Chap. II That Wine Drives Away Sorrow and Excites Mirth
Of all the means proper to drive away sorrow, and excite mirth in the minds of men, wine is certainly the most agreeable and efficacious.
For in the first place it banishes all manner of cares, and makes us entirely forget them, producing the same effect as the waters of the River Lethe on those souls which were destined to enter into other bodies.
—————— Animæ quibus altera fato
Corpora debentur, Lethei ad fluminis undam
Securos latices, et longa oblivio potant1.
—————— Those souls which Fate decrees
Shall other bodies take, upon the strand
Of Lethe sit, and drink secure the flood,
And long oblivion.
For the same reason, undoubtedly, Isidore defined drunkenness a certain forgetfulness caused in the mind, through indulgence of immoderate drinking. His words are these:— Ebrietas est per quam menti quædam oblivio generatur ex superfluorum potuum indulgentia2.”
A certain French poet3 sings thus much in the same tune:—
“Oui, Thirsis, c’est le vin qui nous fait rejeunir,
Et qui bannit de nos pensees;
Le regret de choses passees,
Et le crainte de l’avenir.”
Yes, Thirsis, ’tis the vine’s prolific juice
Can youth and beauty re-produce,
Banish the sad regret of former years,
And of futurity the fears.
In the next place, wine is a sovereign remedy against a particular species of sorrow or chagrin, I mean a sort of inward wearisomeness, which the French call ennui. I shall explain myself a little farther, and for my expositor I cannot make choice of a fitter person than Mr. de St. Evremont4, who, after having discoursed a little on this subject, adds, “That good cheer with one’s friends, is a sovereign remedy against this kind of chagrin; for besides that conversation at such times becomes more free and gay, it insensibly sweetens it. It is certain that wine rouses up the forces of nature, and gives our soul a vigour capable to drive away all sorts of uneasiness. I know very well that certain morose people, at least externally so, and in appearance, will shew a great deal of aversion for a remedy, the delights of which they do not, however, too much despise. But all grimace aside. I don’t trouble myself with their ill-understood severities, since the most severe philosopher in the world has advised us to make use of this remedy; and the most morose of our illustrious men have submitted, if we may say so, their most austere virtues to the charms of this sweet pleasure; and the most well-bred people have not disdained its usage.”
In a word, (I must speak a little French now and then,)
5Le vin fait que les annees,
Nous durent moins que les journees.
Wine makes whole years to pass away,
And seem much shorter than one day.
But it does more than all this, it even assuages choler; it is an admirable cataplasm for rage. To cite a vast number of examples to prove this important truth would be superfluous. Amongst the many illustrious ones I could instance, I shall content myself to mention that of the Emperor Maximin6, who, having been declared an enemy to the people of Rome, by the senate, fell into such a rage and fury, that no other way could be thought on to bring him back to his natural temper than by making him drunk.
But let us return to the two principal qualities of wine, which consist in driving away care and sorrow, and exciting mirth and joy.
A certain French author7 has a few verses on this subject, which, as not mal-apropos, I shall here insert. Talking of the good qualities of wine, he says,—
“Tu sais, mon cher Thirsis, qu’il a le privilege
D’etouffer les ennuis dont l’aigreur nous assiege.
Et que cette liqueur chasse de nos esprits,
Tous les facheux pensers dont nous sommes surpris,
C’est ce qui nous oblige a cherir la bouteille.”
You know, dear Thirsis, and full well you know,
To wine this privilege we owe,
It stifles all those sad invading cares
Which irksome chagrin ever wears.
This sprightful liquid makes us brisk and gay,
And drives effectually away
Those thoughts vexatious that surprise our soul,
And makes us cherish the full bowl.
Seneca, whom I have mentioned in the foregoing chapter, confirms what has been said, “Sometimes,” says he, “one must go even so far as drunkenness; not, indeed, that it may drown us, but drown our cares: for drunkenness washes away care, and moves the very bottom of the soul. And as it is a sovereign remedy against some distempers, so is it a perfect cure for heaviness and sorrow. Nonnunquam usque ad ebrietatem veniendum, non ut mergat nos, sed ut deprimat curas. Eluit enim curas, et ab imo animæ movet, et ut morbis quibusdam, ita tristitiæ medetur8. On this account certainly it was, Pliny maintained that Nepenthe, whose virtues Homer so much exaggerates, was nothing in the world but generous wine.
Horace, in like manner, insists that wine is the only proper expeller of the most racking cares.
———————— Neque
Mordaces aliter diffugiunt sollicitudines9.
Nor otherwise are cank’ring cares remov’d.
And thus advises the sage Plancus to have recourse to this remedy:—
“Sic tu sapiens finire memento
Tristitiam, vitæque labores
Molli, Plance, mero.”9a
So, thou, sage Plancus, this memento keep,
To lull the cares and toils of life asleep
With cordial juleps of old mellow wine;
The grand and universal anodyne.
In another place he thus beautifully sounds the praises of drunkenness:—
“Ebrietas quid non designat? operta recludit
Spes jubet esse ratas: in prælia trudit inertem,
Sollicitis animis onus eximit: addocet artes.
Facundi calices, quem non fecere disertum?
Contracta quem non in paupertate solutum.”9b
In drunkenness what pow’rful magic lies,
What’s most envelop’d from researching eyes,
(Transparent thing!) it evidently shows,
The innocent no dark disguises knows.
By her commands our hopes maturely rise,
Push’d on to war the coward dauntless dies,
And sinking minds beneath unwieldy care,
Cast off the load, and move with sprightful air.
To her, all arts their origin must owe:
What wretch so dull but eloquent must grow,
When the full goblets with persuasive wine,
Inebriate with bright elegance divine,
The drunken beggars plume like proudest kings,
And the poor tipsy slave in fetters sings.
After all this, will any one accuse me for a plagiary, and that I steal from the most common places? No matter. I have company enough: do not all modern authors do so? However, I shall not, for all that, pass over in silence what Ovid has said of this same drunkenness. The passage is this:—
“Vina parant animos, faciuntque coloribus aptos.
Cura fugit, multo diluiturque mero.
Tunc veniunt risus, tunc pauper cornua sumit,
Tunc dolor et curæ, rugaque frontis abit.
Tunc aperit mentes, ævo rarissima nostro
Simplicitas, artes excutiente Deo.”9c
As I am nothing less than a poet, I shall not presume to dance with the Nine Sisters, to make use of the thought of the ingenious Sarasin. However, here follows an Ode of Anacreon, which may supply the place of a translation of those verses of Ovid.
I
When I hold a full glass in my hand,
I laugh and I merrily sing;
I think I have sov’reign command
And the treasures possess of a king.
II
Let who will try their fate in the field,
In war all their days let them pass:
No arms but the bottle I’ll weild,
Fill, boy, then, a thundering glass,
III
If Bacchus the victory gain,
On the ground tho’ I’m motionless laid;
All agree it, a truth very plain,
’Tis better be drunk than be dead.
And very probably the Greek philosopher had wine in view, when he caused an inscription to be made over his door in these words, in capitals, “Here are remedies for all sorts of afflictions: here are cures for all distempers of the soul.”
The philosopher so often quoted by Seneca, desired no more than bread and cheese, to rival Jupiter in happiness. For my part, though I am no less a philosopher, yet I desire nothing to effect this but good wine. For when I take a hearty glass, I find myself so much transported with joy, that I could almost cry out with that little fool in the Latin comedy10, “Now could I pardon any one that would kill me, so much afraid am I lest some accident may trouble the purity of my happiness, and mingle some ungrateful bitter with the exquisite sweets I now enjoy.” And, indeed, it is amongst bottles and glasses that one may truly say,
———— “Mediis videat discumbere in astris,
Cum Jove, et Iliacâ porrectum sumere dextrâ
Immortale merum11.”
Far from the earth remov’d in realms above,
I seem amongst the stars to sit with Jove:
Lolling in ease celestial, lie supine,
And taste from Ganymede immortal wine.
And without doubt Asclepiades had all this in his head, when he maintained that the gods produced nothing that equalled wine in goodness. Philostratus is much of the same sentiment, who after having taken notice of the edict of the Emperor Domitian, who forbad men to be castrated, and vines to be planted, he adds, that this admirable emperor did not reflect that he made the earth in some sort an eunuch, at the same time that he spared men.
Varro sounded the praise of drunkenness in terms no less pathetic.
“Vino nil quicquam jucundius eluet,
Hoc continet coagulum convivii;
Hoc hilaritatis dulce seminarium
Hoc ægritudinem ad medendam invenerunt.”11a
Than wine no orient jewels finer play,
And dart more pleasantly their glittering ray.
This vital juice, the cream of all the feast,
Strong cement, close uniting every breast,
The sweet prolific seed of gay desires,
Bright mirth, and gen’rous amity inspires.
This was found out a certain remedy
To set mankind from all distempers free.
Monsieur La Motte, whom I must ever admire for his inimitable Court Fables, before mentioned, will furnish us with a beautiful ode to close this chapter12.
“Bacchus contre moi tout conspire,
Viens me consoler de mes maux:
Je vois au mépris de la lire
Couronner d’indignes rivaux.
Tout me rend la vie importune
Une volage me trahit,
J’eus peu de bien de la fortune,
L’injustice me le ravit.
Mon plus cher ami m’abandonne,
En vain j’implore son secours,
Et la calomnie empoisonne.
Le reste de mes tristes jours.
Bacchus viens me verser a boire
Encore——bon——je suis soulagé,
Chaque coup m’ôte la memoire
Des maux qui m’avoient affligé.
Verse encore——je vois l’allegresse
Nager sur le jus precieux.
Donne, redouble——O douce yvresse!
Je suis plus heureux que les dieux.”
Help, Bacchus, or I’m quite undone,
All things against my peace conspire;
Unworthy rivals many a one,
I find, despising song and lyre.
My life’s entirely irksome grown,
By an inconstant I’m betray’d,
On that small fortune, once my own,
Injustice has severely prey’d.
Forsaken by my dearest friend,
In vain his succour I implore;
And calumnies rank poisons send,
And what is left of life devour.
Bacchus, some wine; fill higher yet
Again——so——I some comfort find;
Each smiling glass makes me forget
Those evils that have rack’d my mind.
Some more——I see gay images
On the rich surface sprightly move,
Fill double——O sweet drunkenness!
I’m happier than the gods above.
1. Virgil. Æneid. lib. vi. v. 713.
2. Lib. 3. Etymol.
3. Rec. Poes.
4. Miscel. vol. i.
5. Rec. de Poes.
6. Jul. Capit. Hist. Aug. Script. fol. p. 359.
7. Nicol. Rec. de Vers. p. 44.
8. Seneca de Tranquil.
9. Lib. i. ode 18.
9a. Horace, Odes I.vii.17-19.
9b. Horace, Epistulae I.v.16-20.
9c. Ovid, Ars Amatoria I.237-242
10. Nunc est profecto cum me patior interfici, ne hoc gaudium aliquâ contaminetur ægritudine. —Eunuch.
11. Statii Sil. 2. lib. iv.
11a. Varro, Menippean Satires, fragment from Est modus matulae.
12. Ode ix. Anacr.