[Illustration]
Our friend Dove Dulcet, the poet, came into our kennel and found
us arm in arm with a deep demijohn of Chester County cider. We
poured him out a beaker of the cloudy amber juice. It was just in
prime condition, sharpened with a blithe tingle, beaded with a
pleasing bubble of froth. Dove looked upon it with a kindled eye.
His arm raised the tumbler in a manner that showed this gesture
to be one that he had compassed before. The orchard nectar began
to sluice down his throat.
Dove is one who has faced many and grievous woes. His Celtic
soul peers from behind cloudy curtains of alarm. Old unhappy
far-off things and battles long ago fume in the smoke of his
pipe. His girded spirit sees agrarian unrest in the daffodil and
industrial riot in a tin of preserved prunes. He sees the world
moving on the brink of horror and despair. Sweet dalliance with a
baked bloater on a restaurant platter moves him to grief over the
hard lot of the Newfoundland fishing fleet. Six cups of tea warm
him to anguish over the peonage of Sir Thomas Lipton's coolies in
Ceylon. Souls in perplexity cluster round him like Canadian dimes
in a cash register in Plattsburgh, N. Y. He is a human sympathy
trust. When we are on our deathbed we shall send for him. The
perfection of his gentle sorrow will send us roaring out into the
dark, and will set a valuable example to the members of our
family.
But it is the rack of clouds that makes the sunset lovely. The
bosomy vapours of Dove's soul are the palette upon which the
decumbent sun of his spirit casts its vivid orange and scarlet
colours. His joy is the more perfect to behold because it bursts
goldenly through the pangs of his tender heart. His soul is like
the infant Moses, cradled among dark and prickly bullrushes; but
anon it floats out upon the river and drifts merrily downward on
a sparkling spate.
It has nothing to do with Dove, but we will here interject the
remark that a pessimist overtaken by liquor is the cheeriest
sight in the world. Who is so extravagantly, gloriously, and
irresponsibly gay?
Dove's eyes beaconed as the cider went its way. The sweet
lingering tang filled the arch of his palate with a soft mellow
cheer. His gaze fell upon us as his head tilted gently backward.
We wish there had been a painter there--someone like F. Walter
Taylor--to rush onto canvas the gorgeous benignity of his aspect.
It would have been a portrait of the rich Flemish school. Dove's
eyes were full of a tender emotion, mingled with a charmed and
wistful surprise. It was as though the poet was saying he had not
realized there was anything so good left on earth. His bearing
was devout, religious, mystical. In one moment of revelation (so
it appeared to us as we watched) Dove looked upon all the
profiles and aspects of life, and found them of noble outline.
Not since the grandest of Grand Old Parties went out of power has
Dove looked less as though he felt the world were on the verge of
an abyss. For several moments revolution and anarchy receded,
profiteers were tamed, capital and labour purred together on a
mattress of catnip, and the cosmos became a free verse poem. He
did not even utter the customary and ungracious remark of those
to whom cider potations are given: "That'll be at its best in
about a week." We apologized for the cider being a little warmish
from standing (discreetly hidden) under our desk. Douce man, he
said: "I think cider, like ale, ought not to be drunk too cold.
I like it just this way." He stood for a moment, filled with
theology and metaphysics. "By gracious," he said, "it makes all
the other stuff taste like poison." Still he stood for a brief
instant, transfixed with complete bliss. It was apparent to us
that his mind was busy with apple orchards and autumn sunshine.
Perhaps he was wondering whether he could make a poem out of it.
Then he turned softly and went back to his job in a life
insurance office.
As for ourself, we then poured out another tumbler, lit a corncob
pipe, and meditated. Falstaff once said that he had forgotten
what the inside of a church looked like. There will come a time
when many of us will perhaps have forgotten what the inside of a
saloon looked like, but there will still be the consolation of
the cider jug. Like the smell of roasting chestnuts and the
comfortable equatorial warmth of an oyster stew, it is a
consolation hard to put into words. It calls irresistibly for
tobacco; in fact the true cider toper always pulls a long puff at
his pipe before each drink, and blows some of the smoke into the
glass so that he gulps down some of the blue reek with his
draught. Just why this should be, we know not. Also some
enthusiasts insist on having small sugared cookies with their
cider; others cry loudly for Reading pretzels. Some have
ingenious theories about letting the jug stand, either tightly
stoppered or else unstoppered, until it becomes "hard." In our
experience hard cider is distressingly like drinking vinegar. We
prefer it soft, with all its sweetness and the transfusing savour
of the fruit animating it. At the peak of its deliciousness it
has a small, airy sparkle against the roof of the mouth, a
delicate tactile sensation like the feet of dancing flies. This,
we presume, is the 4-1/2 to 7 per cent of sin with which
fermented cider is credited by works of reference. There are
pedants and bigots who insist that the jug must be stoppered with
a corncob. For our own part, the stopper does not stay in the
neck long enough after the demijohn reaches us to make it worth
while worrying about this matter. Yet a nice attention to detail
may prove that the cob has some secret affinity with cider, for a
Missouri meerschaum never tastes so well as after three glasses
of this rustic elixir.
That ingenious student of social niceties, John Mistletoe, in his
famous Dictionary of Deplorable Facts--a book which we heartily
commend to the curious, for he includes a long and most informing
article on cider, tracing its etymology from the old Hebrew word
_shaker_ meaning "to quaff deeply"--maintains that cider should
only be drunk beside an open fire of applewood logs:
And preferably on an evening of storm and wetness, when the swish
and sudden pattering of rain against the panes lend an added
agreeable snugness to the cheerful scene within, where master and
dame sit by the rosy hearth frying sausages in a pan laid on the
embers.
This reminds one of the anecdote related by ex-Senator Beveridge in his
Life of John Marshall. Justice Story told his wife that the justices of
the Supreme Court were of a self-denying habit, never taking wine except
in wet weather. "But it does sometimes happen that the Chief Justice
will say to me, when the cloth is removed, 'Brother Story, step to the
window and see if it does not look like rain.' And if I tell him that
the sun is shining brightly, Judge Marshall will sometimes reply, 'All
the better, for our jurisdiction extends over so large a territory that
the doctrine of chances makes it certain that it must be raining
somewhere.'"
Our own theory about cider is that the time to drink it is when it
reaches you; and if it hails from Chester County, so much the better.
We remember with gusto a little soliloquy on cider delivered by another
friend of ours, as we both stood in a decent ordinary on Fulton Street,
going through all the motions of jocularity and cheer. Cider (he said)
is our refuge and strength. Cider, he insisted, drawing from his pocket
a clipping much tarnished with age, is a drink for men of reason and
genteel nurture; a drink for such as desire to drink pleasantly,
amiably, healthily, and with perseverance and yet retain the command and
superintendence of their faculties. I have here (he continued) a
clipping sent me by an eminent architect in the great city of
Philadelphia (a city which it is a pleasure for me to contemplate by
reason of the beauty and virtue of its women, the infinite vivacity and
good temper of its men, the rectitudinal disposition of its highways)--I
have here (he exclaimed) a clipping sent me by an architect of fame,
charming parts, and infinite cellarage, explaining the virtues of cider.
Cider, this clipping asserts, produces a clearness of the complexion. It
brightens the eye, particularly in women, conducing to the composition
of generous compliment and all the social suavity that endears the
intercourse of the sexes. Longevity, this extract maintains, is the
result of application to good cider. The Rev. Martin Johnson, vicar of
Dilwyn, in Herefordshire, from 1651 to 1698 (he read from his clipping),
wrote:
_This parish, wherein sider is plentiful, hath many people that
do enjoy this blessing of long life; neither are the aged
bedridden or decrepit as elsewhere; next to God, wee ascribe it
to our flourishing orchards, first that the bloomed trees in
spring do not only sweeten but purify the ambient air; next, that
they yield us plenty of rich and winy liquors, which do conduce
very much to the constant health of our inhabitants. Their
ordinary course is to breakfast and sup with toast and sider
through the whole Lent; which heightens their appetites and
creates in them durable strength to labour._
There was a pause, and our friend (he is a man of girth and with a brow
bearing all the candor of a life of intense thought) leaned against the
mahogany counter.
That is very fine, we said, draining our chalice, and feeling brightness
of eye, length of years, and durable strength to labour added to our
person. In the meantime (we said) why do you not drink the rich and winy
liquor which your vessel contains?
He folded up his clipping and put it away with a sigh.
I always have to read that first, he said, to make the damned stuff
palatable. It will be ten years, he said, before the friend who sent me
that clipping will have to drink any cider.