Chapter III

Nor are there any boon companions _there_,
To laugh, and sing, and make good cheer:
There shall we taste no more that wondrous juice,
That nectar which the blessed vines produce,
The height of all our joy, and wishes _here_.
Nor those sweet entertainments gay,
When by the glass inspir'd so many kings,
We tope, and speak, and do heroic things,
And count ourselves more happy far than they.
These days of ours the fatal sisters spin,
To consecrate to love and wine,
Let's now, e'er 'tis too late begin.
Alas! without these pow'rs divine
What should one do with a vain useless thread?
What does it aught avail to breathe and move?
One had as good be dead,
Much better be no more, than not to drink and love."

I shall close this chapter with one of the Anacreontic odes of the famous Monsieur La Motte, author of the _Fables Nouvelles_, lately translated into English under the title of "_Court Fables_."

"Bûvons, amis, le temps s'enfuit,
Menageons bien ce court espace.
Peut-etre une eternelle nuit
Eteindra le jour qui se passe.

Peut-etre que Caron demain
Nous recevra tous dans sa barque,
Saisissons un moment certain.
C'est autant de pris sur la parque.

A l'envi laissons-nous saisir,
Aux transports d'une douce ivresse:
Qu'importe si c'est un plaisir,
Que ce soit folie ou sagesse."

"Let's drink, my friends, time flies away,
Let's husband well this little space;
For what we know, this very day
May to eternal night give place.

Let's snatch from Fate one certain minute,
Perhaps to-morrow Charon's wherry,
May every mother's son take in it,
And waft us o'er the Stygian ferry.

In giddy transports without measure
With wine lets drown all melancholy.
No matter if it be a pleasure,
Whether 'tis wisdom call'd, or folly."

[Footnote 1: Elle est, comme disent les Arabes, la fleur et
l'esprit de la santé vive et remuante.]

[Footnote 2: Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis.]

[Footnote 3: Seneca de Tranquilitate.]

[Footnote 4: Histoire de Sept Sages, &c. p. 137.]

[Footnote 5: Chap. 34.]

[Footnote 6: Lib. 10. cap. 10.]

[Footnote 7: Reflex. sur les Morts Plais. p. 22.]

[Footnote 8: P. 609.]

[Footnote 9: P. 699.]

[[Footnote 9a: Catullus V.1-6 ("Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque
amemus")]]

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 potant[1].

------------ 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 indulgentia_[2].

A certain French poet[3] 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 possees,
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. Evremont[4], 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,)

[5]Le 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 Maximin[6], 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 author[7] 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 medetur_[8]. 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 sollicitudines[9].

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,