WINE AND WATER.
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 ofJupiter 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 authoritiesof 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 glowsIn 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 watermaybe, 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’erIts 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 glowsIn this goblet of mine.Wine! wine! wine! wine!No attendant for meTo the river need go.No! no! no! no!
Do you ask what now glowsIn 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 watermaybe, 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’erIts 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 glowsIn this goblet of mine.Wine! wine! wine! wine!No attendant for meTo the river need go.No! no! no! no!
Do you ask what now glowsIn 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 watermaybe, as it’s quaff’d by each man,Productive of fun to a whole caravan.But ask what now glows, &c.
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 watermaybe, 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.
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’erIts 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 glowsIn this goblet of mine.Wine! wine! wine! wine!No attendant for meTo the river need go.No! no! no! no!
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 competeWith that red sea of light;Which breathes forth a perfumeThat deadens all sorrow,And leaves us bless’d now,(Conscienceloquitur,)“With a headache to-morrow!”Where are spirits like thoseThat 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,(Conscienceloquitur,)“To be songless to-morrow!”O, this rare inspiration!How gay are the dreamsOf the thrice triple blestWho may quaff of thy streams!It expels from the heartSulky care, that old horror,And tells laughter to-night(Conscience, ashamed of the rhyme)“To wake sadness to-morrow!”Drink deep, though there beThirstless fools, who may preachOf 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,(Conscienceloquitur,)“To be sad ones to-morrow!”Ah! that was old Conscience:Himwe’ll drown in the wine!Plunge him in! hold him down!Ah! he dies!—now the NineMay, 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!”
See the wine in the bowl,How it sparkles to-night!Tell us what can competeWith that red sea of light;Which breathes forth a perfumeThat deadens all sorrow,And leaves us bless’d now,(Conscienceloquitur,)“With a headache to-morrow!”Where are spirits like thoseThat 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,(Conscienceloquitur,)“To be songless to-morrow!”O, this rare inspiration!How gay are the dreamsOf the thrice triple blestWho may quaff of thy streams!It expels from the heartSulky care, that old horror,And tells laughter to-night(Conscience, ashamed of the rhyme)“To wake sadness to-morrow!”Drink deep, though there beThirstless fools, who may preachOf 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,(Conscienceloquitur,)“To be sad ones to-morrow!”Ah! that was old Conscience:Himwe’ll drown in the wine!Plunge him in! hold him down!Ah! he dies!—now the NineMay, 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!”
See the wine in the bowl,How it sparkles to-night!Tell us what can competeWith that red sea of light;Which breathes forth a perfumeThat deadens all sorrow,And leaves us bless’d now,(Conscienceloquitur,)“With a headache to-morrow!”
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,
(Conscienceloquitur,)
“With a headache to-morrow!”
Where are spirits like thoseThat 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,(Conscienceloquitur,)“To be songless 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,
(Conscienceloquitur,)
“To be songless to-morrow!”
O, this rare inspiration!How gay are the dreamsOf the thrice triple blestWho may quaff of thy streams!It expels from the heartSulky care, that old horror,And tells laughter to-night(Conscience, ashamed of the rhyme)“To wake sadness 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 beThirstless fools, who may preachOf 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,(Conscienceloquitur,)“To be sad ones 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,
(Conscienceloquitur,)
“To be sad ones to-morrow!”
Ah! that was old Conscience:Himwe’ll drown in the wine!Plunge him in! hold him down!Ah! he dies!—now the NineMay, 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!”
Ah! that was old Conscience:
Himwe’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 upTo 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 brinkOf the brook, and drinkOf a liquid that never will do for me!While the tulip-cupIs 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 sheTo the tulip, that weHave loved for so long, and love so well still?Ah! who doth not think herA 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!
Praise they who will the saucy vine,With her thousand rings and her curls so fine!But I fill upTo 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 brinkOf the brook, and drinkOf a liquid that never will do for me!While the tulip-cupIs 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 sheTo the tulip, that weHave loved for so long, and love so well still?Ah! who doth not think herA 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!
Praise they who will the saucy vine,With her thousand rings and her curls so fine!But I fill upTo 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 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 brinkOf the brook, and drinkOf a liquid that never will do for me!While the tulip-cupIs 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!
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 sheTo the tulip, that weHave loved for so long, and love so well still?Ah! who doth not think herA 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!
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.