THE OLD WINES AND THE NEW
Decline and fall of port — Old topers — A youthful wine-bibber — The
whisky age succeeds the port age — “Jeropiga” — Landladies’ port —
A monopoly — Port _v._ gout — A quaint breakfast in Reading — About
nightcaps — Sherry an absolutely pure wine — Except when made within
the four miles’ radius — Treading the grapes — “Yeso” — Pliny pops up
again — “Lime in the sack” — What the _Lancet_ says — “Old Sherry” —
_Faux pas_ of a General — About vintages.
On the decline and fall of port wine volumes might be written. At
the same time I am not the man who is going to write them. According
to early recollections, the conversation of my elders was limited to
hunting, racing, and the wines of Oporto. The man who had “ ’20,” or
“Comet,” port in his cellars was a man to be cultivated, and dined
with; whilst “ ’34” and “ ’47” men were next in demand. And this was
after the era of the three-and-four-bottle heroes, of whose deeds I
have heard my father speak, almost with bated breath; how, after the
retirement of the ladies, to discuss tea and scandal by themselves,
the dining-room door would be locked by the host himself, who would
{138} pocket the key thereof. Many of the guests slept where they
fell, “repugnant to command,” like the sword of Pyrrhus, whilst others
would be fastened in the interior of their chariots at a later hour.
Even in the late fifties, the estimable divine with whom I was studying
the beauties of the classics, would on the frequent occasion of a
dinner-party provide one bottle of port per head, for his guests, in
addition to hock, champagne, and sherry; and the writer, then a boy of
fifteen, was included amongst the “heads.”
But as the stone age succeeded the ice age, as the iron age succeeded
the stone age, and as the gold age, and the railway age, and the
rotten company age succeeded the iron age, so have the whisky age, and
the “small bottle” age, and the gin-and-bitters age almost wiped out
the age when man drank, talked, and thought port. Our ancestors were
immoderate in their potations but, as far as wine went, these were
but rarely indulged in until after sundown, although the Briton would
frequently wash his breakfast down with ale of the strongest. And
it is difficult to believe that the evil habit of “nipping,” at all
hours of the day, which now prevails in some circles—a habit which is
mainly due to the break-neck pace at which life is pursued—is either
more conducive to health or intellectuality, or morality than the
after-dinner debauch of a century ago.
The “hot and heady” wine is (or, rather, was) produced chiefly in a
mountainous district of Portugal called Cima de Douro. The wine is
largely mixed with spirit even during {139} fermentation, the proper
colour being given by a mixture known as _jeropiga_, which is a
preparation of elder-berries, molasses, raisin juice, and spirit.
The wine which is made within the Metropolitan Police District, for
the special benefit of landladies, infirmaries, and she-choristers,
is also treated with a similar mixture, with the addition of a little
logwood-extract; but in fashionable quarters the mixture is not known
as _jeropiga_, a name which would probably affect the sale.
Port wine was known in England before the year 1700, but was not in
much demand. From the year mentioned till 1826 the export trade was a
monopoly in the hands of English merchants. The effect of this monopoly
was to increase the price in England, and to gradually deteriorate the
quality. Exports from Oporto have decreased in a marked way for the
last forty years or so; and although there is still some demand, and
some decent wine left, the “hot and heady” concoction whether dry or
fruity, a lady’s wine, or a military ditto, is gradually leaving us.
The pity of it! And simultaneously with its departure comes the
pronouncement of the medical profession that port (with the exception
of the “old crusted” brand) does _not_ encourage gout to abide within
the human frame. I may fairly claim to have been a “port man” all my
life, and never, when serving Her Majesty, overlooked my orthodox
allowance of the “black strap” purchased with the Prince Regent’s
allowance. Nevertheless I am not going to recommend this description of
wine as an ideal breakfast drink; although very early in {140} life I
once made trial of it at nine o’clock one morning.
This was in the good town of Reading, in company with a schoolmate or
two. We were on our way home for the holidays, and had been entrusted,
for the first part of the journey, to the care of the French master.
Him we had evaded for the time being—he was much interested in the
manufacture of sweet biscuits—and marching boldly into the best inn’s
best room, we demanded bread and cheese and a bottle of the most
expensive port on the wine-list. Schoolboy-like our fancy turned to
quaintness in the matter of meals; and I am bound to add that the state
of our health was not one whit improved by this weird breakfast. As for
the French master, no sooner had he run us to earth, than⸺ but that
part of the story is too painful to tell.
One of the oldest winter beverages known to civilization is
_Bishop_,
a composition of port wine and spices of which it has been written:—
Three cups of this a prudent man may take;
The first of these for constitution’s sake,
The second to the girl he loves the best,
The third and last to lull him to his rest.
And an effectual luller is this Bishop.
Make several incisions in the rind of a lemon, stick cloves in the
incisions, and roast the lemon at a slow fire. Put small but equal
quantities of {141} cinnamon, cloves, mace, and all-spice into
a saucepan, with half a pint of water; let it boil until reduced
one-half. Boil one bottle of port wine; burn a portion of the spirit
out of it by applying a lighted paper to the saucepan. Put the roasted
lemon and spice into the wine, stir it well, and let it stand near the
fire ten minutes. Rub a few lumps of sugar on the rind of a lemon, put
the sugar into a bowl with the juice of half a lemon (not roasted),
pour the wine into it, grate some nutmeg into it, sweeten to taste,
and serve with the lemon and spices floating on the surface.
To sum up, the decline and fall of port in British estimation may be
said to be due, mainly, to the following causes: inferiority of most
of the modern vintages, the introduction of whisky, the present taste
for lighter wines, such as the cheaper clarets and burgundies, with
the wines of Germany and Italy, and a sort of “boom” in wines from
Australia and California. These last-named, however, are but seldom
seen at the tables of the wealthy; and thus far the demand for the
productions of gallant little Wales have not been in any great request,
although the demand is said to be equal to the supply.
Sherry, the “sack” which was said to cheer the heart of Sir John
Falstaff and other of Shakespeare’s heroes, is, like port, a light
of other days. Like the wine of Portugal, also, its exportation has
for many years been in the hands of English settlers. The following
startling statistics have been published about these exports, which
statistics speak for themselves: The output to England in 1891 was
2,135,969 gallons, or _sixty-four per cent_ {142} less than in 1873,
which was the “record” sherry year. And although many efforts have been
made to stem the ebb, the last seven years have shewn a steady decrease
in the exports.
Yet, according to the best authorities, sherry is not only the
purest, but the most wholesome of all wines. Of course, in making
this statement the wine of Spain, the _vino de Jerez_ is implied,
and not the home-made productions for the malefit of those who study
economy without due regard to digestion. Strictly speaking, sherry
means Jerez (pronounced “herreth”) wine. But Manzanilla, a wine which
is made at St. Lucas, and Montilla which comes from a town south of
Cordova, may come under the same category. And with a view of shewing
the wholesomeness of sherry it is stated, by no less an authority than
the _Lancet_, that it is the only wine enjoined in the preparations of
the wines of the British Pharmacopœia, with two exceptions—viz. _vinum
ferri citratis_, and _vinum quininae_, which are made with orange wine.
Therefore it is certain that the sufferer from gout, for whom _vinum
colchici_ is prescribed, may swallow a proportion of the juice of the
grape, and, possibly, a hair of the dog which bit him. This naturally
recalls the old story of the sherry which was sent to a former Lord
Chesterfield as a _panacea_ for his ailment, and the curt reply sent:
“Sir, I have tried your sherry, and prefer the gout.”
There are several types of sherries, according to the different
characters developed. These are known by several distinguishing
terms {143} comprehending the characters and specific qualities of
the wine from one end to the other of a scale ranging from delicate
and light wines to rich, generous, and dark-coloured wines. Between
a straw-coloured _Vino de Pasto_ and the very fine Old East India
Brown—the sherry which two decades ago was in enormous demand at
such old-fashioned hostelries as the “Rainbow” in Fleet Street, ere
the reign of gin-and-bitters—there is a vast difference, both in
colour and flavour. Broadly, however, sherry may be divided into
two classes—_fino_, a light-coloured, delicate light wine of the
Amontillado type, and the _oloroso_, a full-bodied, highly-developed
wine.
The sherry grapes are collected and placed in large panniers on the
backs of mules and conveyed to the press-houses. The press is of very
primitive construction, and is identical with those used in ancient
history. It consists simply of a wooden trough about ten feet square,
provided in the centre with a screw press, which is used after the
treading by foot power is done, to get the last drop of juice out of
the crushed mass. Rather less than a ton of grapes serves for one
pressing, and the idea that this is done with the naked feet of the
Spanish peasantry is a popular error. Sherry is not kneaded like German
bread. Men clad in light clothing and shod with wooden clogs, with
nails on the soles and heels, pointing in a slanting direction, proceed
to tread the grapes in a most methodical manner, proceeding row by row,
each row being of the width of the nailed sole of the clog.
After the grapes have been trodden over for {144} the first time,
_i.e._ partly crushed and bruised, a measured quantity of sulphate of
lime (_Yeso_) is sprinkled over the sticky mass—now I have gone so
far perhaps ’twould be as well to complete the narrative, although it
is not always wise to enquire too closely into the interior economy
of wine presses, or kitchens. This sulphate of lime is a pure native
earth, found in the neighbourhood of Jerez, and is burnt before being
mixed with the grapes. How many sherry drinkers, I wonder, know how
largely mother earth enters into their pet tipple? The idea, certainly,
does not seem a nice one, but this mixing of lime with sherry is a very
ancient custom indeed.
Pliny—where should we modern bookmakers be without dear old
Pliny?—mentions the custom as an ancient African one. And in days of
yore it must be remembered that Africa was not entirely populated by
cannibals and dervishes, but was the home of many who lived wisely and
well.
“There’s lime in the sack!” is a sentence put into the mouth of
Falstaff. In modern days the process has become known as “plastering,”
from the fact that plaster-of-Paris consists principally of sulphate of
lime or burnt gypsum.
“It is interesting,” says the _Lancet_, “to surmise the origin of this
very ancient custom. That it had some intelligent basis admits of no
doubt. Some think that it had its origin in the fact being noticed that
when the grape juice was fermented in alabaster vessels or in marble
tanks the wine was better, it clarified quicker, and {145} developed
character more satisfactorily. Others regard the addition of sulphate
of lime as convenient from a mechanical point of view during the
pressing; it was necessary when the grapes were wetter than usual in
order to bind the residuary mass together. We do not incline to this
view.”
As the _Lancet_ devotes a considerable space to the exposition of the
view to which it does incline I may be excused from quoting it in
full—more especially as there be tables of percentages, and complicated
mathematical calculations in said exposition. But it is proved to the
satisfaction of the _Lancet_ that “lime in the sack” is matter in the
right place. And although to an uneducated mind lime suggests such
terrifying developments of _tarda podagra_ as chalk-stones, possibly
the action of the grapes on the lime renders it innocuous.
It is a curious fact that sherry in keeping develops a slight increase
of alcohol as the time advances. All spirit added to sherry, however,
is obtained from wine itself, corn-spirit in Spain being quite a
superfluity, since wine-spirit can be produced so cheaply and in
unlimited quantity. Moreover the importation of German spirit into
Spain is made practically impossible by a prohibitive duty. Still,
unless rumour lies, some Spanish wines receive the German spirit after
exportation; so Spain “gets there just the same.”
Here is an item of news which should inspire confidence in the sceptic.
“Good brandy—_i.e._ a genuine wine-distilled {146} spirit—is being
produced in Spain in commercial quantities which it is to be hoped will
successfully compete with the stuff erroneously called brandy, not to
say Cognac, but of which not a drop has been derived from the grape.”
In my researches into the manufacture of port and sherry, I have come
across no mention of the phylloxera. I am, therefore, halting between
the beliefs, either that the Spaniards and Portuguese understand vermin
better than do the French, or that the “vine-louse” has her own reasons
for keeping out of Spain and Portugal.
Forty years ago an estimable Irish nobleman was known as “Old
Sherry,” from his partiality to that wine. And thirty years ago I was
once seated at the table of a General of Division, up at Simla. My
right-hand neighbour was a son of this same nobleman, but our host,
apparently, did not know this—or had forgotten the fact. At all events,
during a lull in the conversation, the General (who had a voice like
sharpening a saw) rapped out: “By the way, Captains—you say you’ve been
quartered in Ireland—did you ever meet ‘Old Sherry’ there?”
A subaltern can’t very well throw a dinner-roll at a General or stick
a carving-fork into his leg; but that is what I, personally, felt like
doing.
In mediæval times a sufficient quantity of wine for the needs of the
inhabitants was made in gallant little Wales; and the idea of reviving
the industry occurred to the Marquis of Bute, who has done so much for
the welfare of Cardiff {147} and the neighbourhood. The vineyards are
on the site of the old ones, facing south, and the vines were planted
twenty years ago, and are very hardy. There is no reason why they
should not be propagated to almost any extent, and there is abundant
scope for the extension of the vineyards and a proportionate increase
in the yield of wine.
The vintages of 1885, 1890, and 1891 are marked in Messrs. Hatch,
Mansfield and Co.’s list as “All sold,” and although the vintage
of ’98, owing to the long spell of dry weather, does not promise
particularly well, the Marquis is no more unfortunate in this respect
than most other vine-growers.
_Vintages._
As my readers may not all be connoisseurs in the matter of wines, a few
words on the subject of vintages may be appropriate, at the close of
this chapter.
With regard to champagnes, the good years are ’65, ’68, ’74 (especially
good), ’78, ’80, ’84, ’85, ’87 (somewhat light in body), ’89, ’92, and
’93. All the other vintages since ’65 have turned out more or less
badly; and there have been no good vintages since ’93.
One of the largest and best vintages of claret on record is that of
’75, which ranks with the older ones of ’48, ’58, and ’64. ’77 is fair,
and between that year and ’88 there was no vintage of particular merit.
’93 wine is good, and this year furnished the largest yield since ’75.
’94 wine is exceptionally bad. During the five years {148} from ’82 to
’86 the merits of the wines were completely destroyed by mildew.
The burgundy vintages have been good since ’84. As for ports, the
drinkable wines (since ’34) are those of ’41, ’47 (one of the finest
wines ever known), ’51 (exceptionally good), ’52, ’53 (fine and
fruity), ’54, ’58, ’63, ’68, ’70, ’72, ’75, ’78 (exceptionally fine),
’81, ’84, ’87 (the best since ’78), and ’96 which “shews promise.” The
worst years are ’55, ’56, ’57, ’59, ’64, ’66, ’69, ’71, ’74, ’76, ’77,
’79, ’80, ’82, ’83, ’86, ’88, ’91, ’93 (exceptionally bad), ’94, and
’95.
The above statistics are also from Messrs. Hatch, Mansfield and Co.’s
list.
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