The air hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket woven with the salty tang of the docks and the earthy scent of a late summer's day.

It was Monday, August 28, 1899, a date etched into the annals of Southampton's past.

The town, a bustling port teeming with sailors, merchants, and the everyday folk who made its heart beat, was undeniably thirsty.

Oh, how they quenched their thirst!

A staggering 221 licensed premises, grand and imposing, stood alongside a veritable army of 280 beer houses, their doors flung wide in welcome.

One could scarcely turn a corner without encountering the promise of a pint.

This day, however, was not for revelry, but for reckoning.

The Borough and County of the Town of Southampton convened their general annual licensing meeting, a ritual as regular as the tides that kissed the town's shores.

The stern-faced police chief, a man whose gaze could surely curdle milk, delivered his report.

He spoke of the trade, of the ebb and flow of spirits, and, most importantly, of the grim tally of convictions for that most human of failings: drunkenness.

The very names whispered a tale of a vanished Southampton.

The Antelope stood proud in St Mary's Road, while the Boiler Makers' Arms, its walls echoing with the clang of industry, held court in Millbank Street.

Davis's Railway Hotel, a stone's throw from Terminus Terrace, offered respite to weary travellers.

General Dickson's Arms, the Morning Star, the Rose, Shamrock and Thistle—each a tiny universe of its own, now lost to the mists of time.

Even the St Crispin and Bear, the United Flags, and the General Dickson's Arms, all whispered promises of warm ale and camaraderie.

And then, the beer houses, those humble establishments that dotted the landscape like stars in a night sky.

The All England Eleven, the Equator, the Golden Fleece, the Hit or Miss—each vibrant, if somewhat boisterous. And who could forget the ubiquitous Red Lion? A name repeated 24 times across the town.

In those days, a simple billiard table could transform a humble establishment into a licensed venue.

George Wight, proprietor of the St Mary's Cocoa Rooms, dared to apply for such a license, seeking to add a touch of genteel amusement to his teetotal haven.

Similarly, John James Burnett, owner of the Dock Tavern and the Canal Walk Tavern, sought permission for his patrons to enjoy a game of bagatelle alongside their drinks.

The police chief, a man of meticulous record-keeping, revealed that 365 souls had faced the magistrate's wrath for overindulgence.

Yet, he offered a glimmer of optimism, a statistical balm to soothe concerned brows. The town had grown, he argued, and the increase in inebriation was merely proportional to the swelling population, a "increase in sobriety when viewed in proportion to the population."

The Hampshire Advertiser, a chronicle of the town's life, reported on the fate of eight landlords who had strayed from the straight and narrow.

Their licenses were invariably transferred, a penalty deemed far more severe than a mere fine, a powerful deterrent against future transgressions.

The chairman, a bastion of civic virtue, commended the police for their vigilance and the landlords for their overall good conduct, declaring that no other seafaring town could boast such exemplary results.

But the story didn't end there.

A few years prior, the St Mary's Church of England Temperance Society, in a fit of righteous zeal, had declared Southampton one of the most intemperate places in the land.

They even produced a "Drink Map of Southampton," a detailed cartography of the city's 522 licensed premises, hoping to shame its citizens into sobriety.

Alas, their plan backfired spectacularly. Sailors, ever eager for adventure, purchased the map for two old pennies and embarked on a grand pub crawl, transforming the society's tool of condemnation into a guide to revelry.

And then, there were the ghosts of pubs past, their locations lost to time.

The Bridge Tavern in Bitterne, the Coachsmith's Arms, the Flag of Liberty, the Fox and Hounds, the Roebuck, and the Ship and Anchor, all vanished from Millbrook.

The Fisherman's Arms and the Sailor's Return, whispered to have existed in Sholing.

The Royal William in Shirley, and the Victory in Weston—each a phantom reminder of a bygone era, their stories fading like the smoke from a long-extinguished pipe.