Port and literature

[LGTrotter]

Following dilligent researches on behalf of Mr Wiseman I can reccomend the entire chapter entitled 'An aged and a great wine' from George Meredith's 'The Egoist'. Avoid the rest of the book.

No idea how to attach a file or download a photo or whatever, go to a library.

[AW77]

You can find the book at Project Gutenberg:
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1684

Here is the chapter you mentioned:

CHAPTER XX
AN AGED AND A GREAT WINE
...
"I am going down to my inner cellar."

"An inner cellar!" exclaimed the doctor.

"Sacred from the butler. It is interdicted to Stoneman. Shall I offer
myself as guide to you? My cellars are worth a visit."

"Cellars are not catacombs. They are, if rightly constructed, rightly
considered, cloisters, where the bottle meditates on joys to bestow, not
on dust misused! Have you anything great?"

"A wine aged ninety."

"Is it associated with your pedigree that you pronounce the age with
such assurance?"

"My grandfather inherited it."

"Your grandfather, Sir Willoughby, had meritorious offspring, not to
speak of generous progenitors. What would have happened had it fallen
into the female line! I shall be glad to accompany you. Port? Hermitage?"

"Port."

"Ah! We are in England!"

"There will just be time," said Sir Willoughby, inducing Dr. Middleton
to step out.

A chirrup was in the reverend doctor's tone: "Hocks, too, have compassed
age. I have tasted senior Hocks. Their flavours are as a brook of many
voices; they have depth also. Senatorial Port! we say. We cannot say
that of any other wine. Port is deep-sea deep. It is in its flavour
deep; mark the difference. It is like a classic tragedy, organic in
conception. An ancient Hermitage has the light of the antique; the merit
that it can grow to an extreme old age; a merit. Neither of Hermitage
nor of Hock can you say that it is the blood of those long years,
retaining the strength of youth with the wisdom of age. To Port for
that! Port is our noblest legacy! Observe, I do not compare the wines; I
distinguish the qualities. Let them live together for our enrichment;
they are not rivals like the Idaean Three. Were they rivals, a fourth
would challenge them. Burgundy has great genius. It does wonders within
its period; it does all except to keep up in the race; it is
short-lived. An aged Burgundy runs with a beardless Port. I cherish the
fancy that Port speaks the sentences of wisdom, Burgundy sings the
inspired Ode. Or put it, that Port is the Homeric hexameter, Burgundy
the pindaric dithyramb. What do you say?"

"The comparison is excellent, sir."

"The distinction, you would remark. Pindar astounds. But his elder
brings us the more sustaining cup. One is a fountain of prodigious
ascent. One is the unsounded purple sea of marching billows."

"A very fine distinction."

"I conceive you to be now commending the similes. They pertain to the
time of the first critics of those poets. Touch the Greeks, and you can
nothing new; all has been said: 'Graiis . . . praeter, laudem nullius
avaris.' Genius dedicated to Fame is immortal. We, sir, dedicate genius
to the cloacaline floods. We do not address the unforgetting gods, but
the popular stomach."

Sir Willoughby was patient. He was about as accordantly coupled with Dr.
Middleton in discourse as a drum duetting with a bass-viol; and when he
struck in he received correction from the paedagogue-instrument. If he
thumped affirmative or negative, he was wrong. However, he knew scholars
to be an unmannered species; and the doctor's learnedness would be a
subject to dilate on.

In the cellar, it was the turn for the drum. Dr. Middleton was
tongue-tied there. Sir Willoughby gave the history of his wine in heads
of chapters; whence it came to the family originally, and how it had
come down to him in the quantity to be seen. "Curiously, my grandfather,
who inherited it, was a water-drinker. My father died early."

"Indeed! Dear me!" the doctor ejaculated in astonishment and condolence.
The former glanced at the contrariety of man, the latter embraced his
melancholy destiny.

He was impressed with respect for the family. This cool vaulted cellar,
and the central square block, or enceinte, where the thick darkness was
not penetrated by the intruding lamp, but rather took it as an eye, bore
witness to forethoughtful practical solidity in the man who had built
the house on such foundations. A house having a great wine stored below
lives in our imaginations as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted
in the soil. And imagination has a place for the heir of the house. His
grandfather a water-drinker, his father dying early, present
circumstances to us arguing predestination to an illustrious heirship
and career. Dr Middleton's musings were coloured by the friendly vision
of glasses of the great wine; his mind was festive; it pleased him, and
he chose to indulge in his whimsical, robustious, grandiose-airy style
of thinking: from which the festive mind will sometimes take a certain
print that we cannot obliterate immediately. Expectation is grateful,
you know; in the mood of gratitude we are waxen. And he was a
self-humouring gentleman.

He liked Sir Willoughby's tone in ordering the servant at his heels to
take up "those two bottles": it prescribed, without overdoing it, a
proper amount of caution, and it named an agreeable number.

Watching the man's hand keenly, he said:

"But here is the misfortune of a thing super-excellent: not more than
one in twenty will do it justice."

Sir Willoughby replied: "Very true, sir; and I think we may pass over
the nineteen."

"Women, for example; and most men."

"This wine would be a scaled book to them."

"I believe it would. It would be a grievous waste."

"Vernon is a claret man; and so is Horace De Craye. They are both below
the mark of this wine. They will join the ladies. Perhaps you and I,
sir, might remain together."

"With the utmost good-will on my part."

"I am anxious for your verdict, sir."

"You shall have it, sir, and not out of harmony with the chorus
preceding me, I can predict. Cool, not frigid." Dr. Middleton summed the
attributes of the cellar on quitting it. "North side and South. No musty
damp. A pure air. Everything requisite. One might lie down one's self
and keep sweet here."

Of all our venerable British of the two Isles professing a suckling
attachment to an ancient port-wine, lawyer, doctor, squire, rosy
admiral, city merchant, the classic scholar is he whose blood is most
nuptial to the webbed bottle. The reason must be, that he is full of the
old poets. He has their spirit to sing with, and the best that Time has
done on earth to feed it. He may also perceive a resemblance in the wine
to the studious mind, which is the obverse of our mortality, and throws
off acids and crusty particles in the piling of the years, until it is
fulgent by clarity. Port hymns to his conservatism. It is magical: at
one sip he is off swimming in the purple flood of the ever-youthful antique.

By comparison, then, the enjoyment of others is brutish; they have not
the soul for it; but he is worthy of the wine, as are poets of Beauty.
In truth, these should be severally apportioned to them, scholar and
poet, as his own good thing. Let it be so.

Meanwhile Dr. Middleton sipped.

After the departure of the ladies, Sir Willoughby had practised a
studied curtness upon Vernon and Horace.

"You drink claret," he remarked to them, passing it round. "Port, I
think, Doctor Middleton? The wine before you may serve for a preface. We
shall have your wine in five minutes."

The claret jug empty, Sir Willoughby offered to send for more. De Craye
was languid over the question. Vernon rose from the table.

"We have a bottle of Doctor Middleton's port coming in," Willoughby said
to him.

"Mine, you call it?" cried the doctor.

"It's a royal wine, that won't suffer sharing," said Vernon.

"We'll be with you, if you go into the billiard-room, Vernon."

"I shall hurry my drinking of good wine for no man," said the Rev.
Doctor.

"Horace?"

"I'm beneath it, ephemeral, Willoughby. I am going to the ladies."

Vernon and De Craye retired upon the arrival of the wine; and Dr.
Middleton sipped. He sipped and looked at the owner of it.

"Some thirty dozen?" he said.

"Fifty."

The doctor nodded humbly.

"I shall remember, sir," his host addressed him, "whenever I have the
honour of entertaining you, I am cellarer of that wine."

The Rev. Doctor set down his glass. "You have, sir, in some sense, an
enviable post. It is a responsible one, if that be a blessing. On you it
devolves to retard the day of the last dozen."

"Your opinion of the wine is favourable, sir?"

"I will say this: shallow souls run to rhapsody: I will say, that I am
consoled for not having lived ninety years back, or at any period but
the present, by this one glass of your ancestral wine."

"I am careful of it," Sir Willoughby said, modestly; "still its natural
destination is to those who can appreciate it. You do, sir."

"Still my good friend, still! It is a charge; it is a possession, but
part in trusteeship. Though we cannot declare it an entailed estate, our
consciences are in some sort pledged that it shall be a succession not
too considerably diminished."

"You will not object to drink it, sir, to the health of your
grandchildren. And may you live to toast them in it on their marriage-day!"

"You colour the idea of a prolonged existence in seductive hues. Ha!
It is a wine for Tithonus. This wine would speed him to the rosy
Morning aha!"

"I will undertake to sit you through it up to morning," said Sir
Willoughby, innocent of the Bacchic nuptiality of the allusion.

Dr Middleton eyed the decanter. There is a grief in gladness, for a
premonition of our mortal state. The amount of wine in the decanter did
not promise to sustain the starry roof of night and greet the dawn. "Old
wine, my friend, denies us the full bottle!"

"Another bottle is to follow."

"No!"

"It is ordered."

"I protest."

"It is uncorked."

"I entreat."

"It is decanted."

"I submit. But, mark, it must be honest partnership. You are my worthy
host, sir, on that stipulation. Note the superiority of wine over
Venus! I may say, the magnanimity of wine; our jealousy turns on him
that will not share! But the corks, Willoughby. The corks excite my
amazement."

"The corking is examined at regular intervals. I remember the occurrence
in my father's time. I have seen to it once."

"It must be perilous as an operation for tracheotomy; which I should
assume it to resemble in surgical skill and firmness of hand, not to
mention the imminent gasp of the patient."

[LGTrotter]

Blimey! There's a lot of it. Burgundy as Pindar and port as Homer anybody? I suppose these days we would say Ted Hughes as port and Phillip Larkin as burgundy.

[LGTrotter]

Might I suggest, if this is OK with Andre, that we crop the top and bottom off this so it starts with the line about going down to the inner cellar and ends when the fresh decanter is put before them, as this seems to cover the bit about port?

[AW77]

Owen, I edited the quote as you suggested (I hope I cut the right lines as I'm busy watching TV at the same time )

[LGTrotter]

Thanks Andre, I think it works better. Did you read it? What did you make of it?

[AW77]

These thoughts crossed my mind while reading the piece:

1. Both Middleton and Willoughby seem to suffer from excessive cleverness. I can understand that you warn us not to read the rest of the book.
2. ‟ "Some thirty dozen?" he said. "Fifty." ‟ Am I right in understanding that they are talking about the amount of bottles of this old wine still in the cellar?
3. What Vintage does Meredith mean by ‟a 90 year old” port? 1769 ”“ as the book was published in 1879.? Was 1769 a vintage year? Did they even declare vintages in the 18th century? I don’t have my port reference books at hand but will have a look the next time I have. (Another question is: what shipper would have provided that wine? Croft? They are one of the oldest houses.)

[djewesbury]

(He meant 1789)

[AW77]

Sorry, 1789. Mathematics was never my strong point.

[LGTrotter]

(He meant 1789)

How do you know this?

These thoughts crossed my mind while reading the piece:

1. Both Middleton and Willoughby seem to suffer from excessive cleverness. I can understand that you warn us not to read the rest of the book.
2. ‟ "Some thirty dozen?" he said. "Fifty." ‟ Am I right in understanding that they are talking about the amount of bottles of this old wine still in the cellar?
3. What Vintage does Meredith mean by ‟a 90 year old” port? 1769 ”“ as the book was published in 1879.? Was 1769 a vintage year? Did they even declare vintages in the 18th century? I don’t have my port reference books at hand but will have a look the next time I have. (Another question is: what shipper would have provided that wine? Croft? They are one of the oldest houses.)

I suppose I was thinking less literally; I think he has some excellent thoughts on the manners of scholars (Daniel?) and I like the bit about gladness having a sorrow at it's core. Some stuff about port too I s'pose.

[djewesbury]

The manners of academics are always a hoot. Some of them have learned to use cutlery!

[LGTrotter]

Never read Pindar, where do I start?

[djewesbury]

You lookin at me...? You're the best read one here. Don't start admitting you haven't read things. Although I notice your latest line comes from Mao: I have two copies of the little red book somewhere upstairs and always think that these days the aphorisms (aphorisms!) read a little like punchlines.

I have never read Pindar; or if I have, not since Latin class at school.

[djewesbury]

In fact, skip Pindar and read Horace.

[LGTrotter]

In fact, skip Pindar and read Horace.

Reddit. Only in translation, not big on latin in my manor (or do I mean manior?). I just think he was onto something when thinking about port as a particular type of experience. The intoxication of port is unmistakable but I have had fewer 'wow' moments, however it gives an ease and peace that is not to be found in say; champagne or rough cider. It is not a description of palate, nose and length; it about getting lashed on 2 bottles of port after drinking wine with dinner. I salute them.

I refute entirely your suggestion that I have read more than others, have you seen the port vintages book that JDAW and DRT are working on? (Who am I kidding; I love it). Furthermore I have recently perused you piece entitled 'On Waterloo bridge' you clever old thing. Any thoughts on the re painting of the UDF/UVF/republican murals?

[jdaw1]

The manners of academics are always a hoot. Some of them have learned to use cutlery!

Abolish High Table.

Make the Fellows eat off the floor.

[djewesbury]

The manners of academics are always a hoot. Some of them have learned to use cutlery!

Abolish High Table.

Make the Fellows eat off the floor.

Try and stop them...

[LGTrotter]

The manners of academics are always a hoot. Some of them have learned to use cutlery!

Abolish High Table.

Make the Fellows eat off the floor.

Truth to tell I did have you a little in mind Julian when I read it. How far from the mark is this old writing in these days?

[LGTrotter]

There seems to be only one reference to port in Roger Scruton’s ‘I drink therefore I am’. A book I would heartily recommend for those who like that sort of thing. The blurb on the back states that it is ‘a good humoured antidote to the pretentious clap-trap that is written about wine today...’ a phrase which came back to me when I was reading the passage on whether lettuces have ‘intention’.

He is discussing what wine to drink whilst reading different philosophers and has reached Kant;
‘Not all Kantian texts are so easy to accompany as the first ‘Critique’. Nothing seems to compliment the second ‘Critique’ or other works on ethics. And when it comes to the ‘Critique of Judgement’ with its passing reference to ‘Canary wine’, I find myself trying out first East India Sherry, then Tawny port and finally madeira without getting any closer to Kant’s proof that the judgement of beauty is universal but subjective, or his derivation of the ‘antimony of taste’ ”“ surely one of his most profound and troubling paradoxes, and one that must yield to the argument contained in wine if it yields to anything.’

So there! Now to dig out Kant and start working my way through the cellar.

[djewesbury]

It might be easier to dig out the cellar than start working your way through Kant....

[LGTrotter]

From 'Clouds of witness' by Dorothy L Sayers. Written in about 1923.

"After lunch,” continued Mr. Murbles, ‟I will ask you to try something really curious. An odd old client of mine died the other day, and left me a dozen of '47 port.”

‟Gad!” said Peter. ‟'47! It'll hardly be drinkable, will it, sir?”

‟I very greatly fear,” replied Mr. Murbles, ‟that it will not. A great pity. But I feel that some kind of homage should be paid to so notable an antiquity.”

‟It would be something to say that one had tasted it,” said Peter. ‟Like goin' to see the divine Sarah, you know. Voice gone, bloom gone, savour gone but still a classic.”

‟Ah,” said Mr. Murbles. ‟I remember her in her great days. We old fellows have the compensation of some very wonderful memories.”

‟Quite right, sir,” said Peter, ‟and you'll pile up plenty more yet. But what was this old gentleman doing to let a vintage like that get past its prime?”

‟Mr. Featherstone was a very singular man,” said Mr. Murbles. ‟And yet I don't know. He may have been profoundly wise. He had the reputation for extreme avarice. Never bought a new suit, never took a holiday, never married, lived all his life in the same dark, narrow chambers he occupied as a briefless barrister. Yet he inherited a huge income from his father, all of which he left to accumulate. The port was laid down by the old man, who died in 1860, when my client was thirty-four. He the son, I mean was ninety-six when he deceased. He said no pleasure ever came up to the anticipation, and so he lived like a hermit doing nothing, but planning all the things he might have done. He wrote an elaborate diary, containing, day by day, the record of this visionary existence which he had never dared put to the test of actuality. The diary described minutely a blissful wedded life with the woman of his dreams. Every Christmas and Easter Day a bottle of the '47 was solemnly set upon his table and solemnly removed, unopened, at the close of his frugal meal. An earnest Christian, he anticipated great happiness after death, but, as you see, he put the pleasure off as long as possible. He died with the words, 'He is faithful that promised' feeling to the end the need of assurance. A very singular man, very singular indeed far removed from the adventurous spirit of the present generation.”

‟How curious and pathetic,” said Mary.

‟Perhaps he had at some time set his heart on something unattainable,” said Parker.

‟Well, I don't know,” said Mr. Murbles. ‟People used to say that the dream-lady had not always been a dream, but that he never could bring himself to propose.”

‟Ah,” said Sir Impey briskly, ‟the more I see and hear in the courts the more I am inclined to feel that Mr. Featherstone chose the better part.”

‟And are determined to follow his example in that respect at any rate? Eh, Sir Impey!” replied Mr. Murbles, with a mild chuckle.

Mr. Parker glanced towards the window. It was beginning to rain.

Truly enough the '47 port was a dead thing; the merest ghost of its old flame and flavour hung about it. Lord Peter held his glass poised a moment.

‟It is like the taste of a passion that has passed its noon and turned to weariness,” he said, with sudden gravity. ‟The only thing to do is to recognise bravely that it is dead, and put it away.” With a determined movement, he flung the remainder of the wine into the fire. The mocking smile came back to his face:


‟What I like about Clive
Is that he is no longer alive
There is a great deal to be said
For being dead.

[djewesbury]

Bernhardt?

[LGTrotter]

Bernhardt?

I suppose so. About the right time I think.

[djewesbury]

Bernhardt?

I suppose so. About the right time I think.

I will now always think of her as being like a '47.

[jdaw1]

Bernhardt?

The Worshipful Company of Gardeners of London, Ladies’ Banquet at Grocers’ Hall, Tuesday 13^th March 1928: