Edward Spencer

Decline and fall of port — Old topers — A youthful wine-bibber — The whisky age succeeds the port age — “Jeropiga” — Landladies’ port — A monopoly — Port v. gout — A quaint breakfast in Reading — About nightcaps — Sherry an absolutely pure wine — Except when made within the four miles’ radius — Treading the grapes — “Yeso” — Pliny pops up again — “Lime in the sack” — What the Lancet says — “Old Sherry” — Faux pas of a General — About vintages.

On the decline and fall of port wine volumes might be written. At the same time I am not the man who is going to write them. According to early recollections, the conversation of my elders was limited to hunting, racing, and the wines of Oporto. The man who had “’20,” or “Comet,” port in his cellars was a man to be cultivated, and dined with; whilst “’34” and “’47” men were next in demand. And this was after the era of the three-and-four-bottle heroes, of whose deeds I have heard my father speak, almost with bated breath; how, after the retirement of the ladies, to discuss tea and scandal by themselves, the dining-room door would be locked by the host himself, who would {138} pocket the key thereof. Many of the guests slept where they fell, “repugnant to command,” like the sword of Pyrrhus, whilst others would be fastened in the interior of their chariots at a later hour. Even in the late fifties, the estimable divine with whom I was studying the beauties of the classics, would on the frequent occasion of a dinner-party provide one bottle of port per head, for his guests, in addition to hock, champagne, and sherry; and the writer, then a boy of fifteen, was included amongst the “heads.”

But as the stone age succeeded the ice age, as the iron age succeeded the stone age, and as the gold age, and the railway age, and the rotten company age succeeded the iron age, so have the whisky age, and the “small bottle” age, and the gin-and-bitters age almost wiped out the age when man drank, talked, and thought port. Our ancestors were im­mod­er­ate in their potations but, as far as wine went, these were but rarely indulged in until after sundown, although the Briton would frequently wash his breakfast down with ale of the strongest. And it is difficult to believe that the evil habit of “nipping,” at all hours of the day, which now prevails in some circles—a habit which is mainly due to the break-neck pace at which life is pursued—is either more conducive to health or intellectuality, or morality than the after-dinner debauch of a century ago.

The “hot and heady” wine is (or, rather, was) produced chiefly in a mountainous district of Portugal called Cima de Douro. The wine is largely mixed with spirit even during {139} fermentation, the proper colour being given by a mixture known as jeropiga, which is a preparation of elder-berries, molasses, raisin juice, and spirit.

The wine which is made within the Metropolitan Police District, for the special benefit of landladies, infirmaries, and she-choristers, is also treated with a similar mixture, with the addition of a little logwood-extract; but in fashionable quarters the mixture is not known as jeropiga, a name which would probably affect the sale.

Port wine was known in England before the year 1700, but was not in much demand. From the year mentioned till 1826 the export trade was a monopoly in the hands of English merchants. The effect of this monopoly was to increase the price in England, and to gradually deteriorate the quality. Exports from Oporto have decreased in a marked way for the last forty years or so; and although there is still some demand, and some decent wine left, the “hot and heady” concoction whether dry or fruity, a lady’s wine, or a military ditto, is gradually leaving us.

The pity of it! And si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly with its de­par­ture comes the pro­nounce­ment of the medical pro­fes­sion that port (with the exception of the “old crusted” brand) does not encourage gout to abide within the human frame. I may fairly claim to have been a “port man” all my life, and never, when serving Her Majesty, overlooked my orthodox allowance of the “black strap” purchased with the Prince Regent’s allowance. Nev­er­the­less I am not going to recommend this description of wine as an ideal breakfast drink; although very early in {140} life I once made trial of it at nine o’clock one morning.

This was in the good town of Reading, in company with a schoolmate or two. We were on our way home for the holidays, and had been entrusted, for the first part of the journey, to the care of the French master. Him we had evaded for the time being—he was much interested in the man­u­fac­ture of sweet biscuits—and marching boldly into the best inn’s best room, we demanded bread and cheese and a bottle of the most expensive port on the wine-list. Schoolboy-like our fancy turned to quaintness in the matter of meals; and I am bound to add that the state of our health was not one whit improved by this weird breakfast. As for the French master, no sooner had he run us to earth, than -- but that part of the story is too painful to tell.

One of the oldest winter beverages known to civilization is

Bishop,

a composition of port wine and spices of which it has been written:—

And an effectual luller is this Bishop.

Make several incisions in the rind of a lemon, stick cloves in the incisions, and roast the lemon at a slow fire. Put small but equal quantities of {141} cinnamon, cloves, mace, and all-spice into a saucepan, with half a pint of water; let it boil until reduced one-half. Boil one bottle of port wine; burn a portion of the spirit out of it by applying a lighted paper to the saucepan. Put the roasted lemon and spice into the wine, stir it well, and let it stand near the fire ten minutes. Rub a few lumps of sugar on the rind of a lemon, put the sugar into a bowl with the juice of half a lemon (not roasted), pour the wine into it, grate some nutmeg into it, sweeten to taste, and serve with the lemon and spices floating on the surface.

To sum up, the decline and fall of port in British estimation may be said to be due, mainly, to the following causes: inferiority of most of the modern vintages, the introduction of whisky, the present taste for lighter wines, such as the cheaper clarets and burgundies, with the wines of Germany and Italy, and a sort of “boom” in wines from Australia and California. These last-named, however, are but seldom seen at the tables of the wealthy; and thus far the demand for the productions of gallant little Wales have not been in any great request, although the demand is said to be equal to the supply.

Sherry, the “sack” which was said to cheer the heart of Sir John Falstaff and other of Shakespeare’s heroes, is, like port, a light of other days. Like the wine of Portugal, also, its exportation has for many years been in the hands of English settlers. The following startling statistics have been published about these exports, which statistics speak for themselves: The output to England in 1891 was 2,135,969 gallons, or sixty-four per cent {142} less than in 1873, which was the “record” sherry year. And although many efforts have been made to stem the ebb, the last seven years have shewn a steady decrease in the exports.

Yet, according to the best authorities, sherry is not only the purest, but the most wholesome of all wines. Of course, in making this statement the wine of Spain, the vino de Jerez is implied, and not the home-made productions for the malefit of those who study economy without due regard to digestion. Strictly speaking, sherry means Jerez (pronounced “herreth”) wine. But Manzanilla, a wine which is made at St. Lucas, and Montilla which comes from a town south of Cordova, may come under the same category. And with a view of shewing the wholesomeness of sherry it is stated, by no less an authority than the Lancet, that it is the only wine enjoined in the preparations of the wines of the British Pharmacopoeia, with two exceptions—viz. vinum ferri citratis, and vinum quininae, which are made with orange wine. Therefore it is certain that the sufferer from gout, for whom vinum colchici is prescribed, may swallow a proportion of the juice of the grape, and, possibly, a hair of the dog which bit him. This naturally recalls the old story of the sherry which was sent to a former Lord Chesterfield as a panacea for his ailment, and the curt reply sent: “Sir, I have tried your sherry, and prefer the gout.”

There are several types of sherries, according to the different characters developed. These are known by several distinguishing terms {143} comprehending the characters and specific qualities of the wine from one end to the other of a scale ranging from delicate and light wines to rich, generous, and dark-coloured wines. Between a straw-coloured Vino de Pasto and the very fine Old East India Brown—the sherry which two decades ago was in enormous demand at such old-fashioned hostelries as the “Rainbow” in Fleet Street, ere the reign of gin-and-bitters—there is a vast difference, both in colour and flavour. Broadly, however, sherry may be divided into two classes—fino, a light-coloured, delicate light wine of the Amontillado type, and the oloroso, a full-bodied, highly-developed wine.

The sherry grapes are collected and placed in large panniers on the backs of mules and conveyed to the press-houses. The press is of very primitive construction, and is identical with those used in ancient history. It consists simply of a wooden trough about ten feet square, provided in the centre with a screw press, which is used after the treading by foot power is done, to get the last drop of juice out of the crushed mass. Rather less than a ton of grapes serves for one pressing, and the idea that this is done with the naked feet of the Spanish peasantry is a popular error. Sherry is not kneaded like German bread. Men clad in light clothing and shod with wooden clogs, with nails on the soles and heels, pointing in a slanting direction, proceed to tread the grapes in a most methodical manner, proceeding row by row, each row being of the width of the nailed sole of the clog.

After the grapes have been trodden over for {144} the first time, i.e. partly crushed and bruised, a measured quantity of sulphate of lime (Yeso) is sprinkled over the sticky mass—now I have gone so far perhaps ’twould be as well to complete the narrative, although it is not always wise to enquire too closely into the interior economy of wine presses, or kitchens. This sulphate of lime is a pure native earth, found in the neigh­bour­hood of Jerez, and is burnt before being mixed with the grapes. How many sherry drinkers, I wonder, know how largely mother earth enters into their pet tipple? The idea, certainly, does not seem a nice one, but this mixing of lime with sherry is a very ancient custom indeed.

Pliny—where should we modern bookmakers be without dear old Pliny?—mentions the custom as an ancient African one. And in days of yore it must be remembered that Africa was not entirely populated by cannibals and dervishes, but was the home of many who lived wisely and well.

“There’s lime in the sack!” is a sentence put into the mouth of Falstaff. In modern days the process has become known as “plastering,” from the fact that plaster-of-Paris consists principally of sulphate of lime or burnt gypsum.

“It is interesting,” says the Lancet, “to surmise the origin of this very ancient custom. That it had some intelligent basis admits of no doubt. Some think that it had its origin in the fact being noticed that when the grape juice was fermented in alabaster vessels or in marble tanks the wine was better, it clarified quicker, and {145} developed character more sat­is­fac­tor­i­ly. Others regard the addition of sulphate of lime as convenient from a mechanical point of view during the pressing; it was necessary when the grapes were wetter than usual in order to bind the residuary mass together. We do not incline to this view.”

As the Lancet devotes a considerable space to the exposition of the view to which it does incline I may be excused from quoting it in full—more especially as there be tables of percentages, and complicated mathematical calculations in said exposition. But it is proved to the satisfaction of the Lancet that “lime in the sack” is matter in the right place. And although to an uneducated mind lime suggests such terrifying developments of tarda podagra as chalk-stones, possibly the action of the grapes on the lime renders it innocuous.

It is a curious fact that sherry in keeping develops a slight increase of alcohol as the time advances. All spirit added to sherry, however, is obtained from wine itself, corn-spirit in Spain being quite a superfluity, since wine-spirit can be produced so cheaply and in unlimited quantity. Moreover the importation of German spirit into Spain is made practically impossible by a prohibitive duty. Still, unless rumour lies, some Spanish wines receive the German spirit after exportation; so Spain “gets there just the same.”

Here is an item of news which should inspire confidence in the sceptic.

“Good brandy—i.e. a genuine wine-distilled {146} spirit—is being produced in Spain in commercial quantities which it is to be hoped will successfully compete with the stuff erroneously called brandy, not to say Cognac, but of which not a drop has been derived from the grape.”

In my researches into the man­u­fac­ture of port and sherry, I have come across no mention of the phylloxera. I am, therefore, halting between the beliefs, either that the Spaniards and Portuguese understand vermin better than do the French, or that the “vine-louse” has her own reasons for keeping out of Spain and Portugal.

Forty years ago an estimable Irish nobleman was known as “Old Sherry,” from his partiality to that wine. And thirty years ago I was once seated at the table of a General of Division, up at Simla. My right-hand neighbour was a son of this same nobleman, but our host, apparently, did not know this—or had forgotten the fact. At all events, during a lull in the conversation, the General (who had a voice like sharpening a saw) rapped out: “By the way, Captains—you say you’ve been quartered in Ireland—did you ever meet ‘Old Sherry’ there?”

A subaltern can’t very well throw a dinner-roll at a General or stick a carving-fork into his leg; but that is what I, personally, felt like doing.

In mediÆval times a sufficient quantity of wine for the needs of the inhabitants was made in gallant little Wales; and the idea of reviving the industry occurred to the Marquis of Bute, who has done so much for the welfare of Cardiff {147} and the neigh­bour­hood. The vineyards are on the site of the old ones, facing south, and the vines were planted twenty years ago, and are very hardy. There is no reason why they should not be propagated to almost any extent, and there is abundant scope for the extension of the vineyards and a proportionate increase in the yield of wine.

The vintages of 1885, 1890, and 1891 are marked in Messrs. Hatch, Mansfield and Co.’s list as “All sold,” and although the vintage of ’98, owing to the long spell of dry weather, does not promise particularly well, the Marquis is no more unfortunate in this respect than most other vine-growers.