (see also prostitution) Sherratt, Andrew  6 Shulhan Arukh (Code of Jewish Law)  138–9 Simonds, Peggy Muñoz  103 Simplicissimus (Grimmelshausen)  169 sin  10–11, 43, 53–4, 56, 69, 73–4, 109, 137, 140, 143–6, 153, 174 Slack, Paul  56 slaves  17, 72, 79, 82–5, 88–91, 107–8, 122 diets  91, 107, 122 labor  17, 72, 82, 84, 89, 107 trade  79, 82–5, 88, 90, 108 Smith, Frederick  91 sobriety  2, 18, 47, 54, 110, 143, 152, 171 sociability  2, 6, 11, 13, 15, 47, 50, 54–6, 71–3, 106–7, 117–18, 123, 131, 138–9, 143, 146, 148–9, 153, 164, 166, 173 social control  2, 11 social discipline  2, 11, 69, 127, 138, 143, 152 social drinking  11, 107, 109, 127 soldiers  3, 5, 8, 55, 72, 107, 109, 127, 132 Song of Solomon  128 songs  126, 162–4, 173 drinking  163–4, 173 religious  147 singing  139 sorghum  21, 82–3 space, as category  2, 7–9, 11, 13–14, 52–3, 55 cargo (ship)  89 domestic  29, 50, 52, 123–5 private  13 public  2, 9, 12–14, 65, 131, 146 sacred  123, 146 Spain  27, 29, 41, 88, 91, 164 New Spain  87–8, 91 spirits  5, 12, 17, 22, 26, 34–6, 47, 49, 56, 70, 80, 82, 84–5, 88–9, 91, 101–2, 106–7, 109–12, 131, 159, 170–1; see also brandy; distillation; gin; rum grain  34, 84 production of  34–6, 82, 84, 101, 107 sports  4, 146, 163 Stafford, John  68 starch  21, 84, 86 Starkey, Thomas  45 state/state building  6, 11–13, 15–17, 31, 41–3, 45–8, 56, 61, 64–6, 68, 72, 83, 87–90, 97, 103, 105, 111, 117, 125, 137–8, 143, 152, 160, 164, 167–8, 174 Steen, Jan  164 sugar  21–2, 27–8, 30, 32, 34, 36, 79, 82, 84–7, 90, 92–3, 107–8; see also molasses for alcohol production  21–2, 36, 79, 82, 84–7, 90, 92, 107–8

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Index in Atlantic World economy  79–80, 90–3 planters  79, 90, 92 superfluity  50, 56; see also excess superfluous drinking  43–7, 53, 55–7 Switzerland  11, 62, 170 syncretism  83, 150 Tavernier, Jean Baptiste  110 tavern keepers  13, 63, 69, 90–1, 121, 123, 165, 167–8; see also alehouse keepers; innkeepers; publicans taverns  2–3, 13–15, 49, 70–2, 91, 118–19, 121–32, 138–9, 142–9, 151–3, 159–60, 163–4, 167–9, 172–5; see also alehouses; breweries taxes on alcohols  7, 11–12, 15, 17, 23–4, 27, 36, 41–7, 49–50, 61–70, 72, 75, 81–2, 88, 91–2, 109, 122, 146, 149, 151–2, 159, 163, 174; see also excise taxes Taylor, John  169–70 Taylor, William B.  149–50 tea  17, 47–8, 128, 131, 138, 143, 149, 153, 175 Tempest, The (Shakespeare)  103 theatre; see plays Thomas, Keith  145 Thomas, William  64 Thompson, Peter  49 Thornton, John  83 Thuringia  65 Tlusty, Ann  47, 49, 53, 55, 125, 146 toasting  8, 17, 18 n.5, 83, 125, 127, 145, 167, 173; see also pledging healths tobacco  41–2, 46–9, 79, 86, 107, 128, 143, 149 tolerance  11, 72, 75, 108, 110, 153 Tom Jones (Fielding)  169 Toul, France  122 trade cards  160, 162 Trade Revived (Bland)  41, 43 transatlantic commerce  12, 16, 21, 79–93, 107, 172; see also Caribbean travelers  4, 8–9, 13, 72, 110, 124, 160–2, 169, 174 travel reports  8–9, 12, 45, 110, 124, 169–70 triumph of Lent  137 Tryon, Thomas  108 Unger, Richard  46, 81 unhealthy drinking  97, 107–13 van Ostade, Adriaen  164 Venema, Janny  90 Venice  51, 123 Vennerkammer  162 vicious consumption  42–4, 50, 53, 56–7 vines  22, 26–33, 36–7, 66, 140, 148, 173 vineyards  26–7, 29–33, 80, 88, 122, 148; see also viticulture vinification  27–9, 32

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violence  11, 13, 68, 71–2, 125–8, 142, 146, 160 viticulture  26–7, 29, 32, 34, 43, 66, 159; see also vineyards; vines viticulturists  26–7, 43, 92 Vizard, Alexander  64 von Hohenheim, Philipp Theophrastus Bombast (Paracelsus)  101–2 Voyages and Discoveries in South America (de Acuna)  45 walo  82–3 wastage  42, 45 water  21–2, 24–5, 27, 41, 51, 82, 88, 99, 101–2, 106, 114 n.16, 114 n.24, 116 n.66, 122, 139–40, 145, 148, 160 drinking  106, 122, 139, 160, 163 element  99, 114 n.16 holy  145 in mashing/brewing  21–2, 24, 82, 88 rose  51 transport  24–6 water of life (aqua vitae)  101–2 at the Wedding at Cana  140, 148 in wine  28, 106, 122 Wedding at Cana  140, 148 weddings  83, 123, 137–9, 147–9 wheat  22, 82 wheat beer  82, 108–9 Whittle, Jane  50–1 wine  2, 5, 8, 12, 15, 17, 25, 34–6, 37 n.30, 47–9, 51, 56, 62, 71, 79, 93, 122–3, 126, 128, 132, 144–7, 159–64, 167, 169–74; see also bordeaux; burgundy; champagne from berries  63 date  110 distillation of  5, 31, 34–6, 88, 101–3, 106–7 (see also brandy) grey  28, 32, 39 n.70 Iberian  33–4 international trade in  17, 26–7, 32, 34–5, 46, 48–9, 66, 84, 88–9, 91–2, 107 in Jewish rituals  137–40 licensing  12, 36, 42, 46, 49, 52, 62, 64, 69–72, 121, 145, 152, 163 Madeiran  33–4, 48–50, 83, 91, 172 medicinal properties of  100–12 Moqueguan (Peruvian)  91–2 palm  5, 21, 82–5, 103, 107, 110, 120 Portuguese  33–4, 84, 92 prices  25–7, 29–31, 36, 37 n.30, 38 n.34, 61–4, 80, 89, 91–2, 160, 164 production  1–2, 12, 15–17, 21–37, 44, 46, 48–9, 61, 65–6, 68–9, 75, 80–93, 97–8, 104, 116 n.71, 120–1, 123, 132, 150, 160, 164, 170 red  27–8, 30–3, 64, 83, 107 and religion  10, 83, 88, 93, 103–6, 137–43, 147–54, 170, 174

Index Spanish  91–2 taxes on  7, 12, 15, 17, 23, 27, 29–30, 36, 41–7, 49–50, 61–70, 72, 75, 81–5, 88, 91–2, 109, 146, 149, 151–2, 163, 174 white  28, 31–5, 101 wine bell  71 wine pressing  28–9, 153 Winzerprozessionen  148 Withington, Phil  4, 78 n.76 women  8, 22–6, 29, 34, 48, 50–2, 55–6, 79, 81–2, 88–9, 101–3, 108, 117–32, 139, 148, 150–2, 164–5, 171, 174; see also gender

as drinkers  8, 11, 50, 52, 55–6, 101, 108, 117–20, 122–5, 131–2, 139, 152, 169 medical use by  101–3, 123, 174 as producers and purveyors  16, 22–6, 29, 34, 48, 81–2, 88–9, 101, 117–22, 132, 150–1, 171 in religious rites  148, 150–1 and sexuality  117–19, 126, 128–32, 169 wort  21–2, 25 yeast  21, 25, 27, 34, 80, 82, 103 Zwingli, Huldrych  73, 137, 144

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