Early ages, and the oldest poets, confessed, that wine was the gift
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.

Probably, no country on the earth presented such scenes, arising from
excessive drinking, as were witnessed in Saxony and Bohemia, a few
generations back. These scenes were so commonly attended by murder,
or followed by death, that it was said to be better for a man to fall
among the thickest of his enemies fighting, than among his friends when
drinking. There were deadly brawls in taverns, deadly drunken feuds
in the family circle, and not less deadly contentions in the streets.
When the city-gates were closed at night, the crowds of drunkards,
issuing to their homes in the suburbs, were met by as dense and drunken
a crowd, returning from their revels in the country. And then came the
insulting motion, the provoking word, the hard blow, and the harder
stab. Then fell the wounded and the dead; then rose the shrieks of
women and of children, and, loud above them, the imprecations and
blasphemies born in the wine-sodden brains of men. Suddenly, a shot or
two is fired from the walls, right into the heaving mass below. And
then ensue the flying of the people, and the venting of impotent rage
from the rash and resolute. But, gradually, the two opposing streams
glide through each other, the gates are at length closed; and, by the
light of the moon, on the almost deserted esplanade, may be observed,
stretched on the ground, some half-dozen human forms. Some of these are
dead, some are still drunken and helpless, and both equally uncared for.

This is no overdrawn picture of an ancient German period. It is on
record that once, on the banks of the Bohemian Sazawa, a party of
husbandmen met for the purpose of drinking twelve casks of wine. There
were ten of them who addressed themselves to this feat; but one of the
ten attempting to retire from the contest before any of his fellows,
the remaining nine seized, bound him, and roasted him alive on a spit.
The murderers were subsequently carried to the palace for judgment; but
the Duke’s funeral was taking place as they entered the hall, and the
Princes who administered justice were all so intoxicated, that they
looked upon the matter in the light of a joke that might be compensated
for by a slight fine.

There was a joyous revelry at that time in every direction. A father
would not receive a man for a son-in-law who could not drink; and
in Universities the conferring of a degree was always followed by a
carouse, the length of which was fixed, by College rules, as not to
exceed eight hours’ duration. Yet, during this generally dissolute
period, a strange custom was prevalent at the tables of Nuremberg. In
all well-regulated households, there used to hang a little bell beneath
the dining-table; and this bell was struck by the master of the family,
if he were sober enough, whenever any one uttered an unseemly phrase.

Even so, in public, a voice of indignation was sometimes raised against
the profligacy of the period. The voice to the people at large was as
the bell to the guests at Nuremberg. Its effects who can tell? It may
have induced Luther to be content with dignified Virgil rather than
with unclean Plautus; it may have driven the Monk Schwartz from the
refectory to the alembic; and it may have called Gutenberg from the
brutalities of the camp to the wonders of the printing-press. In the
two latter cases, the consequences bear a very tipsy appearance; for it
was a soldier who invented printing, and a Monk who first manufactured
gunpowder!

Let us not hasten to condemn our fellows of the olden time and distant
land. Manners as fearfully outraging prevailed but very recently
among young Englishmen. M. de Warenne, a French officer in our Indian
army, describes the manners and customs there prevalent as any thing
but edifying. In his “_Inde-Anglaise_,” he describes himself, on one
occasion, as being disinclined for study, and consequently joining a
party of his comrades who were at the moment occupied in an unreserved
enjoyment of the pleasures of the table. They were from fifteen to
twenty in number, married and single, but all young, full of hope, good
prospects, and gaiety. Deep were the libations made by this riotous
company, seated at a festive board in the open air, looked down upon by
a brilliant moon, and gently fanned by the evening breeze.

“While the attendant servant,” says the author, “poured out, with
Indian profusion, fresh supplies of tea, coffee, beer, punch, and grog,
a dense vapour rose from our cigars, and joyous shouts rang from every
lip at the conclusion of songs, bacchanalian and anacreontic. Toasts
succeeded each other rapidly, alternately exciting the laughter or
approbation of the carousers. One of them caused in me, at the time,
a singular impression. A young, wild-brained fellow, in pouring out
a bumper, called on us to fill our glasses, in order to sanction the
strange wish of a rash ambition,--‘A bloody war, and a sickly season!’”

The blasphemous sentiment, as M. de Warenne rightly terms it, was
drunk with enthusiasm; and the gay and thoughtless drinkers had yet
the cup to their lips, when one of them was stricken with the cholera,
the presence of which in camp was hardly known;--the next day the
funeral salute was fired over his grave. The author adds, that the
music played on returning from the funeral was joyously and daily
hummed by the daily diminishing survivors. He says that there was a
mockery in the waltzes they continued to dance; for death was also
daily decreasing their orchestra. The stricken, we are told, felt
themselves relieved from further anxiety, recovered their temporarily
shaken self-possession, and died with indifference. The strong who
lived are described as, for the most part, diverting their thoughts,
outraging decency, and defying God, by composing or chanting songs
whose inspiration certainly savours of hell. Here is a specimen of one
of these devil’s canticles, roared over wine, to frighten away the
cholera:--

I.

  “We meet ’neath the sounding rafter,
    And the walls around are bare;
  As they shout back our peals of laughter,
    It seems as the dead were there.
  Then stand to your glasses!--steady!
    We drink ’fore our comrades’ eyes;
  One cup to the dead already;
    Hurrah for the next that dies!

II.

  “Not here are the goblets glowing,
    Not here is the vintage sweet;
  ’Tis cold, as our hearts are growing,
    And dark as the doom we meet.
  But stand to your glasses!--steady!
    And soon shall our pulses rise;
  One cup to the dead already;
    Hurrah for the next that dies!

III.

  “There’s many a hand that’s shaking,
    And many a cheek that’s sunk;
  But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
    They’ll burn with the wine we’ve drunk.
  Then stand to your glasses!--steady!
    ’Tis here the revival lies;
  Quaff a cup to the dead already;
    Hurrah for the next that dies!

IV.

  “Time was, when we laugh’d at others,
    We thought we were wiser then:
  Ha! ha! let them think of their mothers,
    Who hope to see them again.
  No! stand to your glasses!--steady!
    The thoughtless is here the wise;
  One cup to the dead already;
    Hurrah for the next that dies!

V.

  “Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
    Not a tear for the friends that sink;
  We’ll fall ’mid the wine-cup’s sparkles,
    As mute as the wine we drink.
  Come! stand to your glasses!--steady!
    ’Tis this that the respite buys;
  One cup to the dead already;
    Hurrah for the next that dies!

VI.

  “Who dreads to the dust returning?
    Who shrinks from the sable shore,
  Where the high and haughty yearning
    Of the soul can sting no more?
  No! stand to your glasses!--steady!
    This world is a world of lies!
  One cup to the dead already;
    Hurrah for the next that dies!

VII.

  “Cut off from the land that bore us,
    Betray’d by the land we find,
  When the brightest are gone before us,
    And the dullest are most behind,--
  Stand! stand! to your glasses!--steady!
    ’Tis all we have left to prize!
  One cup to the dead already;
    Hurrah for the next that dies!”

After this, the most rigid examiner of public morals in all countries
need not exclusively frown on the old Germans, nor on _their_ profane
canticle, the burthen of which is:--

      “_Gaudeamus, igitur, juvenes dum sumus!
      Post jucundam juventutem.
      Post molestam senectutem.
  Nos habebit, nos habebit, nos habebit tumulus!_”

There is, however, more reason, and healthy sentiment, and pure
principle, in such lines as the following,--extracted from Walter
Savage Landor’s “Last Fruit off an Old Tree,”--than in reams of such
fiery invocations to quaff deeply as those cited above. Hear the old
man:--

  “The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings,
    To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein’d brow,
  Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings,
    They who have courted, may court now.

  “Bring me a cool alcove, the grape uncrush’d,
    The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature;
  Where ev’ry voice, but bird’s or child’s, is husht,
    And ev’ry thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure.”

There was a Persian sage, whose philosophy was of a different
complexion from that of the eloquent moralist of “the old garden
near Bath.” “In what can I best assist thee?” demanded the Minister,
Nizam-al-Mulk, as he warmly greeted his friend, Omar Keyoomee. “Place
me,” said Omar, enamoured of poetry and ease, “where my life may pass
without care or annoyance, and where wine, in abundance, may inspire my
muse.” A pension was accordingly assigned him in the fertile district
of Nishapour, where Omar lived and died. His tomb still exists, and
Mr. J. B. Fraser, in his “Persia,” informs us that he heard Omar’s
story told over his grave by a brother rhymester, and a most congenial
spirit. The system of Omar was explained by himself, in something after
this fashion:--

  I ask not for much: let the miser seek wealth;
    Let the proud sigh for titles and fame:--
  All the riches I ask are a fair share of health,
    And the hope of a true poet’s name.
  Let the flatterer talk of his worth to the Shah,--
    Of his greatness, too, all the day long;--
  I envy them not, for I love better far
    To pay my poor tribute in song.

  A kaftan of honour! a gem from the King!
    To be gain’d in the field or divan?
  Ah! rather around me the bright mantle fling
    Of the poets of gay Laristan.
  Let the gems be for those of the glittering crowd,
    Who would die, the Shah Inshah to please;
  But _I’m_ not ambitious, I never was proud,
    I sigh but for sherbet and ease.

  Do I wish for command in dark history’s page,
    Do I long in fond record to shine?
  Yes, let me have sway, till the last sigh of age,
    Over cohorts of old Shiraz wine.
  And as for renown, it may be very well,
    But Keyoomee the honour will wave;
  Contented, if some brother rhymester will tell
    Keyoomee’s glad life, o’er his grave.

THE MAKING AND MARRING OF WINE.

It used to be said of the old learned and liquor-loving Germans, that
they did not care what Latin they spoke, so long as it _was_ Latin; nor
what sort of wine they drank, so long as it _was_ wine. I have read
somewhere of a feudal German Baron becoming intoxicated upon pious
principles. He was seated, with his wife at his side, at the centre
of his own table, presiding at a banquet. He had drunk till he had
scarcely power left to carry the goblet up to his ever thirsty lips.
The Frau Baroninn had repeatedly remonstrated, in whispers, with her
lord; who replied, that he must needs drink when toasts were given,
or his want of faith would be marked by his guests. He was about to
raise a full goblet to his beard, when his lady, overturning, as if by
accident, the cluster of lights which illuminated the board, begged of
her consort to fling his wine away upon the floor; adding, “It is dark;
nobody will see you.” “Nay,” said the orthodox Baron, solemnly, “God
sees me!” and therewith he finished his draught, and was soon after
conveyed to his couch, under such benison as the Chaplain could give,
who congratulated his master upon the flavour of his wine, and the
strength of his principles!

In no country in the world has more wine been drunk than in Germany;
and no where has adulteration thereof been practised so systematically.
“_Vaticana bibis, bibis venenum_,” says Martial, in the sixth book of
his Epigrams. For “_Vaticana_,” read “_Germanica_;” and the line had,
at one time, as fitting an application. The method pursued appears to
have been of classical derivation; and the Germans, like the Romans,
adulterated their wine with lead. It has been a matter of vexation to
Teutonic scholars, that they have never been able to discover the name
of the ingenious person who first realized the deadly idea of employing
lead in the adulteration of wine. All that they can say of him is, that
he was very wicked, but decidedly clever.

The Roman wine-merchants treated the matter in a business-like way.
Lead arrested the acetous fermentation of wine, did not alter its
colour, and did improve its taste. This was all that was desirable, as
regarded _them_ as merchants. If the beverage gave death, by slow or
speedy means, to those who drank, that was an affair which concerned
the imbibers, their medical men, and their families. They were ignorant
and godless Heathens, of course, who committed this crime; and as
nothing like it has ever been known as a characteristic of some of the
professors of a better dispensation,--why, our righteous indignation
may be intense. One excuse, indeed, may be offered for the old Romans.
“At lover’s perjuries,” as they were told, “Jove himself condescended
to laugh;” and, if so, they might feel canonically certain, that
Mercury would not call them to account, but rather applaud their
proficiency in cheating. But Galen was more just than the gods of
either the Greek or Roman mythology, and sternly denounces the tricks
at which the son of Maia would have smiled.

The same ancients were accustomed to boil new wine in metal vessels;
and, when the quantity had been reduced by the process, to add
sea-water and bad wine, and send the mixture to market as something
that would make the very eyes of Bacchus twinkle with delight. A
process not less distasteful, if less deadly, was that of boiling
lime and plaster of Paris in inferior wine. The former was supposed
to add an intoxicating quality to the mixture, which must have
been as detestable as “Masdeu.” To this day, certain wines of the
Mediterranean are subjected to a similar process; and, perhaps, if lime
be judiciously used, the results may not be very injurious. It corrects
acidity; but too much of it would enable the drinker to find out, as
Falstaff did, that there was “lime in the sack.” We are wise in our
generation, in employing carbonate of soda for this purpose, rather
than lime, slaked or unslaked; and we also do well to reject gypsum,--a
compound of sulphuric acid and lime, and which is seldom procurable
in a sufficiently pure state to authorize its being employed. The
rejection of plaster of Paris, for the purpose of improving wine, is,
however, more general than universal. After all, it is not worse than
calcined shells, and is innocuous when compared with the use of sugar
of lead.

The Roman law was not levelled against the adulteration of wine; it
no more controlled the sale or manufacture, than, in Thevenot’s days,
the Tunisian Government interfered with the sale of wine at Tunis,
which was left to slaves, who did with it as they liked, for their own
profit, and the destruction of infidel stomachs. It was otherwise in
Germany, where Diets were assembled to discuss what was, in truth, no
unimportant matter; the members of which began to think, that if wine
was worth having, it was worth providing for its purity. For centuries
Governments made laws, but bad wine was drunk in spite of them.

Beckmann gives it as his opinion, that wines cannot be poisoned by
gypsum; but _that_ is more readily said than proved. The ancients
clarified their wine with it; but they did so at the expense of
a portion of the spirituous part. Old ordinances against the
adulteration of wine, in Brussels, by vitriol, quicksilver, and _lapis
calaminaris_,--and in France, by lead and litharge,--may still be read
as curiosities, but they have no present application.

A German Monk, named Martin Bayr, is damned to everlasting fame, as
the first who adulterated wines within the territory of the Kaiser.
Pickheimer, the friend of Albert Durer, is particularly inveterate
against Bayr and his followers in evil. The indignation of the lover of
pure wine is carried to an incredible extent. He narrates, in a rapt
fury, the consequences of drinking injurious wines; beginning with
an assurance, that adulterated wine keeps the married childless, and
adding, by a sort of bathos, that it causes certain inward pains, “than
which none can be more excruciating.” He mentions many ingredients
employed, and adverts to some, “the names of which I should be ashamed
to mention;” and then he calls for vengeance on the offenders, both in
this world and the next. “You hang the counterfeiters of the public
coin,” says he; “do not these miscreants, whose misdeeds have caused
indignant Nature to check the growth of our grapes, deserve something
worse? Cast their accursed beverage, I say, into the sewers, and
themselves into the flames: and so may Martin Bayr and his disciples
perish in this world, and inherit everlasting damnation in the next!”

Adulteration, however, still went on, until the penalty of death,
and confiscation of property, was levelled against the employment of
sulphur and bismuth,--used by the most noble of wine-makers to sweeten
their spoiled and sour commodity. Offenders, however, again grew bold.
The tribunals treated them leniently. First, fines were levied; then
came confiscation of property, imprisonment, and hard labour; next,
banishment: and none of these courses meeting the evil, the Judges at
length cut off the head of an incorrigible criminal, Ehrni of Erlingen;
and, for a while, terrified the whole brotherhood of wine-spoilers into
a temporary observance of honesty.

The next struggle which occurred in Germany, was between those who
applied tests to detect the presence of metals, and those who invented
processes to defy them. It was a scientific struggle between two
species of assassins,--those who swiftly killed by brewing poisonous
wine, and the physicians who racked their brains to invent detective
tests, and save their patients for a slower process of extinction. This
was very rudely said by rude people, who looked upon themselves as the
victims sought for by two contending parties,--the distillers on one
side, and the doctors on the other.

The use of milk by the Greeks was, probably, not for adulterating, but
for refining, their wines. Isinglass is at present generally employed
for the last-mentioned purpose.

As it is the tendency of the world to improve, so the not
inconsiderable world of adulterators in England has profited, like
philosophers, by the discoveries of those who have preceded them. A
mixture of strong port, rectified spirit, Cognac brandy, and rough
cider, can be concocted into what is called “fine old crusted port.” It
costs the maker about sixteen shillings a gallon, and is sold retail
at five shillings a bottle. Sloe-juice is another ingredient, and
poisonous tinctures give it a seductive hue. Powder of catechu does
for it what hair-powder does for the individual,--gives a crust of
antiquity to secure for it the veneration of the ignorant. A decoction
of Brazil-wood, and a little alum, will impart to the corks the
requisite air of corresponding age; and these the credulous gaze at and
believe.

“Madeira, neat as imported,” is the definition of a beverage cleverly
manufactured much nearer Fenchurch-street than Funchal. Home-made
Madeira is a compound of bad port, Vidonia, that African nastiness
called “Cape,” sugar-candy, and bitter almonds; and the Vidonia, which
is an ingredient in itself, often adulterated with cider and rum; and a
little carbonate of soda, “to contumace the appetite’s acidities.” The
lowest and cruellest insult to human taste and stomachs is, perhaps,
the adulteration of Cape. It is bad enough in itself; but Cape, with
something worse in it, is only fit for the thirsty hounds of Pluto.
Gooseberry, passed off as Champagne, is an impostor, and even with
strawberries in it, to give it an aristocratic pinkness, it is still
a deception; but, compared with Cape, even in its best condition,
gooseberry _may_ be imbibed without very much disgust.

A _fracas_ between the waiters and their employers at the last Lord
Mayor’s dinner, betrayed another pleasant process regarding wine. The
attendants in question declared that, after many hours’ toil, they
had not had a glass even out of a _dovered_ bottle. They were as much
surprised when the Magistrate asked the meaning of “_dovering_,” as
the sailor was, when he stood before a Lord High Chancellor ignorant
of the signification of “’baft the binnacle.” A complaisant Ganymede
enlightened the darkened mind of the metropolitan Cadi: “_Dovering_,”
said he, “is the collecting of three-quarter emptied decanters from the
dinner-table, and re-decantering the same, serving it up as freshly
uncorked.” Dover has the bad reputation of being the locality where
this process was first invented.

One of the most ingenious--perhaps we should say, one of the
most scientific--tricks that we have heard of, in connexion with
wine-doctoring, proves that the modern chymical brewers of superior
beverages, which seem what they are not, are vastly superior to the
mere experimentalists of former days. In the royal cellars of Carlton
House, there was enshrined, if we may so speak, a small quantity of
wine which, like the gems worn by the Irish lady, was both “rich and
rare.” It was only produced by George IV. when he had around him his
most select and wittiest friends. The precious deposit gradually
diminished; year by year, as in the case of the famous sha-green
skin of the French novelist Balzac, it grew less; until, at last, a
couple of dozen bottles only were left, gleaming at the bottom of
their bins like gems in a mine, and full of liquid promise to those
who needed the especial comfort which it was their duty to impart.
These, however, were left so long unasked for, that the gentlemen of
the King’s suite who had the control of the grape department, deemed
them forgotten, and at their own mirthful table drank them all but
two, with infinite delight to themselves, and to the better health of
their master. They soon found, however, that there was “garlic in the
flowers,” as the Turkish proverb has it; and their embarrassment was
not small, when the King, giving his orders for a choice dinner on a
certain night, intimated his desire that a good supply of his favourite
wine should grace the board. In Courts, “to hear is to obey;” and the
officials who had drunk the wine, at once resorted to an eminent firm,
well-skilled to give advice in such delicate wine-cases. The physician
asked but for a sample bottle, and to be told the exact hour at which
the favourite draught would be asked for. This was complied with, and
in due time a proper amount of the counterfeit wine was forwarded to
Carlton House, and there broached and drunk with such encomiums, that
the officers who were in the secret had some difficulty in maintaining
an official gravity of countenance. The brewer of the new wine was
certainly a first-rate artist; and if he ever achieved knighthood
and a coat-of-arms, I would give him a “Bruin” for his crest, and,
“The drink! the drink! dear Hamlet!” for his device. This anecdote,
I may farther notice, has often been told, and nearly as often been
discredited; but I am assured by an officer of the household, who
speaks “_avec connaissance de fait_,” that it is substantially true.

One of the merits of the wine above mentioned consisted in its great
age. There has, indeed, always been a sort of mania for wine that
bears the load of years. But this rage is pronounced by Cyrus Redding
to be one of the most ridiculous errors of modern epicurism. The “bee’s
wing,” the “thick crust on the bottle,” the “loss of strength,” and so
on,--all these are declared by the best judges to be nothing more than
forbidding manifestations of decomposition, and the disappearance of
the very best qualities of the wine. Many years ago, I made a “note” on
this subject, but am now unable to recollect from what work, nor can I
say whether the following remarks on the qualities of wine were made by
the author of an original work, or by a reviewer commenting thereon.
Such as they are, however, they are not without value.

“The age of maturity,” says the writer, “for exportation from Oporto,
is said to be the second year after the vintage; probably sometimes
not quite so long. Our wine-merchants keep it in wood from two to six
years longer, according to its original strength, &c. Surely this
must be long enough to do all that can be done by keeping it. What
crude wine it must be to require even this time to ameliorate it! the
necessity for which must arise either from some error in the original
manufacture, or a false taste, which does not relish it till time has
changed its original characteristics.

“Port, like all other wines, ripens in a shorter, or longer, time,
according to its lightness, or its strength, the quality of the grapes,
according to the fermentation they have undergone, and the portion of
brandy that has been added to it. Also one cellar will forward wine
much sooner than another. Sound good port is generally in perfection
when it has been from three to five years in the wood, and from one to
three in bottle.

“Ordinary port is a very uncleansed fretful wine; and we have been
assured by wine-merchants of good taste, accurate observation, and
extensive experience, that the _best_ port is rather impoverished
than improved by being kept in bottle longer than two years; that is,
supposing it to have been previously from two to four years in the cask
in this country; observing that all that the outrageous advocates for
_vin passé_ really know about it is that sherry is _yellow_, and port
is _black_; and that if they drink (more than) enough of either of
them, according to the colours, it will make them drunk.

“White wines, especially sherry and Madeira, being more perfectly
fermented and thoroughly fined before they are bottled, if kept in a
cellar of uniform temperature, are not so rapidly deteriorated by age.

“The temperature of a good cellar is nearly the same throughout the
year. Double doors help to preserve this. It must be dry, and be kept
as clean as possible.

“The art of preserving wines is to prevent them from fretting, which is
done by keeping them in the same degree of heat and careful working,
in a cellar where they will not be agitated by the motion of carriages
passing. If persons wish to preserve the fine flavour of their wines,
they ought on no account to permit any bacon, cheese, onions, potatoes,
or cider, in the wine-cellars; for if there be any disagreeable stench
in the cellar, the wine will indubitably imbibe it; consequently,
instead of being fragrant, and charming to the nose and palate, it will
be extremely disagreeable.

“It must be well known that almost all our home-made wines, for public
sale, are made, and suffered to cool, in leaden vats. Nothing can be
more injurious or detrimental to health. Every chymist is aware that
any vegetable acid that comes in contact with lead, and is suffered
to remain only a few hours, produces what we call ‘sugar of lead,’--a
most deadly poison. How many there are that complain that cider will
not agree with them! and several who cannot take even a wine-glass full
without vomiting almost immediately. They know not the reason; and
thus many are prevented from taking a most delightful beverage in warm
weather; while others are labouring under its baneful influence. Often
do we see servants run for vinegar in a pewter or publican’s pot; and
the answer we receive when correcting them for the same is,--they have
often done the same without any serious consequence. May be so; but if
vinegar, or any other vegetable acid, as before said, be suffered to
remain in such vessels only a short time, the health and constitution
must suffer from the acid so taken; and we will venture to say that
almost all paralytic affections are caused by persons, predisposed to
such attacks, drinking water impregnated with lead. For if there be
any carbonic acid in the water, which there most assuredly is in every
kind, a carbonate is thus formed, just as injurious as the acetate
(sugar of lead); and where shall we find a cistern in London that is
not made of this pernicious, yet highly useful, material?”

The consideration of these subjects, when drinking home-made wines,
(if, indeed, there _be_ people bold enough to venture on such an
experiment,) or the other beverages mentioned above, might serve the
purpose of the custom observed among the ancient Egyptians. It was one
less barbarous than singular. A skeleton of beautiful workmanship, in
ivory, and enclosed in a small coffin, was carried round at a feast,
by a slave, who, holding it up to each guest, remarked, “After death
you will resemble this figure; drink, then, and be happy!” It must have
encouraged the mirth “consumedly.” But there was a grave wisdom in the
custom, notwithstanding.

IMPERIAL DRINKERS AND INCIDENTS IN GERMANY.

The stories of the gigantic drinkers of antiquity are startling; but I
think they may be accounted for. Natural philosophers inform us, that
objects seen through a mist are magnified to the senses; and so it is
with the feats which we are asked to contemplate through the mist of
ages: they are probably not so astounding as they appear. One may say
of each story, so venerable and enlarged by age, as the good Dominican
did to the congregation whom he had affected to tears by the warmth of
one of his legendary sermons. “Do not cry so, my brethren,” said the
Preacher; “for, after all, perhaps it’s not true.”

It must be allowed, however, that the stories of wine-bibbers of
later times than those when the son of Aristides gained his living by
singing ballads in the streets of Athens, or the heir of Cicero drank
draughts longer than his sire’s orations, lack nothing whatever of the
marvellous. And this reminds me of an incident, _quod alibi narravi_,
and which I will narrate here, by way of illustration of this portion
of my subject.

AN INCIDENT OF TRAVEL.

It is now some twelve years ago that I was, in company with two
Norwegians, in Prague, loitering beneath the tower of that sacred
edifice dedicated to the fearful dancer, St. Vitus. The tower was the
same which the drunken Emperor Wenceslaus had caused to be shortened,
by some thirty or forty feet, because he took it into his head that
it would one day fall, and crush him as he lay on his uneasy couch in
the Hradschin. I remarked to my companions, that the empire, in its
palmy days, had often been well-nigh lost through the mad caprices of
tippling Kaisers.

“There was not a Kaiser of them all,” said Löwenskiold, “who
permanently injured either himself or his country by his devotion to
drinking.”

“What!” said I; “not even Maximilian?”

“Not even Maximilian,” remarked Knudtzen. “The people, indeed, were
occasionally a trifle startled at seeing their ruler proceed, either
to the camp or council, with as much white wine in him as might serve
the universe for sauces. They slightly objected, on hearing that he
walked rosy and reeling to confession; and they were not edified at
understanding that his private Almoner stirred up his punch with a
silver crucifix. They even remonstrated with Maximilian when he had
been once within an ace of destroying Ulm in a drunken frolic. And what
was his reply? He kept the deputation of remonstrants the whole night
in his palace, and invited the citizens to assemble, at day-break, on
whatever spots commanded a view of the towers of the cathedral. The
Emperor and the Committee of Moderates finished two hundred and ten
bottles of Rhine wine while they waited for sunrise. This, among a
temperate party of one score and one, was a tolerable allowance for
each individual. At dawn, all Ulm was up, and every eye directed to
the cathedral. The towers had scarcely flung back the first rays from
heaven, when a joyous procession issued from the imperial residence.
The whole party, the Emperor excepted, were as drunk as Æschylus. With
difficulty did they follow their Lord, who, at the very top of his
speed, and carrying a heavy waggon-wheel on his shoulder, ran to the
cathedral, ascended the stairs leading to the summit of one of the
towers, and appeared on the rampart, before his straggling followers
had reached the low-arched door beneath. With a light bound, he sprang
on one of the highest parts of the castellated portion, where there
was scarcely footing for him. In that position, however, he poised
the wheel aloft with his right hand, let it gently descend on to the
foot which he extended above the heads of the multitude, and, holding
it there for a moment or two, ended by hurling it into the air, and
catching it again, ere it fell on the astounded and admiring crowd
below.

“‘There, you calves!’ cried the Emperor, as he gazed tranquilly down
on the sea of heads below; ‘do you dare complain that Niedersteiner
touches your master’s nerves?’

“‘Never again!’ exclaimed the delighted mass. ‘What can we do to
testify our affection for Your Majesty?’

“‘Toss those gentlemen into a tub of Selzer-water,’ said Maximilian,
‘and send me half-a-dozen of Hochheimer, and half-a-dozen
blood-puddings, for breakfast.’”

I could _almost_ believe this tradition; for I had seen a nearly
similar feat once performed by a woman on a projecting mass of rock
in the Ahr Thal. The rock is, doubtless, well known to all who have
ascended that lovely Rhine-valley, at eve, to eat _Forellen_, and drink
Wallportzheimer. They who do so, generally return the next morning with
an inclination for nothing but the cooling mineral waters to be had at
Hippingen.

“Besides,” said Knudtzen, “_à-propos_ to cathedrals, sober principles
have done them more injury than jolly Emperors. Do you forget that
Caroline Bonaparte razed a cathedral in Italy to the ground?”

“I remember hearing of the deed as connected with a church,” said I;
“but I have forgotten the reason alleged for it.”

“It was a very sufficient reason for a Bonaparte. Her Highness lived
next door to the church; and she had it destroyed, because the noise of
the organ kept her awake, and the smell of the incense made her head
ache.”

“Royal minds,” I remarked, “cannot condescend to the weaknesses of
common people. According to our ‘Philosophical Transactions,’ the
pigeons at Pisa were as destructive as Caroline Bonaparte. Pigeons,
for many ages, built under the roof of the great church there. Their
dung spontaneously took fire at last; and the church was consumed.
But, to return to the old, defunct King of Saxony. He was afflicted
with a super-delicate attack of virtue; and, during the prevalence
of the disorder, he issued a decree for the expulsion, from his
picture-gallery, of all those master-pieces, the merit of which lay
in the glory of their flesh-colouring. He had grown as modest as the
Monk who declared that he had never seen any portion of his body save
his face and hands. He is worthy of going down to posterity arm in arm
with that old Polish King, who was a cleaner, but not a less delicate,
man than the Monk, and who boasted to his Confessor that his purity of
mind was so excessive, that he had never touched his own skin with an
ungloved hand. In short, the old King of Saxony admirably illustrated
the saying of Dean Swift, that ‘a nice man was a man of nasty ideas.’
He had not been a sparer of the wine-flask. Indeed, he had rather
sinned that way; and, in expiation thereof, he undertook to perform
a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre on foot. A fever of expectation
shook Dresden, all the china in it, and the whole line of road, at
the idea of again beholding a Christian King turning to the neglected
shrine. The expectation was not altogether fulfilled; but the Monarch,
nevertheless, performed the pilgrimage.”

“We never heard of it,” exclaimed the travellers, looking at each other
with some manifestation of surprise.

“That is to say,” I resumed, “that his Majesty performed it after
a fashion. He inquired the distance from his own country-house at
Pilnitz, to the Armenian Convent at the Holy City; and, in spite of
his education, he was nothing less than astonished, to find that it
was something more serious than a promenade to Töplitz. I do not know
if he had a vision of boiling his peas, as an English pilgrim did, of
whom I could tell you something; but he certainly experienced some
unpleasant sensations at the idea that, the way being so long, he might
chance to find himself without peas to boil. He wept at the reflection
that he might not only be a devout, but a hungry, King, while one-half
of Dresden were solacing their appetites on the terrace of Bruhl, and
the other, at the Baths of Link, or at the Bastei. He thought of the
dangers; but he _would_ be devout. The attendant pains were great; but
the resulting pleasures were not to be denied. In short, he would _not_
go to Jerusalem; but he _would_ perform the pilgrimage. Accordingly,
the exact distance having been ascertained, he started from his room,
and walked the entire number of leagues by pacing up and down a long
gallery, deducting from the distance the amount of water passage,
which was but fair. If admiration had been great at the commencement,
surprising fun was excited during the performance. Every evening the
citizens of Dresden knew how far their religious Ruler had proceeded
on his way, or how far he would have proceeded, if he had but set out.
_Now_, he was breakfasting, in imagination, at Breslau; sleeping (in
fancy) at Olmutz; and passing, by a pleasant fiction, through Buda.
During two days that his Majesty suffered from a real bilious attack,
the result, perhaps, of a Barmecidal repast at Essek on the Drave, the
King rested at Belgrade, while confined to his bed in Dresden. But his
zeal soon re-invigorated his liver; and, as he glided to and fro by his
palace windows, the mystified multitude below learned that the Monarch
was lodging in the house of the Saxon Legation at Istamboul. The
pilgrim-traveller suffered a little from the heat (of the room) as he
descended from the western coast of Asia Minor; but the inconveniencies
of the route were things beneath the thoughts of him who--whether at
Bursa, Smyrna, or any other locality on his way--could ring his bell
in the Desert, and order Champagne out of his own cellar. The King was
puzzled one mid-day, (he had by calculation just reached Beyrout,)
his progress being checked by the unexpected arrival of a portion of
the imperial family from Vienna. Visitors of such condition must be
attended to; nevertheless, his pilgrimage must be continued; and he,
like the clever and facetious palmer that he was, did both. He attended
his guests with much politeness, during their stay of two days; and he
put down the time thus spent, as consumed in a sea voyage from Beyrout
to Acre. The moment they left, the royal pilgrim went ashore again,
and happily accomplished the remaining distance to Jerusalem, through
Nassara and Nablous, without any other hinderance or obstruction than
his going one night to see a French _vaudeville_, while supposed to
be enjoying his well-earned repose at Rama or Muddin. And thus was
accomplished that royal pilgrimage that was never performed. The King
reached Jerusalem without going there; and the people saw _him_ return
who had never departed.”

“Well,” said Harold Knudtzen, “the Kings of Saxony are no longer such
simpletons. The present Monarch loves, indeed, good wine, ‘craftily
qualified;’ but he also, like Uzziah, King of Judah, loves husbandry.
Josephine herself had not half so frantic a passion for flowers as he;
and not for flowers alone in their beauty,--not for botany, either,
merely for amusement’s sake, but for phytology and pharmacy, as
connected with it.”

“He lisped Linnæus,” said Löwenskiold, “before he could speak plainly.”

“And, by reputation, he knew Tournefort better than he did Knecht
Rupert,” added Harold.

“He himself told us, when we met him in Dalmatia,” continued the
latter, “that he could spell _Dodecandria_ and _Trigynia_ before
he could read Grimm’s Story-Book; and that he knew the meanings of
_monopetalous_ and _campaniform_ before he was acquainted with the
languages from which the terms were derived. I never saw a man so
eager in pursuit of _apetalous amentaceous_ flowers; and as for
_carryophylous_”----

“Leave off your abominable phrases!” said I, “and begin by telling
me how you two very modest fellows introduced yourselves to the
acquaintance of the Sovereign of Saxony.”

“The introduction was effected through a very light-hearted and
intelligent fellow-botanizer, whom we met on our way from Zara up to
the mountains. We had all three lost our way while endeavouring to find
an _infundibuliform_”----

“Nay,” interrupted I, “I care not what you found, if you choose to tell
it in pentameters.”

“Well,” resumed Knudtzen, “we were in a wild part of the
country,--weary, hungry, cold, and in the dark. Wanderers could not
well be in a worse plight. We were as _flûté_ as Juno’s columns near
the church of St. Helia; and the skeleton doing duty there for that of
St. Simeon of Judæa, the pride and palladium of the people of Zara,
looked in far better condition, and in, especially, better raiment,
than could be boasted of by us humble pedestrians. We had walked many
leagues, when we reached a sorry inn kept by a Gipsy, where we hoped
to find rest and refreshment, but were permitted to enjoy neither. Our
swarthy host stood in his door-way, like Horatius Cocles at the head of
the bridge. Beds he did not even profess to find for travellers. He had
not slept in one himself for years, and was none the worse, he said,
for the privation. Leopold asked for wine.

“‘We have three sorts of wine,’ said the Gipsy, ‘which travellers like
yourselves once tasted and paid for. I have the very wines which the
seven Schwaben asked for in the Goldenes Kreutz at Ueberlingen.’

“‘What! old Sauerampfer?’ cried Löwenskiold.

“‘The same,’ said our singular host. ‘It is not quite so sour as
vinegar, but it will pierce the marrow of your bones like a sword;
and it will so twist your mouth, that you shall never get it straight
again.’

“‘We will try something better than this acid water,’ said I: ‘we
will’----

“‘Try the Dreimännerswein? I am sorry there are only women in the
house!’

“‘What, in the name of all your saints in Zara, have your women to do
with the refreshment we need?’

“‘Do! nothing in the world! that is precisely it! You will want three
men each of you. For Dreimännerswein is three times as rough and ten
times as sour as vinegar; and he who drinks it must be held fast by two
men, while a third pours the liquid down his throat!’

“‘And what of the third of these Olympic beverages?’ said I.

“‘It is called _Rachenputzer_, and has peculiar qualities too. He who
lies down to sleep with a flask of it in his body, must be aroused
every half-hour, and turned over. Otherwise a pint of Rachenputzer
would eat a hole right through his side!’

“The Gipsy laughed aloud as he uttered these words. We ourselves
laughed in despite of our vexation; and, somewhat startlingly, a fourth
voice took up the cachinnatory affection, and laughed even louder
than the original three. As the new-comer stood in the light of the
door-way, the landlord touched his cap, withdrew hastily into the
passage, and slammed the door in our faces, leaving us in Cimmerian
darkness, summer trousers, and a drizzling rain. The matter was no
longer risible, and we were beginning to be seriously annoyed, when the
mysterious stranger, whom we could but indistinctly see, invited us to
accompany him we knew not whither, and hospitably to partake of we knew
not what. We accepted the invitation most gratefully; and after a full
half-hour’s walk, we found ourselves on the skirts of a wood. In less
than half that time, we subsequently reached a neat little house within
the wood itself; and I do not think ten minutes had elapsed, ere we had
made such toilette as travellers may, and, with some doubts as to the
reality of the circumstance, detected ourselves in the act of eating
vermicelli soup, and wondering how it had reached us.

“Before our repast was entirely dispatched, our host, in whom we saw a
young, well-made, and exceedingly amiable personage, informed us that
he was on a botanizing expedition for the benefit of an establishment
in Northern Germany; that he had been two months settled in the house
in which we then were, and that he had already given temporary shelter
to three plant-explorers, who had resorted, in their need, to the house
of Djewitzki, the Gipsy, and who had found to their sorrow, that it had
nothing of the quality of an inn about it, except the sign.

“We talked of flowers that night,” continued Knudtzen, “as though they
were the foremost as well as the fairest things in all the world. But
we were sciolists in the science, and, contrasted with us, our host
was a sage. He knew that agrimony was under Jupiter, and angelica
under the Sun in Leo; that milfoil was under the influence of Venus,
and that garden basil was a herb of Mars. If every new idea be worth
the knowing, why, we gained knowledge by the information, that all the
dodders are under Saturn. We heard, for the first time, the virtues of
the plant enchusa.”

“But,” interrupted Löwenskiold, “we were enabled to remind our host of
what Dioscorides says about it,--that if any who have newly eaten of it
do but spit in the mouth of a serpent, the reptile instantly dies.”

“True,” said Knudtzen, “we have not been at Upsal for nothing.”

“We may all aid each other by turns,” I remarked to my two friends,
as we arrived, after descending from the cathedral, on the old bridge
over the Moldau. A large herd of cattle was crossing it at the time;
and some of the foremost black oxen of this herd had bunches of _amara
dulcis_ (or, “woody nightshade”) hung round their necks; a common
custom in Germany, as I told the young travellers, and employed as a
remedy against dizziness in the head.

“Of the owner or the ox?” said Harold, with a laugh.

“Of him who wears it,” I rejoined. “But I want to see the entry of your
King of Saxony,” I continued, “and not to listen to the description,
uses, and property of herbs, plants, and flowers; maiden-hair,
moon-wort, and _ornithogalum spicatum_.”

“So much the worse!” answered Knudtzen, “or Leopold and I had told
you what we learned from our entertainer of celandine; and what he
told us, from Pliny, of the anemone: how he recommended us, should we
ever visit Naples, never to retire to rest without strewing about our
bed-chamber some chopped leaves of arse-smart, a herb most murderous
to the numerous light troops cantoned in Neapolitan sleeping-rooms;
how balm was good for the bite of scorpions; how Pliny recommends
endweed for the quinsy;--and a thousand other matters touching leaves,
herbs, trees, flowers, roots, and barks. But I _will_ tell you that
our Amphitryon was light as well as learned, and loved fun as he did
flowers. He would discourse upon _ballets_ as well as battles; knew
all about logarithms and the new opera; told anecdotes; remembered
sermons; and, finally, lighted us to bed, with a Latin quotation, and
a brass candlestick. By day-break we were all out in the vicinity of
the house, looking for rare plants, with as much avidity as though they
equalled diamonds in value. We returned together to a breakfast exactly
adapted to our tastes and capacities; after which, our knapsacks were
once more on our shoulders, and, having made due acknowledgment for the
hospitality received, we begged to be permitted to know the name of our
entertainer.

“‘You might call me,’ said he, ‘the Dalmatian botanist, if I
particularly cared about maintaining my _incognito_. But I hope we
shall meet again; and, if you ever visit Dresden, come to me, and you
shall have better fare than I have been able to afford you here. Ask
for the King of Saxony,’ he added, observing our inquiring looks; ‘and
in the mean time write your names on these tablets, and you shall find
that in Dresden I have not forgotten the night in Dalmatia.’”

“And did you and the good Frederick Augustus ever meet again?”

“Twice,” said Harold. “We saw one another for a moment, a month
afterwards, in Zara. He was accompanying the Emperor of Austria,
followed by a brilliant staff, to a review, and he gave us a smile of
recognition as he passed.”

“The second time we met him,” added Leopold, “was in the gardens of the
Nymphenberg, near Munich. He was alone, amusing himself with feeding
the beavers. We spent a very agreeable hour with him in exploring that
pleasant retreat of the Kings of Bavaria; and, on parting, he repeated
his wish that we might meet again in Dresden,--a circumstance not very
unlikely, as we are now on our way to the Sächsische Schweitz.”

A FEW ODD GLASSES OF WINE.

The ancient people who loved the juice of the grape, kept in grateful
remembrance the names of the first planters of vines. Bacchus came
from India, through Egypt, into Europe; and he and his joyous company
made vineyards bloom amid many a desert. But the introduction of the
vine was not unopposed. The Chians accepted gratefully the rosy gift
from Œnopia; and the branch was hailed on its passage through Greece,
Sicily, and Italy. But in Greece the vines were destroyed wherever the
order of Lycurgus had force; and it was in Athens that, under King
Cranaus, men first diluted the potent draught with water. The gods
visited Greece with an inundation in consequence; but the Sicilians,
nothing daunted, adopted the temperance that was not sanctioned in
Olympus. Domitian did for the vines carried into Gaul, from Tuscany,
what Lycurgus did for those of Lacedæmonia; but Probus restored them to
the thirsty Gauls. Numa had taught his people to train the vine which
Janus had given them; and, by placing the statue of Minerva by the side
of that of Bacchus, he taught them a lesson which Domitian could not
comprehend. _He_ did _not_ know how to be merry and wise.

It was long before the Egyptians acknowledged, by grateful use, the
excellence of the vine. The Scythians, some of the Persians, and the
Cappadocians would not drink the delusive draught upon any account;
but then these were barbarians. The Cappadocians especially not only
refused wine, but liberty. When the latter was offered them by the
Romans, the reply of the water-drinkers was, “that they would neither
accept liberty nor tolerate it!” It is to be remarked, however, that
all these people tardily attained to a better taste, like the great
Hippocrates himself, who, after touching on the advisability of mixing
wine with water, finally decides, like the enthusiastic Athenians,
that it is much better to take the beverage neat. He thinks that, when
grief is at the heart, pure wine is a specific; and no doubt Ariadne
thought so too, or she would not have turned to Bacchus after Theseus
had abandoned her to a short-lived inconsolability. Rome long honoured
Bacchus even as Ariadne did; and he who stole a bunch of grapes from
a vineyard incurred the penalty of death. Italy was, indeed, proud of
her vines and their produce. Of the two hundred varieties of wine then
known in the world, only fourscore were declared to be “excellent;” and
of these fourscore, nearly thirty were said to be natives of Italy. The
Chian wines, however, maintained for ages a marked pre-eminence. It
was a vase filled with wine of Chios that the poet Ion gave to every
Athenian who was present at the representation of a tragedy, for which
the poet was publicly crowned. “_Pauper es, ut solent poetæ_,” was
therefore, evidently, a line that could not be universally applied to the
poets of Greece.

They loved old wine, too, did those old people. Wine, as old as the
years to which ravens are reported to attain,--a century, or even
two,--was served up at Rome. It was in consistency something like
the clotted cream of Devonshire. But there was wine of a more solid
consistency than this. I have elsewhere spoken of wine chopped in
pieces by an axe, before it could be used. This was because of an
accident which had happened to the wine; but the Romans had vinous
preparations which were served up in lumps; and we hear of wines being
kept in the chimney like modern bacon, and presented to the guests
“as hard as salt.” The ancients are also reported to have been able to
change red wine into white, by means of white of egg and bean-flour,
shaken together with the red wine in a flagon. It would require much
shaking before a degenerate modern could effect the mutation in
question. But if Cato could imitate the best Chian by means of his own
gooseberries, the other feat may hardly be disputed. It is certain that
the ancients could boldly swallow some questionable mixtures. Thus they
drank their wine with sea-water, in order to stimulate and whip up
energies exhausted by being over-driven the night before. Myrtle wine,
on the other hand, was copiously drunk at dawn by those who could not
sleep, but who could afford to remain in bed, and try to court Nature’s
soft nurse.

There were Roman ladies who were not born before nerves were in
fashion. These had their especial drinks, sovereign in their effects,
to calm a nervous system too sorely excited. The most efficacious of
these was the “_Adynamon_,” or “powerless wine;” that is, powerless
to intoxicate, but excellent as an invigorator. It consisted simply
of a mixture of water and white-wort; and when Julia or Lalage had
tremblingly sipped thereof, her nerves were so braced, that she could
stand by and look on while Geta was flogged for an hour.

On the point of secret drinking, the early Romans were quite as
particular and more merciless regarding their wives. When Micennius
detected his wife in the act of “sucking the monkey,” that is,
feloniously imbibing his wine through a straw at the bung-hole, he
then and there slew her. Complaint was made by her friends to Romulus;
but that chief and sole magistrate confined himself to the remark,
that she had been justly served. The wine-casks at home were for years
afterwards accounted sacred by the wives in the absence of their
lords. It would appear, too, by this incident, that wine was commonly
produced long before Numa introduced the improvement of training the
vine. There _were_ ladies who were rendered more cautious, but not
less bold, by the judgment pronounced by Romulus. We hear of one
caught in the fact by some members of her own family, who were so
disgusted with her immorality, that to preserve the respectability
of their house, they starved her to death. As years wore on, Judges
grew more good-natured, and only deprived tippling married women of
all right in their marriage portions. The Empire could hardly have
been inaugurated, before thirsty ladies adopted a custom that had been
denied them under the Commonwealth. Livia, the consort of Augustus, was
eighty-two when she died; and it was her boast that wine alone had made
her an octogenarian. What wine she drank is not stated. She may have
had a head that could bear old Falernian undiluted; but that was not
the case with many of her sex. The Roman ladies’ wine was, generally
speaking, little more than a sweet _tisane_, distilled from asparagus
or marjoram; from parsley, mint, rue, wild thyme, or pennyroyal. These
were sipped at breakfast-time; and the hour and the ingredient would
seem rather to point to Æsculapius than to Bacchus. They were, in fact,
medicinal drinks. The strong wines were drunk at other hours, and these
more innocent draughts were swallowed in the morning, with reflections
as bitter as the beverage. Wormwood wine, too, was a favourite morning
stimulant with intoxication; and it cannot be denied, that if modern
guests were condemned to a “pint of salt and water” with their wine,
the hilarity after dinner would not be of a very joyous aspect. Some of
the “sea-wines” of the Greeks, however, owed their name and reputation
chiefly to being immersed, in casks, in the ocean. Our Madeira may thus
be called a “sea-wine,” when it has been to the East Indies and back
for the benefit of its health.

“Chambertin” was the favourite wine of Napoleon. The “_vinum dulce_”
obtained after drying the grapes in the sun, during three days, and
crushing them beneath the feet, in the hottest hours of the fourth
day, was the drink for which Commodus had a predilection. It was after
draughts of this beverage that he used to fight in the Circus as the
“Roman Hercules,” as proud of his performance as Mr. Ducrow, when he
used to ride round it in the same character. Commodus, too, like the
great equestrian, was an artist in his way; but he ruined the managers
by the exorbitant salaries which he wrung from them, whenever he
condescended to appear in the arena!

For the games of the Circus, and for bread after the sport was over,
the Romans have been reproachfully pointed at as alone caring.
Considering the plight into which they had been plunged by their Rulers
and Priests, they seem to me to have been wise in their sentiment. One
circumstance is clear,--that they might dip their pennyworth of bread
into a deep cup of “sack” at the same price. Wine cost but sixpence a
gallon,--a sufficient quantity for half-a-dozen gentlemen just returned
from the Circus; or for half-a-dozen ladies, who had learned to break
through the total-abstinence principle of the women of the Republic.
There was much wine to be had for a trifling outlay of money. In
Greece, it was cheaper still. In Athens, wine was dear at fourpence per
gallon; and ordinarily, Davus, out on a holiday, might get drunk upon
four quarts of it, at a halfpenny per quart; but Chremes would nearly
flay him alive, if he caught him before he was sober.

I may add, that this was the price of wine, that is, of French wine, in
England, under John. A tun of Rochelle wine cost twenty shillings, and
it was retailed at fourpence per gallon. But taking the value of money
into consideration, this was rather a high price.

When Probus restored the vine to the Gauls, he sent cuttings of
the precious plant into Britain; and many localities in the south
part of the island produced a very respectable beverage, of which
the parent stock had no reason to be ashamed. “As sure as God is in
Gloucestershire!” was a common phrase when that picturesque county was
covered with monasteries; and many of the monastic gardens were famous
for their grapes and the liquor distilled from them. The little village
of Durweston, near Blandford, in Dorsetshire, was once as remarkable
for its peculiar grape and its product, as that restricted Rhenish
locality, whose grapes produce the Lieb Frauenmilch. Of the respective
merits of the English grapes, I will say nothing. The merits of French
wines have, however, occupied the attention of rival medical colleges,
whose professors have shed much ink, and cracked whole legions of
bottles, in order to discuss, rather than settle, the divers deserts
of Burgundy and Champagne. The question is yet an undecided one, as is
also that respecting the devotion of the Gauls to the grapes. Arnaud
de Villeneuve praises the mediæval people of France, who intoxicated
themselves monthly upon hygienic principles. While other writers
assert, that “in the middle ages, and in the sixteenth century,
intoxication was severely punished in France.” I am the more inclined
to believe in the latter assertion, as the laws against drinking and
drinkers, from Charlemagne to Francis I., have often been cited; and
they are marked by a severity--which Rabelais did not care for, a
button!

Our own wine-trade with France began after the Norman Conquest, and
was very considerable when our English Kings were proprietors of the
French wine districts. About the middle of the sixteenth century, the
_maximum_ price of wine was fixed at twelve-pence per gallon; but at
this time no one was allowed to have in his house a measure that would
contain above ten gallons, unless, indeed, he were of noble birth, or
could expend a hundred marks annually.

Of all French wines, that of Burgundy is the most difficult of
carriage. Some Burgundies cannot bear it at all; others are transported
in bottles covered with a cottony paper, or bedded in salt. Pure
Burgundy exhilarates without intoxicating; and there is not a liver
complaint in a hogshead of it. It is the alcoholic wines that massacre
the _jecur_.

The Burgundy vineyards were originally in connexion with the Burgundian
monasteries, and there were no better _vignerons_ than the monks. The
modern quality of the wine is inferior to its ancient reputation,
simply because modern proprietors are not artistical monks, but mere
money-makers. Napoleon adhered to the wine as long as he could; but at
St. Helena he took to Bordeaux,--Chambertin would have lost its best
qualities in the voyage thither.

The Emperor was, perhaps, the best judge of his favourite Chambertin
that France ever could boast of, except, probably, in the case of
the good Lindsay, of Balcarras, Bishop of Kildare. This Prelate long
resided at Tours, and was an excellent connoisseur in wine, though he
modestly used to say, “_If_ I know any thing, it is the management
of turnip crops and mangel-wurzel.” It is no disparagement of the
episcopal bench to say, that many of its members could not justifiably
make a similar boast. Lord Brougham, I believe, used to say, that “if
_he_ knew any thing, it was, that claret should always be drunk after
game.” There is an imperial authority in favour of Champagne. When
the Emperor Wenceslaus visited France in the fourteenth century, to
negotiate with Charles VI., it was impossible ever to get him sober
to a conference. “It was no matter,” he said; “they might decide as
they liked, and he would drink as _he_ liked; and thus both parties
would be on an equality.” There is something curious in the caprices of
Champagne; particularly of the _vin mousseux_, or effervescing wine. In
the same cellar, the same wine, all similarly placed, will _mousser_
in some bottles, and not in others. It will even, when poured from the
same bottle, _mousser_ in some glasses into which it is poured, while
in others it will fall as heavily placid as oil. In warm weather,
however, a great Champagne cellar is a very lively place; so lively,
that it is unsafe to walk through the serried hosts of bottles, without
a wire mask over the face.

There are one or two sorts of French wine which are considered to be
improved by letting a small portion of the stalk be trodden in with
the grape. But, probably, in the selection of the grape, there is no
where such care taken, as in the matter of imperial Tokay. The grapes
are selected with the greatest care; sometimes a second selection
is made from the first selected lot. No grape is chosen that is not
perfectly sound. The resulting wine is of a highly delicious flavour;
but I need not add, that the general public know but very little about
it. To them is vouchsafed the brewage from the damaged grape, or the
distillation of the refuse of the first grape. The product is an acid
one, resembling moderately good Rhine wine; but it is _not_ Tokay.

“Old Wortley Montague” was a great drinker of Tokay. He lived to the
patriarchal age of eighty-three. Gray, writing of him, says, that
it was not mere avarice, and its companion, abstinence, that kept
him alive so long. He imported his own wine from Hungary, in greater
quantity than he could use, and he sold the overplus,--drinking himself
a half-pint every day,--for any price he chose to set upon it. It was a
fashionable wine with the drinkers of the last century. Walpole records
its being offered at a supper given by Miss Chudleigh to the Duke of
Kingston, her then “protector.” “At supper she offered him Tokay, and
told him she believed he would find it good.” The entertainment was
splendid, and untidy. “The supper was in two rooms, and very fine; and
on all the sideboards, and _even on the chairs_, were pyramids and
troughs of strawberries and cherries; you would have thought she was
kept by Vertumnus!”

Our ancient acquaintance, “mustard,” was originally raised to the
character of “wine,” in common with some other of the seeds used at
ancient tables. Our warm friend mustard was the _mustum ardens_, or
“hot wine.” It was held as good for persons of bilious temperament, and
as being more beneficial in summer than in winter. Coriander was used
in the same season. It was mixed with vinegar, and poured over meat
to preserve its freshness. There are some men who faint at the smell
of linseed. A bread made therefrom was once, however, readily eaten
by various European and Asiatic people. Cakes made of it were placed
before the altars of gods,--men making willing sacrifice of what they
accounted as of small value. Similar sacrifices are made daily even
now; only they are not in the form of aniseed cakes.

It is said of the Arabs, that they manufactured an intoxicating wine
from linseed. This beverage was worthy of being served with that
strange dish at dessert,--fried hempseed,--a dish that would have been
appropriate enough at a highwayman’s last supper, the night before he
rode to Tyburn.

It used to be said of old, that wine was a sympathetic liquor; and
this is alluded to by more than one writer. Sir Kenelm Digby, in his
“Dissertation on the Cure of Wounds,” makes a singular remark with
respect to wine. “The wine-merchants observe every where, (where there
is wine,) that during the season the vines are in the flower, the wines
in the cellar make a kind of fermentation, and percolate forth a little
white lee (which I think they call ‘the mother of the wine’) upon the
surface of the wine, which continues in a kind of disorder till the
flower of the vines be fallen; and then, this agitation being ceased,
all the wine returns to the same state as it was in before.”

It was a custom with the ancients to swallow, to the health of their
mistresses, as many cups or glasses as there were letters in her name.
To this custom Martial refers:--

    “_Nævia sex cyathis, septem Justina bibatur, Quinque Lycas,
    Lyde quatuor, Ida tribus: Omnis ab infuso numeretur amica
    Falerno._”

It became us, as a more mechanical people, to drink upon pegs rather
than letters: the peg-tankards were said to be the invention of King
Edgar. The two-gallon measure had eight pegs; and the half-pint, from
peg to peg, was deemed a fitting draught for an honest man; but as
the statute, or custom, did not define how often the toper might be
permitted to indulge in this measure, people of thirsty propensities
got rather more inebriated than they had dared to be previously. As
the half-pint was roughly set down as the _maximum_ of their draught,
it was a point of honour with them never to drink less,--and to drink
to that extent as often as opportunity offered. The Council of London
(Archbishop Anselm’s “Canons,” A.D. 1102) expressly warned the Clergy
against the perils of peg-drinking; but the same Council looked upon
perukes as being quite as perilous as these pegged half-pints, and
denounced wigs with as much intensity as tankards,--and to about as
much purpose. Karloman understood the Ecclesiastics better; at least,
if traditionary history be worthy of any respect.

Among the legends of the Rhine connected with my present subject of
wine, there is one which is worth mentioning. The great Karloman, who
loved good liquor, bequeathed to the brotherhood of Monks at Rheinfeld
a marvellous and covetable butt of wine, which had not only the merit
of being of first-rate quality, but which never decreased, though it
was continually running at the spigot! This wine was for the use of
the brethren; but the good Emperor also left a sum of money which he
desired should be spent in treating visitors to the monastery with good
Rhenish wine. When a weary traveller claimed the hospitality of the
Monks, he was immediately conducted to an inner apartment. Here he was
invested with the collar of Karloman, and gravely informed that, it
being necessary that he should be baptized, he had only to say whether
he preferred that the ceremony should be performed with wine or with
water. If, like an honest fellow, he selected wine, he was gently
constrained to swallow three monster bumpers of Muscatel. He was then
crowned with a parcel-gilt coronet, and so became installed one of
the jolly Knaves of St. Goar. There were some privileges attached to
this dignity; among others, was the right to fish on the summit of the
Lurley Berg, where there is no water; and of hunting on the sand-banks
of the Rhine, where there is not safe footing for a sparrow. The poor
temperate wight, on the other hand, who preferred the modest medium of
water for the ceremony of his baptism, was proclaimed a blind Heathen,
and was immediately drenched to the skin, from outpouring buckets of
water that were showered upon him in all directions. Such was the
solemnity of the Hänsel, as instituted by Karloman. This Emperor’s
affection for the Rhine and its vicinity was as strong as that of an
old gastronomic English Bishop for his native island. The episcopal
attachment is exemplified in the story of the Prelate’s last moments,
when his faithful servant John endeavoured to encourage him. “Be
comforted, my Lord,” said John: “your Lordship is going to a better
place.” “Ah, John!” said the Bishop, “there is no place like old
England!”

There was a practice among the Romans with regard to wine, which
should win the respect of all our Inns of Court. All law business was
suspended during vintage time. “_Sanè_,” says Minucius Felix, “_et
ad vindemiam feriæ judiciorum curam relaxaverunt_;” and this was no
poor holiday: it was the Long Vacation of the Roman bar, extending,
as the Rev. Hubert Ashton Holden remarks, in his admirable edition of
the “_Octavius_,” from August 22nd to October 15th. And here let me
remark, parenthetically, how much preferable it would be to make a
school-book of the “_Octavius_” of Minucius Felix, so rich in early
Christian information, and so pure in its Latinity, rather than pursue
the old course of letting boys read Ovid and similar authors. The Abbé
Gaume, in his “_Ver Rongeur_,” traces all the evils by which society
is afflicted, to the study of erotic Latin and Greek authors. The
Abbé rushes from one extreme into its opposite, and wishes to confine
our sons to the mawkish Latinity of the Lives of the Saints, and the
Pastorals (so unlike the Eclogues) of Bishops. The work of Minucius
Felix just occupies the safe medium of the two remote points,--erotic
Heathenism, and Monkish mendacity, told with much violation of grammar.
It is a book that ought to be on the list of works to be studied in
every locality devoted to the education of “ingenuous youth.”

It is hardly necessary to write of the effects of wine on the bodily
economy. They are too familiarly known. There was an old adage that--

  “He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober,
  Falls as the leaves do, and dies in October;
  But he who goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow,
  Lives as he ought to do, and dies a good fellow.”

This is poor poetry, worse sentiment, and deadly counsel. Half the
evils that torture men arise from intemperance; and, next to excess
in alcohol, immoderation in wine is the most fatal practice to which
humanity can bind itself slave. An Arab says of his horse, that the
horse’s belly is the measure of its corn. Men are too apt to allow a
similar metage with respect to themselves in the matter of wine. It
were safer to remember that we cannot drink too little, and that we
soon may be drinking too much. Panard very justly says,--

  “_Se piquer d’être grand buveur,
    Est un abus qui je déplore.
  Fuyons ce titre peu flatteur;
    C’est un honneur qui déshonore.
  Quand on boît trop, on s’assoupit,
    Et l’on tombe en délire:
  Buvons pour avoir de l’esprit,
    Et non pour le détruire._”

As good advice, more eloquently delivered, is given by our own Herbert,
a poet next to Shakespeare for felicity of expression. Our reverend
minstrel and monitor says,--

  “Drink not the third glass, which thou canst not tame
    When once it is within thee, but before
  May’st rule it as thou list; and pour the shame,
    Which it would pour on thee, upon the floor.
  It is most just to throw that on the ground,
  Which would throw _me_ there, if I keep the round.”

And again:--

  “If reason move not, gallants, quit the room;
    (All in a shipwreck shift their several way;)
  Let not a common ruin thee entomb;
    Be not a beast in courtesy, but stay,
  Stay at the third cup, or forego the place:
  Wine, above all things, does God’s stamp deface.”

This is admirable counsel, logic, and theology. The people who least
stood in need of such a triad of excellent aids to good living were the
Egyptians, at that particular period of their career when they confined
themselves to drinking

  “Beer small as comfort, dead as charity.”

And this may naturally lead us to look in, for a moment, on both the
ancient and the modern Egyptians, when seated at table. But, previous
to doing so, there is a little philological matter I would fain settle,
as far as so indifferent an authority may presume to do so, and which
may interest, not merely wine-bibbers, but etymologists, and zealous
correspondents to “Notes and Queries.” It may be very briefly discussed.

I have noticed, in another page, the fact that nearly all our
old-fashioned drinking phrases are but corruptions of foreign terms.
A “carouse,” for instance, is derived from “_gar aus_,” “altogether
empty,” sufficiently indicative of what a reveller was to do with
his full glass. There is one--a rather vulgar term--of the origin of
which, however, I have never heard any account. But I think I may have
discovered it in a little German poem, by Pfarrius, called “_Der Trunk
aus dem Stiefel_,” and which, thus roughly done into English, may serve
to show

THE ORIGIN OF “BOOSEY.”

  In the Rheingraf’s hall were of Knights a score,
  And they drained their goblets o’er and o’er,
  And the torches they flung a lurid glow
  On the Knights who were drinking there below.

  “Ho, ho!” said the Rheingraf, “Sir Knights, I find,
  Our courier has left a boot behind;
  He who can empty it off at a breath,--
  The Hufflesheim village is his till death.”

  Then laughing, he filled the boot to the rim,
  Till the bright red wine flowed over the brim;
  And said, as he mark’d their sparkling eyes,--
  “Good luck to you, Knights--you know the prize!”

  Then Johann von Sponheim sat silent by,
  But pushed his neighbour to rise and try;
  And Meinhart, his neighbour, could nothing do
  But scowl at the boot, and sit silent too.

  Old Florsheim, he nervously stroked his beard;
  And Kunz von Stromberg spoke never a word;
  And even the giant Chaplain stared
  At the monster boot, as though he were scared.

  Then Boos von Waldeck did loudly call,--
  “Here, hand me that thimble!” and “Health to all!”
  And then, in one breath, to the very last drain,
  He drank, and fell back on his seat again,

  And said, “O, Sir Rheingraf, it were my mind,
  Had the fellow his other boot left behind,
  To empty that, too, at a breath; and take
  For my prize Norheim village, near the lake.”

  Then loud laughed they all at Waldeck’s good jest,--
  Of all landless tipplers, till then, the best;
  But the Rheingraf, he kept his knightly word,--
  And Boos of the Boot was Hufflesheim’s lord!

If therein be not the origin of “boosey,” why, let the lexicographers
look to it. But my readers will have had enough of these uncouth names.
I have now to introduce them to hosts with names equally unmusical;
but, luckily, we have now to do more with acts than appellations,
and therewith pass we to golden Egypt, and her well-spread boards. I
will only first add another word respecting spirits, as a beverage.
All authorities are agreed, that reason has no more deadly foe than
alcohol. The effects of the latter are well described by Dr. Winslow,
whom we have previously quoted in the matter of mental dietetics,--a
gentleman who might, with justice, have given a plump denial to the
remark of Macbeth, had it been addressed to Dr. Winslow, when the
royal patient uncivilly told his medical adviser, “Thou canst not
minister to a mind diseased.” Dr. Winslow says: “The alcoholic elements
introduced into the blood, and brought into immediate contact with
the tissues of different organs, will derange the functions which
they are severally destined to perform; and the amount and character
of the mischief so produced will correspond with, and be modified by,
the peculiarities of their individual organic structure. With these
facts before us, when we consider the delicate structure of the brain,
as revealed to us by the progress of microscopic anatomy, we must be
prepared for the physical and mental derangement which must arise,
either from the alcohol itself, or its elements, being brought into
direct contact with the vesicular neurine or granular matter entering
into the composition of its white and grey substance. According to our
most recent physiological views, the vesicular matter is the source
of nervous power, and associated, as the material instrument of the
mind, with all its manifestations, whether in the simple exercise
of perception, or the more complicated operations of the thinking
principle. We are then to conceive the simple or organic structure
dedicated to this high function brought into contact with irritating
and noxious elements. The result must obviously be a disturbance in the
manifestations of the mind proportioned to the organic derangements so
produced; and without, therefore, taking a materialistic view of the
changes which take place, the obliteration of some, and the derangement
of other of the intellectual faculties, are hereby satisfactorily
accounted for. It is certain, that when the circulation in the grey
matter of the convolutions is retarded by congestion, or accelerated
by unwonted stimulation, there is a corresponding state of stupor or
mental activity, amounting even to delirium, produced; and, indeed, it
has been suggested, by some of our most eminent physiologists, that
every idea of the mind is associated with a corresponding change in
some part, or parts, of the vesicular surface.” And if they who sit
“amid bumpers brightening,” could only hold this truth in sober memory,
there would be less imbibed at night, and more sunshine in their souls
on the morrow. And now let us pass to the cradle of wisdom, the ancient
Misraim, where, despite the national boast, folly was, perhaps, as much
deified as in any locality upon earth.

Yes, let us now to ancient Egypt, where, as good old Herbert so finely
expresses it,--

                  “Men did sow
  Gardens of gods, which every year did grow
  Fresh and fine deities. They were at great cost
  Who for a god clearly a sallet lost!
  O, what a thing is man devoid of grace,
  Adoring garlic with a humble face!
  Begging his food of that which he may eat,
  Starving the while he worshippeth his meat!
  Who makes a root a god, how low is he,
  If God and man be severed infinitely!
  What wretchedness can give him any room,
  Whose house is foul, while he adores his broom?”

THE TABLE OF THE ANCIENT AND MODERN EGYPTIANS.

If neither the grave of the Pharaohs nor physiology will, nor Dr.
Hincke nor Chevalier Bunsen can, reveal to us the secret of the
origin of the Egyptians, we, at all events, know that they were
majestically-minded with respect to the table. The science of living
was well understood by them; and the science of killing was splendidly
rewarded; seeing that the soldiery, besides liberal pay, allowance of
land, and exemption from tribute, received daily five pounds of bread,
two of meat, and a quart of wine. With such rations they ought not to
have been beaten by the Persians, when the latter had so degenerated,
that their almost sole national boast was, that they could drink deeper
than any other men, without seeming half so drunk. The Egyptians, too,
were tolerably stout hands, and heads to boot, at the wine-pot; and
there were few among even their Kings who, like the King of Castile,
would have choked of thirst, because the grand butler was not by to
hand the cup.

The pulse and fruits of Egypt, the fish of the Nile, the corn
waving in its fields, which needed neither sun nor rain to exhibit
productiveness,--all these were the envy, and partly the support, of
surrounding nations. The corn was especially prized; and a reported
threat of St. Athanasius to obstruct the importation of Egyptian corn
into Constantinople, threw the Emperor Constantine into a fit of
mingled fright, fever, and fury.

An Egyptian Squire commonly possessed a hundred or two cows and oxen,
three hundred rams, four times that number of goats, and five times
that number of swine, for the supply of his own little household. The
apartments in the mansions of these gentlemen were beautifully painted,
and were furnished with tables, chairs, and couches which have supplied
models for the upholstery of modern times. They were lovers of music,
and willingly suspended conversation at their feasts, in order to
listen to the “concord of sweet sounds.”

Cleopatra was but a febrile creature; but she sat down with good
appetite, and love in her eyes, to the banquet given by Antony, at
which fifteen whole boars smoked upon the board. But Cleopatra, frail
and fragile, like many thin people, ate heartily; and when she herself
treated Cæsar, it was with such a banquet that slaves died to procure
it, and the guests who were present wondered at the rarities of which
they partook. There was every thing there that gastronomy could think
of, except mutton,--an exception in favour of the divine Ammon with the
ram-like head. I believe that even roast beef and plum-pudding were not
lacking; for these delicacies were popular in Thebes, as was broiled
and salted goose, with good brown stout, strong barley-wine, to cheer
the spirits and assist digestion.

Excessively proud, too, were the old Egyptians of their culinary
ability. When the Egyptians, under their King, attacked Ochus,
Sovereign of Persia, the former were thoroughly beaten, and their
Monarch was captured. Ochus treated him as courteously as the Black
Prince did John of France, and invited him to his own table, at the
simplicity of which the Egyptian laughed outright. “Prince,” said
the uncourteous captive, “if you would really like to know how happy
Kings should feed, just let my cooks--if you have caught the rascals,
as you have me--prepare you a true Egyptian supper.” Ochus consented,
enjoyed himself amazingly at the banquet, and then, turning to his
Egyptian prisoner, punished him by saying, “Why, what a sorry fool
art thou, whose ambition has lost thee such repasts, and reduced thee
to henceforth envy, as thou wilt, the moderate meals that suffice us
honest Persians!” The implied threat was worse than the sentiment.

The dinner-table of the Egyptians was sometimes covered with a linen
cloth imitating palm-leaves, sometimes left uncovered. Plates and
knives, but not forks, were in common use. In place of the latter
were short-handled spoons of gold, silver, ivory, tortoise-shell, or
alabaster. The dining-table was circular: ornamented rolls of wheaten
bread were placed before each guest; and supplies of the same were
heaped in gay-looking baskets on the side-board, where also were kept
the wine, the water, ewer, and napkins, which slaves, fair or swarthy,
Greek or Negro, were ready to present at the bidding of the guests.

Previous to sitting down to the repast, the company put a spur to their
appetite, and a cordial to their stomach, in the shape of pungent
vegetables or strong _liqueurs_. Glasses for beer, decanters and
goblets for wine, appear among the ancient pictorial illustrations of
Egyptian table-furniture. It would seem, too, from the position of
those at table, that they rose from their chairs to challenge each
other to drink, to propose toasts or healths, or to inflict speeches
upon the vexed ears of compulsory listeners.

In these “counterfeit presentments” of Egyptian life may be seen the
entire science of epicureanism, and its practical application put into
action. The poultry-yard, the slaughter-houses, the markets and the
kitchen, are so graphically depicted, that we see at once, that the art
of making life comfortable was one most profoundly respected by the
ancient and mysterious people. The selecting, purchasing, and killing
are vividly portrayed. The cooking is carried on in a large bronze
caldron, on a tripod, over a fire, which is stirred by an under-cook,
with a poker that may have been bought any day at Rippon and Burton’s.
The butcher is there, too, in order decently to dissect the fowls;
and our ancient friend carries before him the identical steel for
sharpening his knife, which may be seen any day hanging from the waists
of the butchers of London. There is a pastrycook, also, in one of
these “civil monuments of Egypt,” who is carrying a tray of tartlets
on his head; and to the tray is appended the inscription signifying
“one thousand,” which probably means, that this “Birch, Pyramid-place,
Cairo,” drives such a trade, that he makes and sells a thousand tarts
or a thousand varieties of them daily.

A dinner _fresco_, in a tomb at Thebes, shows us an entertainment given
by a naval officer to some of his professional brethren. This _fresco_
is described as being in compartments, and, perhaps, the most curious
is that in which “you see on one side the arrival of an aristocratic
guest, in his chariot, attended by a train of running footmen, one
of whom hastens forward to announce his arrival by a knock at the
door, sufficient to satisfy the critical ear, and rouse the somnolent
obesity, of the sleepiest and fattest hall-porter in Grosvenor
Square. The other compartment presents you with a _coup-d’œil_ of the
poultry-yard, shambles, pantry, and kitchen; and is completed by a
side view of a novel incident. A grey-headed mendicant, attended by
his faithful dog, and who might pass for Ulysses at his palace-gate,
is receiving, from the hands of a deformed, but charitable, menial, a
bull’s head, and a draught of that beer, for the invention of which we
are beholden to the Thebans.”

The story of Mycerinus, the Egyptian King, is grandly told by Mr.
Arnold, in his popular volume of poems; and, succinctly, by Herodotus.
An incident of the story connects it with our subject. Mycerinus
was persecuted by the gods for rendering Egypt happy, instead of
oppressing it, like his predecessors, and as the oracles had declared
it should be oppressed for many years to come. In punishment for such
impious piety, as his offence may be called, poor Mycerinus was told by
the oracle at Buto, that he should live only six years longer. “When
Mycerinus heard this, seeing that his sentence was now pronounced
against him, he ordered a great number of lamps to be made, and, having
lighted them, whenever night came on, he drank and enjoyed himself,
never ceasing night or day, roaming about the marshes and groves,
wherever he could hear of places most suited for pleasure; and he had
recourse to this artifice for the purpose of convicting the oracle of
falsehood, that by turning the nights into days, he might live twelve
years instead of six.” Poor fool! He probably succeeded in his object,
but after a sorry fashion. It may be good poetry to say that--

    “The best of all ways
    To lengthen our days
  Is to take a few hours from night, my dear;”

but it is bad in principle, and universally unsuccessful in practice.

A recent describer of his travels in Egypt has said, that nothing is
so easy as to show that the Egyptians gave jovial banquets within the
sepulchral hall of tombs. I think that nothing would be so difficult
as to prove this. The nearest approach to it would be the case of the
skeleton that was carried about at Egyptian banquets, the bearer, at
the same time, warning the guests that, eat, drink, and laugh as they
might, to _that_ “complexion they must come” at last. The assertion,
however, was probably made, in part, to excuse a barbarous festival, at
which the writer was present, in the tombs of Eilythyias. The _locale_
was one of the huge halls, whose colossal columns serve to support the
huger mountain that is above. The dinner, we are told, was laid out
between the columns, with strings of small lamps suspended in festoons
over head.

The civilized and Christian ladies and gentlemen who were the guests
at this feast, broke up the coffins of the pagan and barbarian Kings
and Queens, in order to procure wood to boil their vegetables! They
laughed, joked, and sang joyous songs, and wondered what the buried
majesty of Misraim would say, could it burst its cerements, and see
northern men of unknown tongues drinking Champagne at its august
feet. And if, for a moment, a reflecting guest contrasted the savage
revelry with the ensigns hung out by the King of Terrors to intimate
his irresistible dominion over the company,--why, reflection was soon
banished by the appearance of the Awalim and Ghawazi girls, whom strong
coffee and more potent brandy had primed for their lascivious dancing.
“O Father Abraham! what these Christians are!”

These tombs are full of instruction to those who can read them. They
show us that the chief butler and cook--the “keeper of the drinks,” and
the Prince (_sar_) of his cooks--were probably Princes of the blood
of Pharaoh. In all pictorial representations of banquets, it is the
eldest son who hands the viands to his father, the eldest daughter to
the mother. The bill of fare of the trimestrial banquet of the dead,
held in the noble hall of the tomb of Nahrai at Benihassan, is still
extant. It is as long as that of a score of Lord Mayors’; and hundreds
of men were fed from what remained. All the retainers of Nahrai, who
was a Prince in Egypt a full century before the time of Joseph, were
buried in the vaults beneath the hall; and every one who could claim
kindred with them had a right to partake of the feast. The manner of
service appears to have been after this fashion:--The youngest children
of the house received the viands from the cooks, and those children
passed them on to the elder, until they reached the first-born,
who placed the dish at the feet of his sire, by whom a portion was
cut off, which the daughters, according to their age, transferred
from one to the other till it reached the separate table of their
mother. All remained standing, at these festival-dinners, until the
two seniors of the house had finished the first dishes of the repast.
Portions from these were then served to the children, when the whole
party sat down together; the children eating of the remains of the
first dish, while “the governor” and his lady partook of the integral
second; and so on, through a long service. On the wall of a tomb at
Ghizeh,--that of Eimei, one of the Princes of the Saphis,--the bill of
fare directs ninety-eight dishes to be placed, at once, on the table,
at the fortnightly banquets which glad survivors held in honour of the
departed, who appear to me always to enjoy an immense advantage over
those whom they leave behind them.

But now let us look in upon the modern Egyptian. If he be the master
of a house, while he is at ablutions and prayers, his wife is making
his coffee; and it is to be hoped that she is allowed the privilege
alluded to in the Augustinian sentiment, _orat qui laborat_. The cup
of coffee and pipe, taken early, generally suffice the Egyptian till
noon, at which hour comes the actual breakfast, usually consisting of
bread, butter, eggs, cheese, clotted cream, or curdled milk, with,
perhaps, a thin pastry, saturated with butter, folded like a pancake,
and sprinkled with sugar. A dish of horse-beans (terrific dish!)
sometimes adorns the table. They have been slowly simmering through
a whole night in an earthen vessel, buried up to the neck in the hot
ashes of an oven; and the sauce for this indigestible dish is linseed
oil or butter, and, perhaps, a little lime-juice. Those to whom butter
is difficult of procuring, or to whom good dinners are rarities, often
make a meal, and are content, upon dry bread dipped in a mixture of
salt, pepper, wild marjoram, with various other herbs, pungent seeds,
and a quantity of chickpeas. The bread is dipped into this _ragoût_,
and so eaten.

The supper is the principal meal in Egypt. The cooking is especially
for this repast; and what remains is appropriated for the next day’s
dinner, despite the apophthegm of Boileau, that--

  “_Un dîner réchauffé ne vaut jamais rien._”

It is only an amiable _paterfamilias_ that dines with his wives and
children; and, in truth, where the wife appears in the plural number,
the husband can hardly expect a quiet meal. The washing before eating
is almost of universal observation. The table is a round tray placed
low, so that the squatters on the ground may conveniently eat thereat.
Bread and limes are placed on the tray. The bread is round, as among
the ancient Egyptians, and often serves as a plate. The spoons, too,
are of the materials I have named in speaking of the older nation.
The dishes are of tinned copper or china; and several are put upon
the table at one time. Among the Turks, only _one_ dish appears at
a time. Twelve persons, with one knee on the ground and the other
(the right) raised, may sit round a tray three feet in diameter. Each
guest tucks up his right sleeve, and prepares for his work, after
imitating the master of the house in uttering a low _Bismillah_, “In
the name of God.” The host sets the second example of commencing
to eat; and the guests again follow the good precedent. Knives and
forks are not used; spoons only for food like soups and rice. The
thumb and two forefingers are the instruments otherwise employed; and
they are employed delicately enough. Generally, a piece of bread is
taken, doubled together, and dipped into the dish, so as to enclose
the morsel of meat which the guest designs for himself, or, if it be
a savoury bit, and _he_ be courteous, intended for presentation to
his neighbour. The food is suited to such practices. It consists of
stewed meats, with vegetables of endless variety, or of small morsels
of mutton or lamb, roasted on skewers: clarified butter compensates for
want of fat in the meat. A fowl is summarily torn asunder by two hands,
either of the same person, or the right hands of two guests. Dexterous
fellows, like our first-rate carvers, will “joint” a fowl with one
hand. The Arabs do not use the left hand at all at table, because it is
used for unclean purposes. The disjointing is easily done; and even a
whole lamb, stuffed with pistachio nuts, may be pulled to pieces much
more easily than we divide a chicken. Water-melons, sliced, set to
cool, and watched, lest serpents should approach, and poison the dish
by their breath, generally form, when in season, a part of an Egyptian
meal,--a meal which usually closes with a dish of boiled rice, mixed
with butter, salt, and pepper; but occasionally this dish is followed
by a bowl of water, with raisins that have been boiled in it, and sugar
added, with a little rose-water, to give it an odour of refinement. A
bottle of six-year-old port is preferable.

As soon as each person has satisfied his appetite, he ceases, murmurs,
“Praise be to God!” drinks his sweetened water, rises, and goes his
way. They who drink wine, do it in private, or with confidential
friends, call it “rum” to save their orthodoxy; and if a visitor call
while this process is going on, the ready servant informs him that his
master is abroad or in the harem. Sweet drinks and sherbets, approved
by the Law and _the_ Prophet, are in common use, and pipes and prayer
end “the well-spent day.”

Egyptian women have some little fancies connected with the table that
may be mentioned. In order to achieve that proportion of obesity
which constitutes the beautiful, they eat mashed beetles, and they
chew frankincense and laudanum, to perfume the breath. The Egyptian
peasantry live upon the very sparest of diets, not often being able to
procure even rice. They, like the Bedouins, are, however, remarkable
for strength and health; but an Egyptian or Bedouin diet would not
produce the same results in an English climate.

It will have been observed, that in Egypt each man says his own
“grace,” before and after meat, for himself. The same custom prevails
in Servia. At table, instead of one person asking for a blessing on the
food, each individual expresses, _in his own words_, (an improvement on
the Egyptian plan,) his gratitude to the Supreme Being. In drinking,
the toast or sentiment of the Servian is, “To the glory of God!” and
a very excellent sentiment, only the Servian is apt to get very drunk
over it. The Servian qualification for a chairman at a convivial party
is, that he should be able to deliver an extempore prayer; and a very
good qualification, provided it be not a mere formality, and that
the spirit of prayer be the strongest spirit there. The combination,
however, of Collects and conviviality reminds me of some strange
parties at old-fashioned houses in our provincial towns, where comic
songs are followed by discussions on the Millennium, and seed-cake and
ginger wine season both.

I have spoken more of the achievements of Egyptian cookery, than of the
quality of the cooks. The fact is, that it is far more easy to speak
decidedly of the former, than of the latter. Mr. St. John describes
the Arab cooks in Egypt as being great gastronomers, and serving up
“their dishes in a style which could not have displeased Elagabalus
himself!” Mr. Lane equally lauds their excellence, and the delicacy of
the manner of eating. Herr Werne, on the other hand,--and he is a man
of wide experience in this matter,--speaks very differently both of
Turkish eating and Arab cooking in Egypt. Werne, indeed, speaks of the
remote district of Bellad Sudam, rather than of Cairo and Alexandria;
but his observations have an extensive application, nevertheless. He
is disgusted with the general want of cleanliness; and he remarks,
that “the cooks are dirtier in themselves, and more filthy in their
dress, than any other class of people.” The dirty Arab cook is in a
dirty kitchen, a dirty pipe ever in his mouth, and with the dirtiest of
hands manipulating savoury preparations for the mouths of his masters.
He knows little more than how to boil or roast meat, boil beans, and
prepare vegetable dishes. Even the female slaves of the harem, who act
as cooks to their lords, are remarkable for uncleanliness. “All the
meat to be used for the dinner is sodden together in one huge caldron,
and separated for arrangement in various dishes, all of which partake
of general flavour, having been cooked together, and there is but scant
nourishment in any of them.” The vegetables are described by him as
being wretchedly cooked, and saturated with bad butter, or the water
in which they have been boiled. The dishes are not larger than our
plates; the plates, when such are used by the guests, about the size
of our saucers: but “each guest at once plunges his hand into any or
every dish that pleases him, and gropes about till he gets hold of the
best bits, pulls them out, and swallows them. Very often a bite is only
taken from the piece thus seized on, and the rest returned to the dish;
but, in spite of the clean treatment it has undergone, it is again soon
seized hold of by another, and, perchance, again similarly handled,
till all is finally bolted. The Turks eat incredibly rapidly, as they
bolt every thing, and keep cramming into the mouth more, ere the former
mouthful has been swallowed; while a smacking of lips, and licking of
sauce-dripping fingers, succeed, and proclaim their pleasure in the
meal. Bread is generally to be found on the table, but neither salt,
oil, vinegar, nor pepper; although, when they dine with Europeans,
they show no dislike to highly-seasoned dishes or strong drinks.
Although these dishes are numerous, they contain but little. If there
are many courses, or more dishes than the table will hold at one time,
the entertainer is ever busied making signs to the attendants which
are to be removed; and not seldom the guest finds, that the very dish
he was about to help himself from is carried off from under his very
nose. The Pasha used often to amuse himself by playing tricks on his
guests, by ordering off, with the utmost rapidity, those dishes he saw
their longing eyes fixed on, ere their outstretched hands could convey
any portion of them into their watering mouths. At first, in spite of
the _pilau_, we never were quick enough to get sufficient to eat, not
having been brought up to bolt our food; and that the Turks are so
quickly satisfied, and by so little, is wholly owing to this bolting
of their food, is undeniable; and this also produces the repeated
eructations they so loudly and joyfully give vent to, as proving their
high health and vigour.”

The Turks and Arabs of Egypt “chaw,” carrying their quid between
the front teeth and upper lip. The blacks of Gesira mix tobacco and
nitron, dissolving the latter in an infusion of the former. This they
call “bucca;” and they take a mouthful of it at a time, which they
keep rinsing over their teeth and gums, for, perhaps, a quarter of
an hour, before they eject it. They have “bucca” parties, as we have
tea-parties; and _then_ is the circle in the very highest state of
enjoyment,--imbibing, gurgling, gargling, and ejecting,--and not a word
uttered, except at the close, when the guests return thanks to their
host “for this very delightful evening!”

Egypt was the locality wherein the saints of old especially shone with
respect to their table arrangements, or their contempt for them; and
these gentlemen fairly claim a due share of notice at our hands. So,
now “for the Desert!”

THE DIET OF SAINTS.

Feasting, under certain circumstances, at certain seasons, and for
certain ends, is undoubtedly sanctified by apostolical recommendation.
The earlier fathers, however, say little on the subject. Clement of
Alexandria mentions weekly fasts at Easter; and Tertullian, in an
article especially recommending the observation, bitterly bewails that
it has fallen into a general disuse. The Church of Alexandria also
ordained a fast on Wednesdays and Fridays;--on Wednesday, because on
that day Christ was betrayed; on Friday, because on that day he was
crucified. In Alexandria too arose the saying, that the aspen-tree
shook because it was the tree from which the wood for the cross was