Table traits, with something on them

by Dr. Doran

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.