and not drink bad, which is prejudicial to health. For example, green
wine is very bad; this Guilleaume Cretin[1], a great punster, has
expressed in these verses, which, I own, I am not able to put into
English:--
"Par ce vin verds Atropos a trop os
Des corps humains ruez envers en vers
Dont un quidam apre aux pots a propos
A fort blâmé les tours pervers en vers."
Good wine, on the contrary, has very good effects. Erasmus[2] preserved
himself from the plague, by drinking a glass of Burgundy at a proper
season.
You see now the efficacy of good wine, which, to be in its perfection,
the adepts in the free-schools of Liber Pater say, must have these four
properties, and please these four senses:-- the taste by its savour, the
smell by its flavour, the sight by its clean and bright colour, and the
ear by the fame of the country where it grows. Old wine was looked upon
to be the best by the ancients.
A beauty, when advanc'd in age,
No more her lovers can engage;
But wine, the rare advantage, knows,
It pleases more, more old it grows.
And were they never so old themselves, they would still, if possible,
have the wine older than they were. _Nec cuiquam adeo longa erat vita,
ut non ante se genita potaret_[3]. Which these words of Seneca[4] also
confirm, "Why at your house do you drink wine older than yourself? _Cur
apud te vinum apud te vetustius bibitur._"
Martial says, "Do you ask me of what consulate this wine is? It was
before there were any consuls in the world.
"De sinuessanis venerunt massica prælis:
Condita quo quæris consule? nullus erat."[4a]
At present the fame of the best wine in Europe is reckoned to be, that
of Monte Fiascone, two days journey from Rome. Here it was a German
abbot killed himself by drinking too much of this delicious creature.
The story is this, and it is related in Lassell's Travels:--
A certain German abbot, travelling to Rome, ordered his servant to ride
before him, and when he found the best wine, to chalk upon the door of
the inn (in order to save time) the word _EST_. Coming to Monte
Fiascone, he found it so excellent, that he put down, _Est, Est, Est_,
which the abbot finding true, drank so plentifully of it, that he went
no farther on his journey, but lies buried, they say, in the cathedral
church, with this epitaph, written by his servant the purveyor.
Est, Est, Est,
et
Propter nimium Est,
Herus meus Dominus Abbas
mortuus Est.
The wine called Lachrymæ Christi, or the Tears of Christ, is a most
delicious wine. At least a master of arts of the university of Cologn
thought so, who going also to Rome, drank at the same place pretty
heartily of it, and out of the abundance of his heart cried out,
Utinam Christus lachrymatus fuisset in nostra patria.
I wish Christ had shed tears in our country.
M. Hofman believes, that Rhenish wine is the best of all wines for one's
health.
There grows also most excellent wines in France, such as Champagne.
Wenceslaus[5], king of Bohemia and the Romans, being come into France on
account of some negociations with Charles the Sixth, arrived at Rheins
in the month of March, 1397. When he was in that city he found the wine
so good, that he got drunk more than once; and being one day in that
condition, that he could not enter into any serious discourses, he
rather chose to grant what was asked of him than leave off drinking.
The wines of Burgundy must not be forgotten, which some prefer to
Champagne. "Baudius called vin de beaulne, vinum deorum, the wine of the
gods[6]."
The wines of Ai are also very excellent. S. Evremont[7] says, that Leo
the Tenth, Charles the Fifth, Francis the First, and Hen. VIII. king of
England, did not think it below their dignity, amongst the most
important affairs of state, to take care to have the wines of Ai.
Henry IV. caused himself to be styled lord of Ai and Gonesse.
But I shall desire my readers here to observe two things, First, That
artificial wines, and a many other liquors, containing a great deal of
gross, viscous matter, excite a drunkenness more long and dangerous than
that which is produced by ordinary wines. Another thing is, Never to get
drunk with brandy, spirits, and strong waters. Patin[8] says very
pleasantly, that these are sugared poisons which surely kill: they give
life to those who sell them, and death to those who use them.
[Footnote 1: Rem. sur. Rabel. t. iii. p. 39.]
[Footnote 2: Journ. des Sçav. June, 1706.]
[Footnote 3: Plin.] [[_Natural History_ XIX.20 (or XIX.xix.53).]]
[Footnote 4: De Vit. beat. c. 17.]
[[Footnote 4a: Martial XIII.111.]]
[Footnote 5: Journ. de Sçav. June, 1706.]
[Footnote 6: Patimana, p. 34.]
[Footnote 7: Lett. S. Evrem.]
[Footnote 8: Vign. Marvill, t. ii. p. 7.]
CHAP. XXX.
FOURTH RULE, AT CONVENIENT TIMES.
Though one must not get drunk every day, one may, notwithstanding,
on certain occasions. One must sometimes unbend the mind.
Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.[a]
And when a man puts on the air of a philosopher, it is then he turns
fool in affecting to be wise.
There is a time for all things, and so there is in getting drunk, that
is, getting drunk with decency and decorum; and there are some times
which are not convenient to do so. As for example, (for I love to
illustrate what I advance,) it does not suit with decorum for a judge to
be drunk on the bench; nor a crier in the court exercising his office,
[hiccup, ki---- book;] a parson in the pulpit; an experimental
philosopher in shewing of his gimcracks; nor a freemason on the top of a
church-steeple.
But it suits very well with strict decorum, to get drunk at a public
rejoicing after a signal victory.
When the proud Gaul sustain'd an overthrow
By the immortal MARLBOROUGH,
Ever invincible! then you and I,
My Thirsis, shar'd the common joy.
Blenheim and Ramillies were then our song,
The day tho' short, the night was long,
Till both with mighty claret glow'd,
And tipsy, to our beds were shew'd.
We may also very decently get drunk with a friend we have not seen a
long while.
Here 'tis----O welcome, flask divine,
How bright does thy vermillion shine!
Thou charming native of Dijon[1],
At thy approach my cares are flown,
Sad melancholy is no more,
Which rack'd and plagu'd my soul before.
Whether thy influence incites,
(Sweet influence) to soft delights;
Or else dost other measures keep,
And gently urge to peaceful sleep.
O may'st thou still such streams bestow,
Still with such ruddy torrents flow.
Damon, this bottle is your due,
And more I have in store for you
Under the sun the faithfullest friend;
I've kept them for no other end.
Drink then a bumper, 'tis a folly,
Dear Damon, to be melancholy.
However rigorous the Roman laws were against drunkenness, they permitted
it nevertheless on their festivals; witness what a young man said to his
father in presence of the people. "[2]No father," says he, "I have no
reason to be ashamed for having taken a little more wine than ordinary
at a feast with my companions." _Non est res qua embescam, Pater, si die
festo inter æquales largiore vino fui usus._
The Persian soldiers, who otherwise lived very soberly, were permitted
to get drunk once a year[3].
In Georgia, he who did not get quite drunk at their principal holidays,
as at Easter and Christmas, was not looked upon to be a christian, and
ought to be excommunicated. [4]So that, according to this, getting drunk
at certain convenient times amongst these christians, was so far from
being unlawful, that a man was not looked upon to be orthodox, without
he did so. Getting drunk is therefore very orthodox.
[[Footnote a: Horace, _Odes_ II.x.19-20.]]
[Footnote 1: Dijon, chief city in Burgundy.]
[Footnote 2: Tit. Liv. lib. iv. ch. 14.]
[Footnote 3: Alex. ab Alex, lib, ii. ch. 11.]
[Footnote 4: Voyag. de Chard. t. ii. 129.]
CHAP. XXXI.
FIFTH RULE, TO FORCE NO ONE TO DRINK.
It is very ridiculous and unreasonable to force any one to drink,
because the taking away liberty spoils company, the benefit of which
cannot subsist without freedom. Besides, every man's capacity of
drinking is not the same; one shall be able to drink a gallon, and
another a pint; the latter, therefore, by drinking a pint, has drank as
much as the former when he has taken off his gallon, because they both
have drank as they can, and ------ Ferdinando ------ No man can do more
than he can do. Let every man, therefore, have the liberty to drink as
he pleases, without being tied up to the mad laws of drinking. I am of
the same opinion in this matter with brother Horace:--
------------ Prout cuiq; libide est
Siccat inequales calices conviva solutus
Legibus insanis, sen quis capit acria fortis
Pocula, seu modicis humescit lætius----[a]
We learn from history, that there was an ancient law amongst the
Persians, that forbad anyone to force another to drink. The
Lacedemonians also had that laudable custom.
Charlemagne also made a law, that prohibited forcing any one to drink.
Mr. Bayle reports a very pleasant revenge that M. Peyren gave to Raphael
Thorius, a very learned person, who would force him to drink, which take
as follows. "[1]M. Peyren dining at London with several persons of
learning, could not be discharged from drinking a health that Dr.
Thorius toasted. The glass was of a prodigious size, which M. Peyren,
for that reason, a long while refused, and alleged a thousand reasons,
but all in vain; he must empty the glass. Before he did it he made this
agreement with his antagonist, that he should drink a health afterwards
that he should toast to him; which being consented to, he took off the
bumper, and filled the glass full of water, and drank it off to the
doctor, who thereupon was thunderstruck, but seeing he could not get
off, sighed deeply, and lifted the glass a thousand times to his lips,
and as often drew it back again: he called to his assistance all the
quaint sayings of the Greek and Latin poets, and was almost the whole
day drinking that cursed bumper."
This is not much unlike what M. Chevreau reports of Marigni, who,
"[2]after having dined at one of the best eating-houses in Frankfort,
with six or seven persons of quality, was called to the sideboard, where
one of them began the emperor's health. This he must drink, and as he
foresaw very well, that this extravagance would be attended with others,
he ordered three or four great pieces of bread to be brought to him, and
having eaten half of one to the health of the king of France, he gave
the other half to the other, who took it, indeed, but would not so much
as put it to his mouth. The company surprized at so unexpected a
novelty, let him alone without any contradiction."
Nevertheless, one should be very diligent in observing this rule, which
is, That when we find ourselves in the company of people that drink, and
would not run those lengths they are going to do, to retire; and this
was a standing law amongst the Greeks in their festivals, and ought to
be as unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians, viz.
DRINK, OR GO ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS.
[[Footnote a: Horace, _Satires_ II.6.67-70.]]
[Footnote 1: Diction, p. 2875. Art. Thor.]
[Footnote 2: Chevræana, t. ii. p. 188.]
CHAP. XXXII.
SIXTH RULE, NOT TO PUSH DRUNKENNESS TOO FAR.
It is certain, that to do well, we ought continually to have an eye to
this maxim of Horace, viz. _Est modus in rebus_. And the _Ne quid nimis_
of Terence; but especially, in this grand and most important affair of
drunkenness. Seneca very well distinguishes two sorts of drunkenness,
one which entirely _buries_ our reason; and the other, which only
_diverts_ melancholy and chagrin. The last we believe to be very lawful;
but we would have it go farther, even so far, as not only _to divert_,
but to _drive away_ our cares entirely, or else not to get drunk at all.
That which is between these, if any such there can be, does one an
injury, according to the poet:--
Aut nulla ebrietas, aut tanta sit ut tibi curas
Eripiat, si quæ est inter utramque nocet.[a]
After this manner would we have people use the juice of the grape; that
is, to go so far as to make our hearts merry, gay, and sprightly, and so
as to forget our cares.
It would be here useless to shew, by a great many examples, the
disorders that drunkenness has caused, when pushed too far, because it
was never the intention of this work, but to divert (as wine was
designed to do) and make merry, I shall therefore conclude the whole
with an Ode to Bacchus, as follows:--
[[Footnote a: Ovid, _Remedium Amoris_ 809-810.]]
AN ODE TO BACCHUS.
I.
Let's sing the glories of the god of wine,
May his immortal praise
Be the eternal object of our song,
And sweetest symphonies; may ev'ry tongue
And throat sonorous, vocal music raise,
And ev'ry grateful instrument combine
To celebrate, great god, thy power divine.
Let other poets to the world relate,
Of Troy, the hard, unhappy fate;
And in immortal song rehearse,
Purpled with streams of blood the Phrygian plain;
The glorious hist'ry of Achilles slain,
And th' odious memory of Pelop's sons revive in verse.
II.
God of the grape, thou potent boy,
Thou only object of our cordial vows,
To thee alone I consecrate my heart,
Ready to follow thee in ev'ry part:
Thy influence sweet mirth bestows,
For thee alone I'd live and die in scenes of joy.
Thy bounty all our wishes still prevents;
Thy wond'rous sweetness calms to soft repose
Our wild regrets and restless woes,
And richly ev'ry craving mind contents.
Without thee Venus has no charms;
You constancy to am'rous souls impart,
And hopes bestow to each despairing heart,
III.
But, what involuntary transports roll,
And seize, at once, my agitated soul!
Into what sacred vale! what silent wood!
(I speak not by the vulgar understood,)
Am I, O god! O wond'rous deity!
Ravish'd, brimful of thy divinity and thee!
To my (once infidel) believing eyes
Bacchus unveils entire his sacred mysteries.
Movements confus'd of joy and fear
Hurry me I know not where.
With boldness all divine the god inspires;
With what a pleasing fury am I fill'd!
Such raging fires
Never the Menades in Thracian caves beheld.
IV.
Descend, O mother-queen of love,
Leave a while the realms above;
With your gay presence grace the feast
Of that great god, who bears a boundless sway,
Who conquer'd climates where first rose the day.
Descend, O mother-queen of love,
At rich repasts an ever welcome guest;
But O ----, too long you stay,
Already young Amyntor, brisk and gay,
His lovely Doris o'er the plain pursues:
The sparkling juice at Sylvan nymphs command
Richly distils from their ambrosial hand,
And old Silenus copiously bedews.
V.
Hence, ye profane,
I hate ye all, fly, quit the field,
My ready soul gives way
To those gay movements, this important day
Inspires, so to the conq'ror willing captives yield.
Come, faithful followers of Bacchus' train,
(Bacchus, most lovely of the gods)
Enter these bless'd abodes.
On high his verdant banners rear,
And quick the festival prepare.
Reach me my lute, a proper air
The chords shall sound; the trembling chords obey,
And join to celebrate this glorious day.
VI.
But 'midst the transports of a pleasing rage
Let's banish ever hence,
By a blind vapour rais'd, and vain pretence,
Those loud seditious clamours that engage
Only inhuman, brutish souls,
By barb'rous Scythians only understood,
Who cruelly their flowing bowls
At banquets intermix with streams of blood.
Dreadful, preposterous, merriment!
Our hands all gayly innocent,
Ought ne'er in such confusion bear a part,
Polluted with a savage Centaur's mortal dart.
VII.
From this sweet innocent repast,
(Too exquisite, alas! to last)
Let's ever banish the rude din of arms,
Frightful Bellona, and her dread alarms.
The dire confusions of pernicious war,
The satyrs, fauns, and Bacchus, all abhor.
Curs'd be those sanguinary mortals, who
Of reeking blood with crimson tides
The sacred mysteries imbrue
Of our great god who over peace presides.
VIII.
But if I must wage war,
If so necessity commands,
Follow, my friends, advance your hands,
Let us commence the pleasing jar.
With wreaths of ivy be our temples bound,
Hark! to arms, to arms, they sound,
Th' alarm to battle calls,
Lend me your formidable Thyrse, ye Bacchanals.
Double your strokes. Bold----bolder yet,
'Tis done-------- How many rivals conquer'd lie?
How many hardy combatants submit?
O son of Jupiter, thy deity,
And sovereign power, we own, and aid divine;
Nothing but heaps of jolly topers slain
I see extended on the plain,
Floating in ruddy streams of reeking wine.
IX.
Io victoria to our king,
To Bacchus songs of triumph let us sing;
His great immortal name
Let us aloud to distant worlds proclaim.
Io victoria to our king,
To Bacchus grateful strains belong;
O! may his glories live in endless song,
The vanquish'd welt'ring on the sand,
One health from us their conqu'ror demand.
Fill me a bumper. Trumpet sound,
Second my voice, loud, louder yet,
Sound our exploits, and their defeat,
Who quiet, undisturb'd, possess the ground.
Io victoria to our king,
To Bacchus, songs of triumph let us sing.
To this great work now finished (God be thanked) I subscribe as usual in
the like cases of books, for I love decorum, and have an utter aversion
to particularity, prolixity, and circumlocution. I say, to make short,
I subscribe as usual, &c. in the like cases, &c. for I love, &c. and
have an aversion, &c. the universally famous and most noted name which
is subscribed to all books by what name or titles dignified or
distinguished: or of what sort, species, size, dimension, or magnitude
soever, pamphletary and voluminous; whether they be first or foremost,
plays, either comical, tragical, comi-tragical, tragi-comical, or
pastoral; godly, or profane songs or ballads; sermons high or low,
popish or protestant, dissenting, independent, enthusiastical,
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Or, secondly and lastly, tracts, treatises, essays; pandects, codes,
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digests, decretals, lives; commentaries anagogical, allegorical, or
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lottery books, viz. i. e. namely, to wit, or, that is to say,
FINIS.
Which being interpreted is,
_THE END_.
POSTSCRIPT.
Having received the following letter from a merry friend, wherein are
some (not unpleasant) remarks on the foregoing treatise, I thought fit
to send it to the press, which the reader, as he is at liberty either to
read, or let alone, so it is the same thing to me, whether he does read
it, or let it alone.
To the renowned Boniface Oinophilus de Monte Fiascone, A. B. C. author
of the most inimitable (and non-pareil) treatise, Ebrietatis Encomium,
to be left with that mirror of privative perspicuity, Signor Edemondo
Curluccio, at the Bible and Dial, over against Catherine-Street, in the
Strand.
Right trusty, and well-beloved, I greet you well,
Having perused (at the bookseller's, who shewed me the sheets) your
Ebrietatis Encomium all through, even unto Finis, or the End, I own I
was not a little diverted thereat. But as I never flatter any body, so
my friends may least of all expect I should begin with them. I must,
therefore, be frank and free with you, most renowned and
never-to-be-forgotten Boniface, _post nullos memorande sodales_, and
tell you, that you have omitted several things very material, and highly
conducible to the elucidation, or illustration, (choose you whether) of
your agreeable subject. But perhaps they either did not occur to your
memory; or, which is the same thing, (_quoad lectorem_) you were
entirely ignorant of them, but which take as follow.
First and foremost, amongst your philosophers, you have taken no notice
of the stupendous Des Cartes, with his wonderful system of whirlpools
(vortices) and particles, cubic, conic, striate, oblong, globular,
hooked, crooked, spiral and angular: for who the devil but a mere tipsy,
giddy brains, could have dished up such a confounded hotch-potch and
gallimatias of whimsical rotations, or fancied that the whole earth
whirled round like a town-top, had not _Vinorum materia subtilis_,
the circling effluvia of _Liber Pater_, abundantly invaded his capital
regions.
So have I seen in days of yore a dame,
At Winchester, who seventy winters knew,
Not more nor less, my mistress then yclept,
Hight Margaret, deceas'd long since I trow,
Whose fate I thus bemoan'd in song sublime.
She's gone, alas! the beauteous nymph is dead,
Dead to my hopes, and all my eager wishes:
Such is the state of poor unhappy man,
All things soon pass away, nought permanent,
That rolls beneath the vortex of the moon.
So when we've screw'd up to the highest Peg[1]
Our ample lines of future happiness,
Some disappointments dire, or chance disastrous,
Snaps the extended chords. Oh! then farewell,
No more shall visual ray of form acute
Affect her wondrous mien. Farewell those lips
Of sapphire tincture, gums of crocus die
Freed from th'ungrateful load of cumbrous teeth.
Mantle farewell, of grograin brown compos'd,
Studded with silver clasp in number plural:
With jacket short, so famous, tory red,
Not hemm'd, but bound about with good galloon
Of deepest mazarine (delightful hue!)
Farewell (I sighing speak) those non-such shoes
Of obfusc colour (heel of form cylindrous)
Worn only upon days non-ferial.
In love's true knot of verdant ferrit tied.
But Oh! farewell, a long and last farewell,
To large Ampull with vital water fraught,
Wherein the effluvia soft and delicate
Of dulcet aniseseed (not coriander)
In its capacious rim of form anguillar
Whirl in sweet vortex. Hence it was observ'd,
The subtile matter, when in throat retir'd,
Kept still its roulant quality, and oft
Would mount in circling spires to pericranium
Of she-philosopher, when in elbow chair,
Deep and profound, would the grave matron reve,
And learnedly pronounce (like great RENATUS[2])
With equal verity the world turns round.
Secondly and foremost, you should have added at the end of the
philosophers chapter, the song of the Tippling Philosophers, which I
send you here enclosed.
The bookseller to whom I mentioned this, fancied truly, that you might
think it too mean and trifling to insert. But without troubling myself
to know, whether this be your sentiment, or whether he spoke this of his
own head, I shall trouble myself to tell you, as this song is taken from
an excellent French one, which you may find in a very famous book[3],
and which (to follow your method) you may know by the note at the
bottom. The song (whether you have ever seen it, or not, I neither know,
nor do I care) is as follows, and will go with the same tune as the
English (if I am not mistaken).
[Footnote 1: You must remember my Mrs.'s name was Margaret.]
[Footnote 2: Des Cartes's christian name.]
[Footnote 3: Fureteriana, p. 205.]
CHANSON A BOIRE.
I.
Je cherche en vin la vérité,
Si le vin n'aide a ma foiblesse,
Toute la docte antiquité
Dans le vin puisa la sagesse.
Oui c'est par le bon vin que le bon sens eclate
J'en atteste Hypocrate,
Qui dit qu'il fait a chaque mois
Du moins s'enivrer une fois.
II.
Socrate cet homme discret
Que toute la terre revere,
Alloit manger au cabaret
Quand sa femme etoit en colere.
Pouvons-nous mieux faire que d'imiter Socrate
Et de suivre Hypocrate,
Qui dit, &c.
III.
Platon est nommé le divin
Parce qu'il etoit magnifique,
Et qu'il regala de son vin
La cabale philosophique.
Sa table fût toujours splendide et delicate,
Il suivit Hypocrate,
Qui dit, &c.
IV.
Aristotle bûvoit autant,
Et nous avons lieu de le croire
De ce qu'Alexandre le grand,
Son disciple, aimoit tant a boire,
Qu'il degela cent fois sur les bords de l'Euphrate
En suivant Hypocrate,
Qui dit, &c.
V.
L'on veut que Diogene aimoit l'eau,
Mais il n'eut point cette folie,
Il se logea dans un tonneau
Pour sentir le gout de la lie.
Et pour mieux boire au pot, il jetta la sa jatte
Et tint pour Hypocrate,
Qui dit, &c.
VI.
Democrite près de sa fin,
Par une invention jolie,
En flairant seulement le vin,
De trois jours prolonga sa vie.
Le vin retarde plus la mort, qu'il ne la háte,
Temoin notre Hypocrate,
Qui dit, &c.
VII.