of the gods to men. The latter would appear to have abused the gift,
if we may believe Philonides the physician, who wrote a treatise “On
Perfumes and Garlands” (Περὶ Μύρων καὶ Στεφάνων). In this treatise he
asserts, that, when Bacchus brought the vine from the Red Sea into
Greece, men drank to such excess, that they became as beasts, and
incapable of performing manly duties. A party of these revellers were
once drinking by the sea-shore, when a sudden storm drove them into a
cave for shelter. They do not seem, however, to have been inveterate
tipplers; for, according to Philonides, they left their cups on the
beach. When the shower had passed, they found the wine in them mingled
with rain water; and, very much to their credit, they liked the mixture
so well, that they solemnly thanked the “good genius” who had sent it.
Hence, when wine was served at Grecian repasts, the guests invoked
this good genius; and when the turn came for wine mixed with water,
they acknowledged the benevolent inventor by the name of _Jupiter
Saviour_. I may take this opportunity to state, that, at one period, it
was the fashion to attend these drinking entertainments in a pair of
“Alcibiades,” or boots which had been rendered popular by being first
worn by the curled son of Clinias. Thus we see, that in our fashion
of conferring on boots the authorities of great names, we are doing
nothing original; and that men used to call for their “Alcibiades,” as
they do now for their “Wellingtons,” “Bluchers,” or “Alberts.”
To revert, for a moment, to the question of wine and water, I would
state, that it has been discussed in its separate divisions by German
writers, the substance of whose opinions I will venture to give in
verse, without desiring, however, to be considered as endorsing every
sentiment in full. As French music-books say, it is an “_Air à faire_.”
Do you ask what now glows
In this goblet of mine?
Wine! wine! wine! wine!
To the stream, do ye ask,
Shall my cup-bearer go?
No! no! no! no!
Let water its own frigid nature retain;
Since water it is, let it water remain!
Let it ripple and run in meandering rills,
And set the wheels going in brook-sided mills.
In the desert, where streams do but scantily run,
If so much they’re allow’d by the thirsty old sun,
There water _may_ be, as it’s quaff’d by each man,
Productive of fun to a whole caravan.
But ask what now glows, &c.
Yes, water, and welcome, in billows may rise,
Till it shiver its feathery crest ’gainst the skies;
Or in dashing cascades it may joyously leap,
Or in silvery lakes lie entranced and asleep;--
Or, e’en better still, in full showers of hope,
Let it gaily descend on some rich vineyard’s slope,
That its sides may bear clusters of ripening bliss,
Which, in Autumn, shall melt into nectar like this,
Like this that now glows, &c.
Let it bear up the vessel that bringeth us o’er
Its freight of glad wine from some happier shore.
Let it run through each land that in ignorance lies:
It the Heathen will do very well to baptize.
Yes, water shall have ev’ry due praise of mine,
Whether salt, like the ocean, or fresh, like the Rhine.
Yes, praised to the echo pure water shall be,
But wine, wine alone is the nectar for me!
For ’tis that which now glows
In this goblet of mine.
Wine! wine! wine! wine!
No attendant for me
To the river need go.
No! no! no! no!
The various merits and uses of the respective liquids are fairly
allowed in the above lines; but I may observe, that wine apologists,
generally, are sadly apt to forget, that there are such things as
conscience and to-morrow morning. For their edification and use, I
indite the following colloquy, to be kept in mind, rather than sung, at
all festivities where the “_Aqua Pumpaginis_” is held in abhorrence:--
See the wine in the bowl,
How it sparkles to-night!
Tell us what can compete
With that red sea of light;
Which breathes forth a perfume
That deadens all sorrow,
And leaves us bless’d now,
(Conscience _loquitur_,)
“With a headache to-morrow!”
Where are spirits like those
That we find in the bowl,
Shedding joy round our brows,
Breathing peace to the soul?
Our tongues feel the magic,
There our strains, too, we borrow:
We’re Apollos to-night,
(Conscience _loquitur_,)
“To be songless to-morrow!”
O, this rare inspiration!
How gay are the dreams
Of the thrice triple blest
Who may quaff of thy streams!
It expels from the heart
Sulky care, that old horror,
And tells laughter to-night
(Conscience, ashamed of the rhyme)
“To wake sadness to-morrow!”
Drink deep, though there be
Thirstless fools, who may preach
Of the sins of the bowl,--
Do they act as they teach?
If we’re sinners, what then!
As we’re not friends to sorrow,
We’ll be glad ones to-night,
(Conscience _loquitur_,)
“To be sad ones to-morrow!”
Ah! that was old Conscience:
_Him_ we’ll drown in the wine!
Plunge him in! hold him down!
Ah! he dies!--now the Nine
May, to write in his praise,
From our Helicon borrow.
He’s done talking to-night;
(Conscience, from the bowl,)
“You shall hear me to-morrow!”
Finally, being on Pegasus, and he ambling along through this chapter
of Wine and Water, I will take the opportunity, as connected with my
subject, of doing justice to a flower whose “capability,” as Mr. Browne
used very properly to say, has been overlooked,--I mean the tulip:--
Praise they who will the saucy vine,
With her thousand rings and her curls so fine!
But I fill up
To the tulip-cup,
All looking as though it were bathed in wine.
Ah, show me the flower,
In vale or bower,
That looks half so well as this bowl of mine!
O, who this night will fail to fill up,
Or to sing in praise of the tulip-cup?
Praise they who will the willow-tree,
With her drooping neck and her tresses free,
That bend to the brink
Of the brook, and drink
Of a liquid that never will do for me!
While the tulip-cup
Is for ever held up,
As though she could drink for eternity.
And that is the very best bowl for me,
Who hate the sickly willow-tree!
The water-lily praise who will:
Of water we know that she loves her fill.
But what, pray, is she
To the tulip, that we
Have loved for so long, and love so well still?
Ah! who doth not think her
A mere water-drinker,
That quaffs but such wine she can get from the rill?
Then fill up to-night to the tulip tall,
Who holds forth her cups, and can drain them all!
See how naturally we drop out of the subject of “Wine and Water,” into
that of “Wine,” to which we now, reverently, yet joyously, address
ourselves.
THE BIRTH OF THE VINE, AND WHAT HAS COME OF IT.
The birth of the vine was in this wise. On the day of the creation,
the trees vied with each other in boasting; and each exulted in the
enjoyment of his own existence. “The Lord himself,” said the lofty
cedar, “planted me, and in me has he united stability and fragrance,
strength and durability.” “Me,” said the shade-spreading palm, “hath
the beneficence of Jehovah appointed for a blessing, joining together
in me utility and beauty.” Then the apple-tree spoke: “As a bridegroom
among youths, so am I resplendent among the trees of the woods.” “And
I,” said the myrtle, “stand among the lowly bushes, like a rose among
thorns.” In this manner boasted they all, the olive and the fig; yea,
the pine even, and the fir exulted.
The vine alone, in silence, stooped to the ground. “It seems,” said
she to herself, “as if every thing were denied me,--stem and branch,
blossom and fruit; but, such as I am, I will hope and wait.” Thus
speaking, she sank to the earth, and her branches wept.
But not long did she thus wait and weep; for, behold, cheerful man, the
earthly god, drew nigh unto her. He saw a weak plant, the plaything of
the breeze, sinking under its own weight, and pining for assistance.
Touched with compassionate feeling, he upheld it, and trained the
delicate tree over his own bower. More freely now sported the air
among its branches. The warmth of the sun penetrated the hard green
berries, preparing therein the delicious juice,--a drink for gods and
men. Laden with clustering grapes, the vine now bowed herself before
her lord, and the latter tasted of her refreshing sweets, and named her
his friend, his own grateful favourite. It was now that the proud trees
envied her, but many of them lived on in sterility, while she rejoiced,
full of gratitude at her slender growth, and patient humility; and
therefore it is, that it is given to her to make glad the heart of
sorrowing man, to elevate the cast-down spirit, and to cheer the
afflicted.
“Despair not,” says Herder, who thus tells the old traditionary story
of the vine,--“Despair not, O thou that art deserted, but endure
patiently. Sweet streams issue from unlikely sources; and the feeble
vine affords the most potent draught in the world.”
Let us, however, turn from poetical tradition to prosaic reality. The
vine is, by birth, a Persian. Its cradle was on the sunny slopes of
the hilly regions on the south shores of the Caspian Sea. There, in
the Caucasus, and in Cashmere, the wild vine still climbs and clings
to the very necks of the most towering trees. Its life-blood in those
regions is seldom turned to evil purpose. In Caubul it is taken less
in potions than in powder. The Caubulese dry and grind it to dust, and
eat thereof, finding it a pleasant acid. This is half matter of taste
and half matter of medicine, just as over-wearied digestions in Germany
drive their wretched owners into vineyards, to abstain from meat, and
live, for a while, upon raisins. Indeed, the vine was never meant
entirely for enjoyment. It is one of the most perfect of chymists; and
if it offers grapes in clusters, its twigs afford carbonate of potash,
serviceable for many purposes, and, among others, for correcting the
acidity brought on by too free indulgence in the fruit, or in its
expressed liquid.
In the olden days, when the Patriarchs worshipped Heaven in the
“cathedral of immensity,” Palestine was renowned for the glory of
its grapes. There were none other to compare with them upon earth.
When the desert-treaders were waiting the return of their emissaries,
whom they had sent from Kadesh-Barnea to spy the Promised Land, their
thirsty impatience was exchanged for delight at beholding their agents
re-appear, bearing between them, upon poles, gigantic clusters,--the
near fountains whence their dried up souls might draw new life and
vigour. The grapes of Palestine are still remarkable for their great
size. Clusters are spoken of, each of which exceeds a stone in weight;
and vines are mentioned, whose stems measured a foot and a half
in diameter, and whose height reached to thirty feet; while their
branches afforded a tabernacle of shade, to the extent of thirty feet
square. But it could not have been from such a vine that the men from
Kadesh-Barnea collected the grapes which they could scarcely carry.
The Welbeck grapes which the Duke of Portland sent to the Marquess
of Rockingham, were of Syrian origin; and these--on a single bunch,
weighing nineteen pounds, and measuring three-and-twenty inches long,
with a maximum diameter of nearly twenty inches--were borne upon a pole
a distance of twenty miles, by four labourers; two to carry, and two
to relieve. So that the conveying grapes in this fashion may have been
more on account of their delicacy than of their weight. The Hampton
Court vine, too, produces clusters of great weight, and covers a space
of not less than 2,200 feet.
The vine has been figuratively employed as an emblem of fruitfulness,
of security, and peace; and no doubt can exist of its having been
cultivated at a very early period. Noah planted the vine immediately
after the Deluge; and, from the first thing planted, sin came again
into the world, bringing with it widely-extending consequences. Bread
and wine are mentioned in Genesis. Pharaoh’s chief butler dreamed
of a vine with three branches; and the Israelites (in Numbers)
complained that Moses and Aaron had brought them out of Egypt into a
dry and barren land, where there were neither figs nor vines. So, in
after-years, the companions of Columbus sailed tremblingly with their
calm Captain over trackless seas, and murmured at him for bringing them
from the olives and vines of Spain, to the very confines of creation,
where terror reigned, and death sat enthroned.
Jacopo di Bergamo gives a singular account of the reason which induced
Noah to plant the vine. The Patriarch did so, he says, because he saw
a goat in Sicily eat some wild grapes, and afterwards fight with such
courage, that Noah inferred there must have been virtue in the fruit.
He planted a vine, therefore, and--wherefore is not told--manured it
with the blood of a lion, a lamb, a swine, and a monkey, or ape. But
this, perhaps, only signifies that, by drinking wine, men become bold,
confiding or meek, filthy or obscene.
It is stated by Theodoret, that Noah himself, after pressing the
grapes, became intoxicated through inexperience, as he had been
a water-drinker for six centuries! The sin of Lot is supposed to
have been committed, not merely under the influences of wine, but
of a maddening and drugged draught. The evil power of wine is well
illustrated by the story of the Monk, to whom Satan offered a choice of
sins,--incest, murder, or drunkenness. The poor Monk chose the last, as
the least of the three; and, when he was drunk, he committed the other
two.
Commentators pronounce our rendering under the single word “wine,”
the thirteen distinct Hebrew terms used in the Bible to distinguish
between wines of different sorts, ages, and condition, as a defect
of great magnitude; and no doubt it is so. The knowledge of mixing
wines appears to have been extensively applied by the ancient people;
and it is said of the beautiful Helen, that she learned in Egypt the
composition of the exhilarating, or rather, stupefying, ingredients
which she mixed in the bowl, together with the wine, to raise the
spirits of such of her guests as were oppressed with grief. I may
notice, too, here, that our word _shrub_, or _syrup_, is an Eastern
word. In Turkey, a SHIRUB-JEE is simply a “wine-seller.”
Yes, despite the Prophet, the Turks drink wine more than occasionally,
and under various names. Tavernier speaks of a particular preparation
of the grape drunk by the Grand Seignior, in company with the ladies of
the seraglio; and a similar beverage, it is conjectured, was quaffed by
Belshazzar and his concubines out of the holy vessels, and was offered
in vain to the more scrupulous Daniel. It was a rich and royal drink,
made strong by the addition of drugs; and the object of drinking the
potent mixture was the same as that which induced Conrad Scriblerus
and the daughter of Gaspar Barthius to live for a whole year on goat’s
milk and honey. Either mixture was better than that of the Persians,
who “fortified” their wines, or syrup of sweet wines, by adding to them
the very perilous seasoning of _nux vomica_. But none of these were
so curious as the “wine-cakes” eaten by Mr. Buckingham: these were, I
suppose, made of wine preserves. But pure wine may be eaten, or rather,
be rendered harder than any of our common food. Thus we hear of Russian
troops being compelled, in very hard winters, to cut out their rations
of wine from the cask with a hatchet.
I think it is the renowned Dissenter, Toplady, who remarks, that the
only sarcastic passage in Scripture is to be found in the cutting
speech of Elisha to the Priests of Baal; “Is not Baal a god, seeing
that he eateth much meat?” There is, however, another ironical passage,
in reference to wine. “Give _Shechar_ unto him who is ready to
perish,” is the satirical speech of Lemuel’s mother, who warns her
royal son against the deceitful influences of intoxicating beverages,
representing them as especially destructive to those who are charged
with the government of nations; and then ironically points to the man
who foolishly concludes, that in the sweet or strong drink he may bury
all memory of the cares and anxieties brought upon him by his own
profligacy.
There is, however, a difference of opinion touching the spirit in which
the last words quoted from Scripture are used. The Rabbins interpret
the passage as a command to administer wine to the individual about to
suffer death. Thus wine mingled with myrrh was offered to One of whom
the Gospel records, that He refused what His enemies presented.
The custom of offering doomed criminals a last earthly draught of
refreshment is undoubtedly one of considerable antiquity. The right
of offering wine to criminals on their passage to the scaffold was
often a privilege granted to religious communities. In Paris, the
privilege was held by the convent of Filles-Dieu, the Nuns of which
kept wine prepared for those who were condemned to suffer on the gibbet
of Montfaucon. The gloomy procession halted before the gate of the
monastery, the criminal descended from the cart, and the Nuns, headed
by the Lady Abbess, received him on the steps with as much, perhaps
more heartfelt ceremony than if he had been a King. The poor wretch
was led to a crucifix near the church door, the feet whereof he humbly
kissed. He then received, from the hands of the Superior, three pieces
of bread, (to remind him of the Trinity,) and _one_ glass of wine
(emblem of Unity). The procession then resumed its dread way to the
scaffold.
Elie Berthet tells us of a poor wretch, who, on being offered the
usual refreshment, quietly swallowed the wine, and coolly put the
bread in his pocket. When again in the cart, his observant Confessor
asked him his reason for the act. “I suppose, Father,” answered the
moribund, “that the good sisters furnished me with the bread that it
may serve me in paradise; on earth, at all events, it can no longer
be of use to me.” “Be of good cheer,” said another Confessor, who was
encouraging a criminal on the _Grève_; “be of good cheer. To-night you
will sup in paradise.” “_Tenez, mon Père_,” answered the poor fellow;
“_allez-y-vous à ma place; car, pour moi, je n’ai pas faim_.” This
incident has been made good use of by the “ballad” writers both of
England and France.
“Bowl-yard,” St. Giles’s-in-the-Fields, preserves in its name the
memory of a similar custom in England. This yard, or alley, adjacent
to the church, is a portion of the site of the old Hospital for
Lepers, the garden of which was a place of execution. Lord Cobham,
under Henry V., and Babington and his accomplices, for conspiring
against Elizabeth, were executed here. Stow tells us that, “at this
hospital, the prisoners conveyed from the city of London toward Tyburn,
there to be executed for treason, felonies, or other trespasses,
were presented with a great _bowl_ of ale, thereof to drink at their
_pleasure_, (?) as to be their last refreshment in this life.” In
later days, the criminals were sometimes supplied by their friends
from the public-houses on the line of road. In one case, a convict
happily tarried drinking for a longer space of time than usual. The
rope was just round his neck, when the arrival of a reprieve saved him.
Had he drunk a glass less, he would have been hanged a moment sooner;
and society would thus have been deprived of his valuable services.
He was a luckier man than the saddler in Ireland, who, on his way to
the gibbet, refused the ale and wine offered him on the road, who was
accordingly very rapidly dispatched, and for whom a reprieve arrived a
minute too late for him to profit by it. Hence the proverb, applied
by those who press reluctant people to drink, “Ah, now go away wid
you. Ye’re like the obs’inate saddler, who was hanged for refusing
his liquor.” It certainly was not a custom with Irish convicts to
decline the “thrink,” before trial or after. “The night before Larry
was stretch’d,” is a slang lyric, graphically illustrative of the
grace with which Irish criminals took leave of life. The most singular
thing, however, connected with the popular lay in question, is, that it
was written by a Clergyman. But, at the time of its production, such
authorship excited no surprise in the literary public. The “cloth”
was still of the quality of that in which Fielding’s Newgate Chaplain
walked; and he, it will be remembered, was a pious gentleman, who
candidly avowed that he was the rather given to indulge in punch, as
that was a liquor nowhere spoken against in Scripture!
But it was not English or Irish Chaplains, of the olden time, who stood
by themselves in their respect for good liquor. If that reverend and
rubicund gentleman, Walter de Mapes, wrote the best Latin drinking-song
that Bacchanalian inspiration ever produced, so did a German Prelate
preach the best sermon on the same text. I allude to the Bishop of
Triers, or Trèves. Here is an odour, caught by the way, of the full
bottle of counsel which he poured out to his hearers:--
“Brethren, to whom the high privilege of repentance and penance has
been conceded, you feel the sin of abusing the gifts of Providence.
But, _abusum non tollit usum_. It is written, ‘Wine maketh glad the
heart of man.’ It follows, then, that to use wine moderately is our
duty. Now there is, doubtless, none of my male hearers who cannot drink
his four bottles without affecting his brain. Let him, however,--if
by the fifth or sixth bottle he no longer knoweth his own wife,--if
he beat and kick his children, and look on his dearest friend as an
enemy,--refrain from an excess displeasing to God and man, and which
renders him contemptible in the eyes of his fellows. But whoever, after
drinking his ten or twelve bottles, retains his senses sufficiently
to support his tottering neighbour, or manage his household affairs,
or execute the commands of his temporal and spiritual superiors, let
him take his share quietly, and be thankful for his talent. Still, let
him be cautious how he exceed this; for man is weak, and his powers
limited. It is but seldom that our kind Creator extends to any one the
grace to be able to drink safely sixteen bottles, of which privilege
he hath held me, the meanest of his servants, worthy. And since no
one can say of me that I ever broke out in causeless rage, or failed
to recognise my household friends or relations, or neglected the
performance of my spiritual duties, I may, with thankfulness and a good
conscience, use the gift which hath been intrusted to me. And you, my
pious hearers, each take modestly your allotted portion; and, to avoid
all excess, follow the precept of St. Peter,--‘Try all, and stick by
the best!’”
The sermon is not a bad illustration of what was, and remains,
historical fact. The first Archbishop of Mayence was the Englishman
Boniface; and most of his successors might have been characterized by
his name. They were more powerful than the Emperors, and more stately
than Moguls. The Canons of the Cathedral, supported by its enormous
revenues, lived a jovial life. The Pope, indeed, reproved them for
their worldly and luxurious habits; but they uproariously returned for
answer, “We have no more wine than is needed for the Mass; and not
enough to turn our mills with!”
_Good_ living, as it was erroneously called, was certainly, at one
time, an universal observance in Germany, when the sole wish of man
was, that he might have short sermons and long puddings. When this
wish prevailed, every dining-room had its _faulbett_, or sot’s couch,
in one corner, for the accommodation of the first couple of guests
who might chance to be too drunk to be removed. Indeed, in German
village-inns, the most drunken guests were, in former days, by far
the best off; for, while they had the beds allotted them, as standing
in most need of the same, the guests of every degree, whether rich
or poor, the perfectly sober--wherever such phenomena were to be
found--and those not so intoxicated but they could stagger out of the
room, all lodged with the cows among the straw.