Teetotallers lack the sympathy and generosity of men that drink.

When W. H. Davies declared, “Teetotallers lack the sympathy and generosity of men that drink,” he was not merely praising the pleasures of wine, but pointing toward a deeper truth about human fellowship. Davies, himself a wandering poet who lived much of his early life as a tramp, understood that drink was more than liquid—it was a ritual of communion. In his eyes, those who abstained entirely often missed the warmth of shared cups, the unguarded laughter, the loosening of pride that makes men more generous in spirit. His words speak not to indulgence alone, but to the ancient link between sympathy, generosity, and the breaking down of barriers through ritual and fellowship.

At the heart of this saying lies the recognition that drink, taken in fellowship, creates a circle of equals. In taverns, in inns, and in humble cottages, the act of raising a glass together was often the great leveler, dissolving the artificial walls of class and pride. A poor man could speak freely to a nobleman, and a stranger could become a brother in the space of an evening. To Davies, it was this capacity for drink to awaken generosity and sympathy that gave it value, for the teetotaller who remained apart from the ritual stood at the edge of the circle, untouched by its spirit of sharing.

History is rich with examples of such fellowship. In ancient Greece, the symposium—literally “drinking together”—was not merely an indulgence but a sacred gathering. Men reclined, poured wine, shared poetry, debated philosophy, and laughed until their souls were laid bare. In Rome, the banquet hall served the same purpose, where emperors and soldiers alike found common humanity in the act of feasting and drinking. Even in the medieval tavern, the common jug of ale was passed from hand to hand, binding community together in a way no solitary abstinence could. These were not simply occasions of drink, but moments when the walls of loneliness fell, and sympathy was born.

Davies, as a man who had wandered through poverty and lived on the margins, likely saw firsthand how a drink shared was often a gesture of human kindness. To offer a stranger ale was to recognize him as kin, to extend a hand across the cold gulf of isolation. The teetotaller, in his stern refusal, might guard his body, but he often closed his heart. In Davies’s eyes, to abstain entirely was to risk missing the beauty of human imperfection—the spilled drink, the clumsy song, the tender honesty that only comes when men dare to drop their masks.

Yet, O seekers, we must understand this teaching with care. Davies does not call for drunkenness, which can destroy as much as it binds, but for the recognition that generosity is born when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable with one another. Drink, for him, was a symbol of this vulnerability—a way of saying, I share with you not only my glass, but myself. The teetotaller, in his strictness, often refused this ritual, and thus to Davies seemed colder, more guarded, less capable of the warmth that binds souls together.

The lesson is clear: whether through wine or through other acts of fellowship, one must embrace the rituals that foster sympathy and generosity. Do not hold yourself apart in pride or fear of imperfection. Instead, enter the circle of humanity, where laughter, sorrow, and kindness are shared without calculation. To be generous is not to be flawless, but to be open; to be sympathetic is not to be above others, but beside them.

Practical action lies here: seek out moments of fellowship. Share meals, share laughter, share small sacrifices of comfort for the joy of togetherness. Do not fear the vulnerability that comes with openness, for it is the soil in which generosity grows. If you drink, drink with care, but let it remind you of the deeper truth: the value lies not in the cup, but in the companionship it fosters. And if you abstain, find other ways to practice that same sympathy, so that your heart may not grow cold in separation.

Therefore, let Davies’s words endure as a reminder: sympathy and generosity thrive where barriers are broken, where men and women share not only bread and drink but their very selves. Whether through the tavern’s ale or the hearth’s conversation, seek always the company of others, for in fellowship lies the truest wealth of the human spirit.