Chapter XI: Front Matter (11)

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:--