Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #111 (Aug 1859).
If there is any man I do hate, it is that Biggs. Not that I have any personal antagonism to Biggs; but the fellow is continually broaching subjects that are unpleasant to me, following them up rigidly, and leaving me, as it were, without a leg to stand on. He has such a confounded way, too, of backing up what he says by documentary evidence. In fact, I have got to that point with Biggs that I generally let him have his way, not being able to combat him on the spot. Hereafter, I shall pursue a different course. I shall take notes of what he says, and then, in my leisure and the quiet of my library, I shall combat Biggs and expose his fallacies to the contempt of the world. To give some sort of an idea of the style of man I have to contend with, I will relate to you the result of meeting Biggs in the street a few days ago. The morning was slightly damp; I said,
"Good-morning, Biggs."
"Literally speaking," said Biggs, nodding his head, " is not a good morning. The air is damp and humid—a style of air peculiarly unwholesome in large cities, productive of coughs, colds, asthmas, and consumption;" whereupon, he dashed into a mass of statistical information, showing, by the City Inspector's reports, how many had died of those diseases through the last three years—their ages, colors, sexes, the relative number of deaths in this city (New York) as compared with Paris and London, etc.; all of which he strengthened by the production from his pocket of the printed authorities.
Now what can you do with such a man?
I rather enjoy Biggs's society. That is, with the reservation that he keep clear of his unpleasant negatives. Otherwise, Biggs is a very agreeable person and quite a gentleman.
Last Tuesday I met Biggs on Broadway. We walked and talked (without disagreement) on many very pleasant topics. I received some very valuable information from Biggs relative to omnibuses, their increase and decrease in the last five years, the consumption of horses, and the statistics of accidents. All went merry as a marriage bell for a while. At last something prompted me to quietly lead Biggs up to the magnificent bar of the Nonsuch House, where, as a natural consequence, I said,
"What 'll you drink?"
Biggs hesitated, seemingly in an absent state.
By way of encouragement I said, "Brandy?"
Biggs nodded vacantly, which the gentlemanly bar-keeper and myself both understood to mean "Brandy." It was accordingly served. I touched my glass to Biggs's—a thing I never fail to do when drinking with a friend, from a feeling of respect for old customs. Every body, of course, knows that this clinking of glasses and drinking of healths stands from the time of the Danish invasion of England. The conquerors for a long time wouldn't permit the English to drink in their presence, taking upon themselves an awkward way of slipping a dagger under the arm while raised with the cup. When the Danes got tired of this fun, they tried to persuade the English to drink: these gentlemen declined, unless the Danes would drink at the same moment as a pledge of safety. In respect, as I say, for this custom, I never neglect to touch the glass, if possible, or, at least, to say as much as "Here's to you!"
I had touched Biggs's glass and was just about to raise mine to my lips, when I was surprised to hear him say, in a very solemn voice,
"Do you know what you're drinking?"
Of course I said "Brandy," with a look of astonishment.
"Poison!" said Biggs, with a decision that rather alarmed me.
Now I am rather particular in my eating and drinking. I neither eat nor drink loosely about town; and if there is any one thing I detest, it is promiscuous drinking. I flatter myself that I am somewhat of a judge, and what I do give a man in my own house is as good as can be got for money. When I drink at a bar I am a little particular as to what bar it is, and that what I drink is the "straight" article. When, therefore, Biggs said to me, "Poison," and that at the bar of the Nonsuch House, I must confess I was slightly startled, and—need I say it?—-slightly offended also. Biggs took me gently by the arm, and we seated ourselves at one of the little tables against the wall.
"Do you know," said he, holding his glass up to the light, and speaking very slowly and solemnly, "what is the composition of that article you are about to drink?"
I was just about to say that the article I held was a little Cognac brandy, so called from the village of Cognac, on the River Charente, in the kingdom of France. That it was an alcoholic fluid distilled from grapes—a method discovered some time in the twelfth century, and first made known to the world in the beginning of the thirteenth by Raymond Lulle; though it was supposed that the Arabs had the secret of distillation some hundreds of years before, making use of it to obtain the perfumes of flowers, this being one of the most ancient records of perfumery. All this I was about to tell Biggs, but he wouldn't give me a chance. He took a long swallow of the fluid he held, in a critical way, smacked his lips, and making afterward a strange, wry face, went on.
"Are you aware that not one per cent. of all the liquor sold as brandy in this country is really brandy? Do you know that we pay French distillers at Lyons and Marseilles, to say nothing of half a hundred other places, to make our corn whiskies into fine old brandies?"
I said, "Ridiculous!" and, by way of showing that I thought so, I took a swallow of my "poison," as Biggs is pleased to term it. Biggs followed my example.
"Yes, Sir," he continued, "in the brandy-growing districts of France, including Cognac and the adjoining country of Champagne—not the wine-growing land of Champagne, but the spot from whence comes the beverage termed Champagne brandy—in all this country there is not one-fortieth part of the brandy made that is consumed in the United States alone. Even there, Sir, the fluid is not safe from their doctoring hands. First it is touched up with a nauseous compound of burned sugar, to suit the taste of those who drink dark brandies. All brandies are light upon distillation, and any of the article that surpasses in color the pale amber is of necessity doctored with burned sugar. Then there is white sugar to give it smoothness and sweetness. Do you know, Sir, that the brandies brought from the very fountainhead, stamped and vouched for by the names of great manufacturers, are simply the making of a parcel of small farmers, or growers, about the neighborhood of Cognac and Champagne, who bring the stuff they make to these manufacturers, as our own farmers bring their cider to market? This crude stuff, which they call coupe, is sold to the manufacturer, who sugars it (black sugar and white), stirs it, sulphurs it, waters it to suit different markets, and then our palates are treated to the genuine article!
"Now, Sir, the flavor of true brandy, which you connoisseurs admire so much," continued Biggs, sipping from his glass, "is produced by the volatile oil of the grape. Science wouldn't be long, you see, in finding out that. Well, what does Science do under the circumstances? Why, of course, she goes to work to show how this aroma, this beautiful bouquet, can be imitated. She says to the distiller, 'My dear fellow, if you will take about one hundred gallons of alcohol, and reduce it to proof, and add to this half a pound of cream of tartar, a little ascetic ether, a few gallons of French wine vinegar, a bushel or so of plums if possible, allowing they are not too dear; some murk, which is the refuse of the wine-casks, if perfectly handy to be got at; about half a bushel of oak sawdust, just to give it the smack of age, you will have an excellent brandy.'
"'Capital!' says the distiller, doing every thing but taste it. 'Capital, Madame, all but one thing.'
"'What's that?' says Science.
"'It does not bead on the side of the glass,' says the distiller.
"'We'll soon fix that,' says Science.
"With that she goes to work and makes a machine that shall run down into the brandy-barrel through the open bung, and convey steam by a pipe to the very bottom. In rushes the steam for a few hours, until the liquor bubbles and boils in its wooden prison.
"'How will that do?' says Science.
"'Just the thing,' says the distiller, holding the glass up to the light. 'Will you try some?'
"'Not exactly,' says Science; 'but if that plan doesn't suit, here's another: Take one thousand gallons of spirit—corn whisky, say for example, quoted at thirty-one cents per gallon—to this you can put one hundred and twenty gallons of spirit distilled from raisins (not a very expensive article), and then four gallons of the extract of grains of paradise seed.'
"'Phew!' says the distiller, 'that's deadly poison!'
"'That's so,' answers Science; 'so is the two gallons of cherry laurel water you must add, and the two gallons spirit of almond cake, and—don't forget the oak saw-dust, my dear fellow: it gives a touch of the wood; and the steaming—that's age, d'ye see?—and the bead.'"
I have no doubt at this moment that I may have turned slightly pale. I felt so; and Biggs therefore felt it necessary to revive me. To achieve this end he thrust his hand into his pocket, and at the very moment I expected to see it reappear with something drinkable in which I could have confidence, what does the man do but bring out a good-looking printed circular, headed "Confidential Circular to the Trade," and hand it to me. I have this document now in my possession; and by way of showing what style of argument Biggs makes use of, I will give it entire, without charging for the advertisement:
"The undersigned would call the attention of manufacturers of liquors and wines to his very large stock of Cognac oils, extracts of brandy, Holland and London gin, essences of rum, peach and cherry brandy, oils of rye for producing a superior Monongahela or Bourbon whisky from common corn spirit, and his invaluable preparations for neutralizing and giving age and body to new liquors. He has determined to reduce considerable [sic] the price of all his goods; yet he warrants his oils to be superior to any other in this country. He guarantees to produce six barrels of good, merchantable brandy from one ounce of his best Cognac oil.
"Cherry juice and Malva coloring for the manufacture of port-wine, flavorings for ginger, claret, Madeira, and Malaga wines.
"Œnanthic, acetic, and nitrous ethers, essential oils of almond, juniper, caraway, rose, angelica, calamus, anise, absinthe, apple, pear, vanilla, raspberry, strawberry, pineapple, and banana of the best quality; and the price will be made satisfactory by addressing -- --
"Price Current.
"Best Cognac oil, 1 oz. to 6 bbls., at $8 per oz., $100 per lb.
"Second quality Cognac oil, 1 oz. to 4 bbls., at $6 per oz., $50 per lb.
"Third quality Cognac oil, 1 oz. to 2 bbls., at $3 per oz., $25 per lb.
"Extract Cognac, 1 lb. to 5 bbls., $10 per lb.
"Extract Holland and London gin, one gallon for half a pipe, $5 per gallon.
"Oil of rye, for Monongahela and Bourbon whisky, $5 per lb.
"Flavorings of every description, $5 per gallon; and essences, $5 per lb.
"Neutralizing, or age and body preparations, 1 gallon for 20 bbls., $10 per gallon.
"Cherry and other juices, from $1.50 to $2 per gallon."
There is the document entire. I make no profit on it; and I never will believe that the man who published it has any customers. I put it to every man who has a favorite house where occasionally he takes a drink, whether for one moment he can believe that the very gentlemanly proprietor of that house, or the wholesouled bar-keeper, would buy or use any of those poisonous oils and essences? I think I can speak for the Nonsuch House. Though, having the curiosity to inquire, I found the issuer of that circular has quite a large manufactory, and is said to be getting rich. There is something odd in this, if he has no customers; but I do not put myself forward to explain all the mysteries of New York.
To go back to Biggs, who, while I was reading the circular, had emptied the glass that stood before him, in utter disgust, as I suppose, of the contents, I would say nothing more to Biggs in defense of the brandy either of the Nonsuch House or elsewhere; but as a natural result, seeing his glass empty, I cast about in my mind what I should suggest for him to drink. I do not use the article myself; but I had always heard that rum was accounted the healthiest of all liquors, it being a simple distillation of the sugar-cane, a promoter of perspiration, and a sure cure for coughs, colds, and all diseases incidental to exposure. With this in mind, I said to Biggs,
"Try a little Jamaica or Santa Cruz, hot with spice."
This kindly proposition of mine had a singular effect upon Biggs. He is a man naturally florid in complexion, and much of this floridity has settled in his nose. At the moment of my mentioning rum a purple hue suffused that member, and he stared steadily at me for a moment. I saw I had done wrong, but before I could gather myself for defense the storm burst.
"What," said he, "do you take me for? Did you ever know a man who understood himself to drink rum, and that hot spiced too? Do not the makers spice and doctor enough but I must do it for myself? No, Sir! I don't drink rum in any shape, either hot, cold, raw, or spiced!"
In a deprecating way I suggested that many respectable old gentlemen of my acquaintance, principally retired sea-captains, believed in old Jamaica; and then I told him how they had frequently entertained me with anecdotes of the superstitions of the negroes on the rum estates of Jamaica and Porto Rico. How they watch the stars for signs while the distillation goes on, and how they will not allow a woman to approach the still, as they say it stops the process and spoils the liquor; how some fine rums are made which are held by the makers above all price, £10 being sometimes given for a gallon of some particular make or age. All this seemed to mollify Biggs somewhat; but yet he said,
"No, Sir! Rum is not a gentleman's drink; it may be that in the spots you speak of rum may be made fit to drink when nothing else can be had; but, Sir, that is only an additional reason why I should abjure the fluid. None of that precious liquid of which you speak ever comes to this country. The rum of commerce, Sir, is a spirit distilled from the refuse of the sugar plantations—the squeezed cane, and trash generally, including no doubt the dead donkeys, rats, and darkies. Who knows! If it lacks strength when it reaches the hands of the retailer to suit the fiery palates of Yankee drinkers, that is easily managed. A little cayenne, a touch of cocculus indicus, will do that. If it wants color, a dab of burned sugar is the thing, or, more economically, a dash of molasses, West Indian, of course. With this, should it lack spirit, the alcohol must embrace it. No, Sir! no rum; I don't drink rum."
I mildly said, "Gin." Biggs smiled.
"Gin," he went on to say, "if pure, should consist of rectified spirit of barley, or corn, properly flavored with the essence of the juniper berry. The town of Schiedam, in Holland, is the proper place for gin to emanate from. How much of it does come from that locality, or any other in Holland, is a question of extreme doubt. We have only of late become a gin-drinking people: this is partly attributable to its cheapness, and perhaps more to the fact that, within a few years, different compounds have been largely advertised as 'gin for medical purposes,' and sold as such. The public taste is about divided between the Holland and what is termed the London gin, both being essentially the same; the flavor of the latter being made up by different distillers according to their taste, with coriander seed, cardamom, or anise seed."
While Biggs was saying all this, our glasses were again being filled. Gin it was this time.
"One of these advertising gin men," said he, "once showed me through his manufacturing shop. He had confidence in me, and showed me how they did it. It was quite amusing, d'ye see, to find out how they sold a dozen quart bottles, or three gallons of gin, including bottles, labeling, boxes, etc., to say nothing of advertising, for about three dollars, when good gin was worth one dollar and forty to one dollar sixty per gallon in the market. Well, Sir, they take in the gin, and as a first step introduce it to Croton Water, Esq. He soon brings down Master Gin's strength one half. This loss of strength would be a serious affair; but it is easy to repair that. The gin has got a turbid, milky, muddy look in consequence of the precipitation of the oily matter. What must be done? We'll soon fix that. A few pounds of alum, and a few pounds of subcarbonate of potash, well shaken up in the liquor, restores all the transparency. All right; but the water has drowned out that blue tint that belongs to the genuine? Bless your heart, that's nothing; a handful of acetate of lead brings back the blue, and now we shake it up well, and let it stand twenty-four hours. There you have your gin again; but reduced one half in strength, which won't suit American palates. Something more must be done. Easy! There are a dozen things to do that with. We use cayenne and capsicum seed, and, for pungency, a proportionate quantity of grains of paradise seed. Nothing is wanted now but that the liquor shall bead, and cling to the side of the glass, as all good liquor should. To do this we use a little sulphuric acid and almond oil, dissolved in spirits of wine. There you have a gin that will do you good to look at. It has body, a fine complexion, a good head, strength, and pungency. What can you want more?"
"Now, Biggs," said I—for I knew very well that Biggs in this was hinting at a mutual friend of ours who has made some money in the gin line, and who, I am sure, is a highly respectable man, if one can judge by appearances and regular attendance at church—"Now," said I, "do you mean to assert that this is the way with all gin, even that which comes from the British empire—which 'right little, tight little island' is proverbial through all the world for the stringency of its excise laws, and the general honesty of its dealings? A spot that 'Never, no never, not at all,' makes any wooden nutmegs, and don't know the meaning of the word Humbug?"
Biggs smiled grimly. He always does when I attempt to be funny, though it leaves me entirely in doubt whether he really thinks it fun or does it to patronize me.
"I have in my pocket," said he, "a few recipes. I took them from a book published a short time since in London, and thought of sufficient consequence by Hassell to be quoted in his great work on adulterations. This little volume is called 'Tricks of Trade.' I will give you from it a recipe for making 'London Gin.' 'Take 700 gallons of second quality rectified spirits; add to this 70 pounds juniper berries, 70 pounds coriander seed, 3½ pounds oil of almond cake, 1½ pounds angelica root, 6 pounds liquorice, 8 pounds sulphuric acid.' Nice, isn't it?"
I am free to confess all this time that I was spilling my gin under the table. However much a man may have confidence in what he eats and drinks, it certainly is a very awkward thing to have these objectionable ideas paraded before you at the very moment of raising the suspected article to your lips. Not so with Biggs; his glass always seemed to go down in a natural ratio, whether it was that he was making a martyr of himself as an experiment for scientific purposes, or whether he was like that waiter in "David Copperfield," who drank the strong ale that killed every body else, because he was hardened to it, and wished to save David from the terrible results.
I saw, therefore, that Biggs's tumbler was empty. I saw it with dismay; for, in spite of my prejudices in favor of the Nonsuch House, I feared to recommend any special drink, and most certainly I could not say to Biggs again, "Gin!" I ran over in my mind all the vocabulary of fermented liquors, and at last stumbled blindfold at—
"What do you say now to a little Scotch whisky?"
Biggs looked inquiringly into the bottom of his glass. What he saw there I am unable to say; but in a few moments he looked up, and said, deliberately,
"No! Scotch whisky is a captious liquor, even if obtained in its purity, which in this country is next to an impossibility. When the whiskies of Scotland got their reputation they were the products of a thousand stills scattered through the hills and bogs of that land. Then the liquor was made by honest men, who disdained to do any thing worse with it than cheat the gauger. They prided themselves on the skill of their brewing, and did not know the meaning of the word 'doctoring.' That day has gone by; the illicit stills are almost extirpated; and the making of Scotch and Irish whiskies is in the hands of the large distillers, who pay the chemist about as much money for 'extracts' as they pay the farmer for grain. From their hands it goes into that of the importers or jobbers, who make it to suit this market. The principle of 'dressing,' as it is termed, is about the same as that followed in gin, with the exception of getting that smoky taste, which is supposed to be a certain part of a good Scotch or Irish whisky. Of late years, however, a taste has arisen in this country for an Irish whisky without the smoke. They give us, therefore, an article they are pleased to term a 'sweet Irish malt whisky.' As to that smoke, Sir, it ought to be indicted, Sir!" and Biggs rapped the table with his knuckles till the glasses danced. "It is nothing but creosote, Sir; deadly poison, Sir! No, Sir, I never drink Scotch whisky."
"What do you say to a drop of Bourbon or Monongahela?" I suggested, quietly.
Biggs didn't say No, but stared vacantly at the ceiling for a few minutes while the boy brought the Bourbon; and then he waked up, as it were, and looked into the glass, as much as to say, "How the deuce came this here?" Then he began:
"I don't know that there is any more objection to Bourbon whisky than there is to any other liquor, if it's only made right."
With this prelude. he emptied his glass with one swallow, and continued:
"But the truth is, there's such an infamous system carried on with our native whiskies that it gives one a double dose; for by the time they are drugged by the distillers, drugged by the jobbers, and drugged by the retailers, they become a pretty mess. Each of these individuals acts upon the idea that he alone is the 'doctor;' or, to illustrate it more fully, they go on the plan of the parishioners of a certain curé, in a French village, who determined to give the priest a barrel of wine. This was to be accomplished by each of them bringing a bottle, and emptying it in a barrel prepared and set up in front of the good man's house. The day came, and so came each parishioner with his bottle, which was speedily emptied in the barrel. When the job was done the curé came, smacking his lips, to taste his wine, because, as a supposable case, each would bring a bottle of the best to the holy father. He tasted, and looked, and, lo and behold! the good father had only a barrel of water. Each parishioner, believing, with commendable charity, that he was the only rogue in the community, brought a bottle of that fluid to empty into his neighbor's wine.
"This is precisely the case with our native whiskies. For a number of years the hogs through the Western country that were fed on the slop of the distilleries died at a ruinous rate. All the hog doctors bothered their brains to know the cause. They christened it 'Hog Cholera.' It was not uncommon for a fine, apparently healthy porker to give up the ghost after an attack of one hour or less, independent of medical aid. About this time some wiseacre, who wished, as wiseacres will, you know, to meddle a little, undertook to analyze some of this swill, or distillery wash, and lo! he detected strychnine in large quantities. At first the distillers were very indignant with Mr. Wiseacre; but now, the cat being once out of the bag, they make no hesitation in declaring that they use the drug to aid them in obtaining more spirit out of the same quantity of corn. The physicians tell us, that, since this improvement in the manufacture of whisky, delirium tremens is an incurable disease. By-the-by, some years ago, when the parliamentary inquiry arose upon the adulteration of food and liquors in England, it came out that M. Pelletier, the great chemical manufacturer of Paris, had the curiosity to inquire where the immense quantities of strychnine went for which he received orders. He thought he traced it to England, where it was supposed to be used for brewing purposes. Now, what do you say to the hypothesis that all this nice stuff came to the land of the free and the home of the brave for whisky manufacture? Eh, Sir? One thing is a certain fact that the importation of strychnine has increased to an enormous extent, while, ten years ago, the drug was scarcely known."
By this time I confess to having become slightly disgusted with Biggs. And, by way of balancing the account fairly, I began to tell him how every nation and tribe of the world had, and would use, some stimulant; that we, of course, as one of the most enlightened on the globe, must certainly be supposed to have every thing that money and taste could procure; that it is impossible to prevent a nation from drinking by laws or legislation. The Turks being an instance of this, as a nation that are forbidden by all their laws, human and divine, to use wines or spirit; and yet, from the very earliest record we have of them, they were tipplers, though expressly against the laws of Mohammed. The Sieur de Ryer, in his Life of Mohammed, says that the Prophet gave this command, and enforced it by the following story:
In the fourth year of the Hegira two angels, named Arut and Marut, were sent to Babylon to teach. They were forbidden to drink; but soon after they arrived a very beautiful woman came to them and asked them to dine. They agreed, being both enamored of her beauty, and the result was that they both got in the forbidden state with the fair lady's wine. While so, both made love to the beauty, one offering to carry her to heaven, the other to bring her back. She went upon the journey, but when she had reached that very desirable haven she refused to return, thereby exposing the whole affair and causing the downfall of Messrs. Arut and Marut. Notwithstanding the law was enforced by such examples, we find, through all the Mussulman History, no disguise of the fact of drinking. Russell, in his History of Aleppo, tells of a Sirdar, who, on passing a burial-ground, saw a Maronite hastily conceal something under his clothes as he approached. He immediately suspected it to be a bottle of wine, and accused the Maronite. The fellow swore lustily to his innocence, though his breath and his step declared the other way. The Sirdar summoned the chief of his attendants and bade him smell the man's breath. The attendant, who was as drunk as the Maronite, obeyed, and, turning to his master, said,
"Most noble Sirdar, that there has been drinking done there can be no doubt. There is a dreadful smell of liquor somewhere; but whether it is this man, myself, or your highness, it is impos8ible for me to tell."
The Sultan Solyman the First had an awkward habit of pouring melted lead into the ears of any one detected drinking wine, and yet Madden does not hesitate to say that he received, every day, from the hands of his physician, a bottle of brandy labeled "Physic." The son of this truly temperate monarch died a drunkard. If the Sultan drank, it seems hard that his people were not allowed the same privilege. Somewhere an anecdote is told of the Sultan Almohdi, the father of Haroun Alraschid, who, becoming separated from his suite while hunting, strayed into a woodman's hut and asked for a bottle of wine. After the first pull the Sultan turned to the old woodman, and asked if he knew who he was. The man answered, No; and the Sultan, thinking to astonish him, said he was one of the principal officers of the court. The old man took it very easy, and the Sultan took another drink, and ended by announcing himself as the Grand Vizier. This not seeming to affect the old man, Almohdi took a third pull from the bottle and declared himself the Sultan. This was too much for the old man, who snatched away the bottle, declaring he should drink no more of that wine, for if he drank again he would be Mohammed himself.
Aaron Hill, who traveled through Turkey in 1709, says: "The love of brandy, wine, and other strong liquors, so much evinced through the Ottoman empire, proceeds from nothing else than their ignorance in brewing other beverages; for I frequently observed that when an English ship had brought some bottles of our country beer or ale to Turkey, and presented them to such as would afterward compliment the noted Turks of their acquaintance with a share in drinking them, they constantly expressed a wonderful esteem and eager inclination to obtain a quantity, assuring us repeatedly that, could they make such drinks themselves, they never should be tempted to commit a sin by breaking through the Prophet's order to forbear the use of wine or brandy."
"The sherbet of the Turks," said I, in conclusion, "is nothing more than raspberries, strawberries, or apricots steeped in rose-water, delicately spiced, and cooled with snow, in long bottles. It must be a poor substitute for our iced Champagnes or fragrant Marcobrunner."
I flatter myself that what I did say was to the point, though, as is usual with him, Biggs listened vacantly, staring all the time at the little drop of whisky in the bottom of the glass, which, when I had ended my argument, he turned out in his hand, and, rubbing them together, snuffed to his nose.
I asked him what he was at, and received for answer that this was the plan by which celebrated judges told the bouquet or flavor of good liquors.
"The most reliable tasters do not drink. They are as careful of their palate as an operatic prima donna is ef her voice. Now," said he, "I have seen brokers in liquors who would tell you to a hair-breadth about a wine or brandy and not put it to their lips. By smelling, rubbing on the hands, watching its action in the glass, and the manner of its mixing with water, they would designate the vintage, the derivation, and the money value. I was once present when some persons came to a very celebrated judge of wines, a man who is frequently called in in disputed cases in the New York Custom-house. They brought a bottle of fine Tokay, of a kind they believed had never before been imported.
"Well, Davis—as we shall call the judge—tasted the wine, and said, 'A very fine wine, gentlemen, but I have some of the same' (Davis is in the wine trade) 'in my cellar, which I think is a shade better.' Then these gentlemen believing, as I said, that their specimen was unique, offered to bet Davison that. He thought a while, and then told his porter to go to bin No. 31 and bring up a bottle of brown seal. It was produced and tasted, and these gentlemen owned up that it was the same wine, but laughed at the pretension of Davis, who declared that his was the vintage of the year before theirs, and a little better. Another bet was made that Davis could not, being out of the room while these wines were poured out, designate his own wine. He did, and more; to satisfy the skeptical gentlemen he repeated the thing three times, to show them, at their own request, that it was not guesswork. After which, these unreasonable fellows wanted him to stand a fourth trial, that they may be assured to a certainty it was not by trick or guess, as they were themselves great judges, and could detect no more difference than if the wine had come from the same bottle. He accordingly went out of the room. When summoned in he tasted the wine in the glasses as before, and without a moment's hesitation said, 'Gentlemen, you have mixed those wines.' Which was so. That wasn't bad for Davis, and rather realizes the fairy story of Fine-ear."
I have said before that I was rather disgusted with Biggs; but like the young medical student, who, though he shudders with real horror upon first entering a dissecting-room, afterward rather enjoys the disgusting detail. I think it must have been partially from this cause, and partially from my desire to show Biggs that I had something rather good at home, that I was induced to say to him, "Come up to my house and drink a glass of wine," which, of course, he acceded to directly. And I think it must have been wholly from this morbid idea that I gave way to the question while going up, "What is your opinion, now, about porter and ale?"
"Porter and ale," said Biggs, sententiously, "may do very well for very healthy men, who are too healthy to be affected by vitriol or Prussic acid, or for old gentlemen who are case-hardened or anxious to depart this sphere. Ale might do for the drinking of a man like the one told of when the Maine Law first went into operation in Massachusetts, and toddy was sold in the drug-shops only. A tall, lank individual walked into one of these 'pottycaries' stores' and asked for a gill of 'sperets,' he not feeling well. The apothecary, who was busy making up a prescription, gave him, as he supposed, the required draught. No sooner was it down than the customer clapped his hand on the region of the gastrie juice and fled at 2.40 speed. The druggist looked at the bottle, and in horror and dismay found he had given the man aqua fortis; he was too terrified at the mistake to pursue. He had given a gill of aqua fortis—enough of a dose to kill a hundred men. It can readily be imagined what the state of that druggist's mind must have been as each succeeding day rolled away and he had no intelligence of his victim. Every man who entered his shop was to his idea a policeman with a warrant of arrest for murder. At last, one day about a week after the occurrence, the tall customer walked in again, with a smile beaming all over his face. 'Good-mornin', doctor,' says he; 'I guess I'll take another go of them sperets; I've drank considerable liquor afore now, but I never got any thing to fetch me so good as yourn, or lastso long.' Now do you see, my dear boy," continued Biggs, as he saw a look of incredulity pass over my face, "such a story as that may not be exactly a fact, but, any way, it isn't much worse than this item, cut from a daily newspaper, and dismissed without comment. Now I don't hesitate to say, my dear boy, that this case is equally as bad as though a druggist had willfully sold poison, knowing that it was for killing purposes." With that Biggs handed me this printed paragraph:
"Death from Drinking Bad Liquor.—Hannah Riley, residing in a tenement house in the rear of No. 137 Delancey Street, expired very suddenly, yesterday afternoon, after imbibing some liquor purchased at a porter-house near where she lived. She leaves a husband and several children. The Coroner was notified, and will hold an inquest to-day. Captain Steers, of the Thirteenth Precinct, states that there have been several sudden deaths in his precinct within a year, from the effects of bad liquor."
"And, Sir, if you will believe me," added Biggs, "the man who sold that poison wasn't hanged, though this is supposed to be an enlightened community.
"What do I think of porter and ale?' Eh! Well, I'll tell you what I think. In the first place, porter and ale, if ever so honest, is a bilious way of a man's taking his sustenance. But independent of this fact, Sir, I challenge the denial that all brewers use, more or less, foreign elements than malt and hops for the production of their beverages. In England, a few years since, public attention was called strongly to this, and the result was some terrible revelations as to what that intelligent British public had been swallowing. It was found that salt, molasses, sulphate of iron, gentian, quassia, chamomile, ginger, coriander, paradise seeds, liquorice, alum, sulphuric acid, capsicum, cocculus indicus, tobacco, opium, and strychnine, were component parts of the different specimens of porter and ale obtained from various beer-shops through the city of London. In this free country we have no parliamentary committees of inquiry, therefore we don't know the exact nature of the dose; but I have the authority of a first-class drughouse in the city of Philadelphia that they sell to brewers large quantities of cocculus indicus, which is used as a substitute for malt and hops, and is considered by the brewers as making the beer keep, and prevents a re-fermentation after bottling. Therefore in all ale or porter bottled for a warm climate it is used freely, saving the breakage of bottles, and adding at least forty per cent. to the intoxicating power. The same firm told me they sold alum, which was invariably used to give the ale a smack of age; which, by-the-by, puts me in mind that in Dr. Normanby's 'Commercial Hand-book of Chemical Analysis,' he mentions the fact of seeing a druggist's cart, on which was painted in large, staring letters, 'Brewers' Druggist.' Isn't that funny?
"Now here's a recipe from the keeper of a first-class chop and ale house for doctoring porter. When he gets in the barrel he first draws off one-third the liquor, which he replaces with the same quantity of water. To this he adds two quarts of molasses, and one pound of coopers' size, dissolved. Then he dashes in a handful of common salt, as a cleanser. Then, to restore the bitter flavor, quassia in proper quantity; sulphate of ammonia to bring the old color again; a dash of sulphate of iron; and, if age is wanted, a piece of alum as big as a lump of chalk will do the business. 'And then, Sir,' says Boniface, 'you have a porter much superior to the original, because it makes drunk come quick.' There's an English book in existence called 'Brewing Malt Liquors,' by Morris, which unblushingly recommends various articles for brewing malt liquors, and for improving them after they are brewed.. He styles it 'coloring;' and it is composed of cocculus indicus, flag-root, capsicum, paradise seed, beans, oyster-shells, and pulverized alum. 'The coloring,' he says, 'gives a good face to the beer, and enables you to gratify the sight of your different customers.' Mind you, he says 'sight.' And again says Morris: 'Beans tend to mellow malt liquor, and, from their properties, add much to the inebriating qualities; but they must not be used in too large a quantity.' Now, Sir, do you know why the considerate Morris does not wish to give his customers too much beans? It is because the ale in such case would become a purgative and an emetic. If you doubt it, Sir, chew raw beans as an experiment."
I respectfully declined the test.
"I have a friend," Biggs went on, "who always drinks the ale of a certain well-known brewer, and will never touch any other; not because he thinks it more pure, but because the effects on him are the same as 'cannabis indicus' or 'hasheesh,' one quart of the deadly mixture sending him into the seventh heaven of insensibility. I give that man twelve months more to live, Sir—twelve months, mind you. It is no argument, Sir, that the same ale should not have the same effect on others. All men are not affected alike by medicine."
I suggested that perhaps this effect might rather arise from some peculiarity in the brewing, and not from drugs, as in the case of the wine of Arioso in the Archipelago, which immediately upon drinking takes away the faculties, leaving the drinker in a state resembling death for several hours. Or the wine of Belfort, Haut Rhin, France, which has no effect while being drunk at table, but immediately on reaching the air deprives the drinker of all use of his limbs, though leaving his mind entirely undisturbed.
To this, as I think, powerful argument, Biggs only said, "Gammon!" What he meant I have no conception. I did not, however, have an opportunity of asking, for by this time we had arrived at my domicile. I had inwardly determined on a master-stroke of policy with Biggs. I would leave him to the selection of his own wine, by which I flattered myself his taste would be filled, and his power of analysis cut off. With this view, I said to Biggs,
"Now what say you, Champagne, port, sherry, Rhine wine, Burgundy, claret, muscat, whatever you like?" With his usual way of eluding a question, or answering it by another, Biggs only said, as he threw himself into my very easiest of easy chairs,
"Ah! now this is the sensible way of drinking. If one is forced to go through with this custom, let it be done at home. There is far more respectability, Sir, in getting drunk in the bosom of one's family than traveling from bar-room to bar-room swallowing every villainous compound. This reminds me of a certain dramatic friend of mine, an Englishman, who, when Ellen Tree, now Mrs. Charles Kean, first came to this country, was anxious to be introduced to his talented countrywoman. As I knew her well, I presented him one evening on the stage, when the curtain was down, between the acts. The lady had a charming manner, and the actor was delighted. As a matter of course the lady, asked him how long he had been in this country.
"'About a matter of four year, mem,' answered the professional, rubbing his hands with an undisguised joy at the complaisance of the great star.
"'And how do you like the country, Mr. F—?'
"'Ah! very tol'able country, mem, very. There's only one thing I object to in this country. That's the confounded system, mem, of perpendicular drinking, mem.'
"Poor F— never got rid of that 'perpendicular drinking;' by which, of course, he meant this American custom of standing up to a bar and swallowing endless drinks in rapid succession. I think so too, Sir; 'perpendicular drinking' is an ungentlemanly practice. Good wine, Sir, is a thing that should not be abused. Somewhere I have met with an account of a Mr. Van Horn, who had, in his life, consumed 35,688 bottles of port. Think of it. Why, if this man had been drinking thirty-five years, this would have been an average of three bottles per day. Such a man, Sir, should be debarred from drinking forever. Some old sage says, 'A two-bottle port man is only a wine funnel.' That's true. If we are obliged to drink, Sir, let us drink humanly. Drink to quench thirst. Now what is thirst? Magendie says, 'Thirst is an internal sensation, an instinctive sentiment.' And Beaumont declares, 'The sensation of thirst is supposed to be the effect of evaporation, the mouth and throat being constantly exposed to the atmosphere. When there is sufficient fluidity of the blood, the secretion is so much more copious than the evaporation that a constant moisture is preserved.' Now this is just equivalent to saying that nature really demands very little fluid; therefore a man who swallows three bottles of any liquid substance, be it only water, is flying directly in the face of nature. A true gentleman wine-drinker is no braggart, like Darius, who declared he 'could drink much wine, and bear it nobly.' The man who boasts of his power to drink large quantities, only boasts of his own vulgarity. Bacon, or somebody else says, 'Of all who take wine, the moderate only enjoy it.' The chemical composition of wine is—"
"Oh! bother the chemical compositions, the question is, 'What'll you drink?'" said I to Biggs.
Biggs looked me straight in the eye, and repeating his last sentence with strong emphasis, went on, "The—chemical—composition—of—wine—is—mind you I mean real wine—(I'll take a little sherry. Thank you)—is sugar, acid, water, tannin, œnanthic ether, carbonic acid, acetic acid, chloride of sodium, and potassium, gum, gluten, aroma, tartrate potash, sulphate potash, bi-tartrate potash, extractive matter, and coloring matter.—There now! to think of the presumption of human wisdom, after having found out by the prying of chemistry all those things, that it should dare to go to work to make wine by mixing them together."
I brought the bottle of sherry to Biggs just as it was in cellar, without offering to decant it. I was rather anxious he should see the dust on the bottle.
"Ah! ah! my dear boy," said Biggs, as I came into the room, "don't disturb the bottle, don't stand it upright if you love me. Easy now; let me take it, so—there—now. Sherry is a noble wine, the prince of Andalusian wines, if it be good; but bless you, they never bring it good to this country! When it isn't made entirely from a white wine body, touched up with brandy, bitter almonds, molasses, sugar candy, and scalding water, it is always 'doctored' at home, more or less, notwithstanding it is the most delicate wine to meddle with in the world." Biggs by this time had drawn the cork and filled our glasses brimming.
"Bumpers," said he, "in respect for ancient customs. Bumper, from the word Bonpér, or boon companion. As you have already remarked, I like the old customs. Nothing disgusts me so much as to see a parcel of senseless fellows together drinking and shouting, 'Hip! hip! hip! hurrah!' and I'll wager a ten spot not one of them knows what is the meaning of the words or their derivation. Well, Sir, this cry came from the words Hierosolyma est perdita, which was a war-cry used on the attack of a German town in which many Hebrews were living. When it becomes my turn to build a country, I shall decree that no man shall drink a glass of wine until he knows all these little facts. There is nothing in which the gentleman comes out so thoroughly as in the manner of taking his wine. Remember, Sir, he can not take too little, and if he takes too much, why—he is not a gentleman. Some wise old head said,
"'Drink a glass of wine at twenty; at forty a pint or more;
A bottle but rarely, if you'd add years two score.'
"No man who understands the world trusts his wine. It is a turn-coat; first a friend, and then an enemy. The most voluptuous of assassins, John Brougham, tells us,
"'Friendship of the wine-cup born
Flieth, like the draught, ere morn;'
and he ought to know.
"A gentleman, Sir, is particular in his drinking; he is particular in his wine, and particular in the glass from which he drinks it. An old saying is, 'Buy port glasses by the pound, claret glasses by the grain.' The ancients were gentlemen in their cups, as many specimens that have come down to us in the present day show. Pliny gives us some little gossip on this subject; and there is no absurdity to which we give way so much as to this of glasses. It should not be a dictation of fashion, Sir; it is instinct! Instinct teaches us that certain fine wines drink better out of certain glasses. There is no imagination in it. It is not like making the drinking of particular wines a fashion, as in the case of George the Third, who brought sherry into fashion by letting it touch the royal throat; or of Louis the Fourteenth, whose physician, Fagon, recommended the Burgundy of Nuits; after which, of course, no wine could tickle the palates of the courtiers but the Burgundy of Nuits. It was this physician also who invented liqueurs, or cordials, as gentle stimulants for that monarch in his last days. Now, can there be any thing more absurd than the idea of drinking those delicate Rhine wines—hock, etc.—out of green glasses, to conceal their exquisite color; or Champagne from broad, flat, unhandy goblets, because it is the fashion? No, Sir; give me the long conical glass for Champagne, if I am to drink Champagne at all, which I positively refuse to do. They call it 'regal wine.' Regal nonsense! Did you ever hear of Liebeg's analyzation of twenty-four samples of Champagne? He found them to contain one volume of carbonic acid gas and two of protoxide of nitrogen (or laughing gas). These gases are hurtful in the highest degree to the healthy, but to such as are inclined to consumption they are fatal. In all cases they tend directly to apoplexy. There is no wine so much drank as Champagne, and, consequently, none so extensively counterfeited. Under any circumstances it is not a natural wine. The great Champagne makers—who, having got a reputation, are supposed to grow all the wine they export themselves—are simply the fixers and doctors of the wines of other people. Just as in the case of the brandy districts, the growers of white wine through the land of the Champagne bring it in the crude still state to the great wine proprietor, who buys it at a stated low rate. It then goes through a long process of refining, sugaring, shaking, fermenting, brandying, and various other methods of manufacturing, until the original vine might look it full in the face and never recognize the child. And this is the so-called genuine wine! Of this genuine wine there is about one bottle made to every twenty of so-called Champagne drank throughout the world. The real wine can not be bought upon the spot of its manufacture for less that five francs (or one dollar) per bottle; and yet, Sir, we have offered daily, in the New York market, an article of Champagne for eight dollars per dozen so closely resembling it that some very nice judges have been rather bothered to tell the difference. We have some fine manufactories of Champagne, Sir, in New York, which are a credit to our domestic industry. At one of these, which boasts of doing a business of nearly $60,000 per annum, I happened, some year or so ago, to get behind the scenes. Here is the recipe for making. I put it down at the time, thinking that perhaps I might want to go into the Champagne line myself."
Biggs fumbled away in his pockets a few minutes, and then brought forth a small piece of dirty paper, and read:
"'White wine, one barrel [worth about sixty cents per gallon); white sugar, 20 pounds; coloring matter, for the yellow tint, 17 pounds light-brown sugar; 1½ oz. tartaric acid; 2 gallons brandy; 4 gallons alcohol. Boil this and skim it well. When cool, byadding 4 pounds of bruised strawberries, or other accessible fruit, the mixture is much improved."
"Now this I consider a very fine article, and comparatively harmless. If all our domestic manufacture of Champagne is equally so, I shall declare in its favor rather than the European article, in which are such nice substances as gypsum, arsenite of copper, sugar of lead—a delightful thing to inoculate one with the painters' colic—essences of celery and sage. They make it in large quantities for the American market at Cette, Marseilles, and Lyons; one house at the latter place shipping 80,000 bottles per annum. It is this stuff that Brande and Henderson analyzed and exposed, declaring that its use created sickness, permanent derangement, nausea, headache, dyspepsia, and paralysis. Now, Sir, I ask any sensible person— Hallo! are you asleep?"
I'm afraid I was, for I started in a very ridiculous way, and said, in a stupid sort of a tone:
"What'll you drink?"
"Oh, fiddle!" said Biggs; "you're a nice man, ain't you?"
I told himI thought so. The truth was, I began to suspect Biggs of blowing hot and cold with the same mouth; at one moment he was talking up the wine-cup's joys, and the next he was picking the fluid chemically to pieces. No man more than myself admits the truth of the adage, "Drunkenness destroys beauty and shortens life;" but I flatter myself I am a consistent man, and can go back into ancient time for authority that a glass of good wine is a thing not to be sniffed at. But Biggs declares that there is no such thing as good wine nowadays. Biggs is welcome to his opinion; but I hardly think I am so weak as to give twenty-four dollars a dozen for port without getting good wine, or fifteen for Champagne without I am put in possession of a prime article. My wine-merchant tells me so; and if he is not to be believed, who is? I can appeal to "Doctor Tobias Venner, Doctor of Physicke, of Bathe and North Petherton, neere to the ancient towne of Bridgewater, in Somersetshire," who wrote a very learned book, entitled "A Straight Road to a Long Life," Anno Domini 1559, who declares that water is an unsuitable drink, only fit for children and poor people, for it "is in no wise agreeable, for it doth very greatly deject the appetite, destroy the natural heat, and overthrow the strength of the stomach; and, consequently, confounding the concoction, is the cause of crudities, fluctuations, and windiness in the body." Can any thing be clearer than that? The learned Doctor discusses wine, beer, aqua vite, mead, cider, and perry. He says of wine: "Many and singular are its commodities; for it is of itself the most pleasant liquor in all the world." He recommends Rhenish wines to be taken in the morning, before breakfast, dinner, or supper (but not while eating), as they will cut humors. Sack, saith the Doctor, is heating for the body; "is most accommodate for old men, for gross men, and must be drunken after the eating of meats of gross substance." "Claret breedeth good humors, and is very good for young men with hot stomachs." "Malmsey is very hot, but nourisheth much. The wine of Orleans is hurtful to the choleric, and such as have weak brains." (This wine of Orleans is the same as our Burgundy.) But what's this the Doctor says a little further on: "Wine should be moderately given, and that not too often, unto young men, as from twenty-five years of age unto thirty-five, and that it be also of the smaller sort of wines." Oh! Doctor, is it thus you treat us until we are thirty-five? A few pages on I find that the Doctor himself was forty-three when he published his book. With his opinion on bitter beer, or ale, I will dismiss the learned Tobias Venner:
"Beer that is too bitter of the hops (as many, to save malt, are wont to make it) is of a fuming nature, and therefore it engendereth rheums and distillations, hurteth the sinews, offendeth the sight, and causeth the head to ache by filling the ventricles of the brain with troublesome vapors; wherefore not only the internal but the external senses also are very much disturbed and hurted."
And then I have another of the olden faculty, even of earlier date, who says a word in favor of the curative properties of wine, Master Ralph Blower (not a very handsome name), who gives us a volume which he calls, modestly, "A Rich Storehouse or Treasurie for the Diseased," 1631.
For a surfeit he prescribes: "Take a good thicke piece of white bread and toast it, then dippe the same in aqua vitæ very well; and that being done, applie it to the stomache of the partie grieved as hotte as possible he may abide it, and lette him be kept very warm."
"A pint of sacke and a pint of Malmsie" for the pipes of the heart being stopped.
"For a weak backe, a quarte of sacke."
'For the hooping-coughe, take a mouse and bake it in the oven till it become dry; after which pound it fine, and give the powder in strong ale."
That's enough of Doctor Blower.
Now all this I wished to tell Biggs at the time; but as I did not think of it, it relieves me very much to tell it now. As it was, I only asked Biggs if he would take a little port? "No." Claret? "No." Rhine wine? "No." Burgundy?
"Ah, Burgundy! Burgundy is not so bad—red as a ruby, fragrant as a flower, truly a gentletleman's wine. Let it be Burgundy. I don't drink port. I lack confidence. It is too easily made. That rich fruity bouquet has brought forth the skill of the chemists and doctors in wine. There is no wine to which more attention has been paid in the manufacture of first-class imitations than port. This comes from the large quantities consumed in England, and formerly in this country. But we are beginning to lose confidence in our port. You see, my boy, while the whole market of Oporto wines worth any thing are snapped up for the English drinkers, at an average of about $30 per dozen, we have a most splendid article offered here at half that price. The importers of Oporto wines must really have been ruining themselves for years. The day has gone by for the manufacture of a superior port from logwood. Science, my dear fellow, has been at work. First they make us a fine decoction of elderberry juice, which they have christened 'Ilrupiga:' to this we will introduce a certain quantity of water, or, if we wish to be extravagant, cheap white wine. Good! Now, we will put in a little unfermented grapejuice, and brandy enough to give the mixture strength. Now we must set the color: alum will do that. And give it clearness? Why, a dash of gypsum, of course. Then, for astringency, what is better than tannin?—a touch of the wood, oak saw-dust? And now comes the delicate bouquet: Extract sweet-brier, orris root, cherry laurel water, seeds of the grape, salts of tartar. Carefully, carefully my dear boy, slip them in gently and taste. Ah! there's a wine: what do you want better than that? Why, Sir, that wine, if mixed by a skillful hand, will be smacked by connoisseurs with a real gusto. Now we must put it in casks or bottles. We must make a hot solution of cream of tartar and Brazil wood, which must be poured into the cask or the bottles, and the cork must be dipped on the end that goes in the bottle. Good! Only one thing wanting before corking: we must boil the full bottles of wine in water not reaching to their necks. This for the crust, my boy. There—you have a splendid old port fit for a king! If your taste is for a cheaper article, it can be gratified by mixing forty-five gallons of cider with six of brandy, two extract sloes, eight of real port (allowing it is to be had). Sanders wood for color, powdered catechu for astringency, and you have it.
"And even the noble Burgundy suffers in the same way, though it is something to be thankful for that they have not reached the same skill as in port. We have a very pretty article of Burgundy got up now on a Medoc body, or perhaps on the white Rhine wine, treated much the same as port, with the slightest touch in the world of green vitriol and arsenite of copper, and a dash of litharge or some preparation of lead to keep it from turning. In a very few years, my dear boy, there will not be the slightest occasion for vineyards or the cultivation of the grape. Science will do it much better. We improve every day. I have no prejudices, I assure you. There may be some real wines—may be; but I must he excused, you see, if I have my preferences. This is the reason, my boy, that I never drink claret. It is an easy article of manufacture, cheap, and, consequently, in large demand. Under these circumstances many great intellects have been brought to bear upon it until the secret is wrung away; and it is a matter of deep question whether the vineyards in the obscure lofts and cellars of New York are not equaling those of Medoe, Frontignan, and Graves. In one of my pockets, my boy, I have a pleasant little volume, made up from the manuscript of M. Paquirre, of Bordeaux, who wrote in 1825, after spending a lifetime in the study of wines."
I had given up being astonished at Biggs, as I am confident, had the occasion demanded, he would have pulled the Astor Library from his pocket in support of his assertions. I therefore contented myself with saying, as I looked at the empty Burgundy bottle: "I don't object to betting you a nice little spread—say a dinner for six—that I have a claret, genuine, and of fine bouquet, color, and answering all the requirements for a stout, fine wine."
"Why don't you bring it out, my boy, then?" says Biggs.
By this time he had produced a dingy-looking 16mo from his pocket and began to read: while I produced the wine, uncorked, and poured it out. I noticed, as rather a singular mode of testing, that Biggs filled his glass twice, and drank it absently, while hunting up the required paragraphs. I mention this fact because I knew to a certainty that all great wine-tasters, or liquor-judges, do not at first drink it when they are about to pass judgment. The most celebrated I ever knew would put only one spoonful in a half tumbler of water, and rinse his mouth, after which he would pronounce an opinion from which there was no use of appeal. Men who appreciate good wines, or would be capable of telling what they are drinking, do not spoil their mouths and palates by great gulps, or rapid refilling and emptying of glasses, nor yet by eating cheese, nuts, olives, or any articles of foreign flavor, to create an appetite. While I was debating this over in my mind, but before I had time to put it into words, Biggs found the place in his book.
"Now," said he, "hear what M. Paquirre says of claret: 'The wine, if it has succeeded, ought to be clear, transparent, of a fine soft color, a lively smell, and balsamic taste, slightly piquant but agreeable, inclining to that of raspberry, violet, or mignonnette, filling the mouth, and passing without irritating the throat, giving a gentle heat to the stomach, and not getting too quickly into the head.' Well, Sir! how does this answer to your ideas of claret?" says this disagreeable Biggs, detecting me in the very act of smelling and tasting my wine. Biggs went on:
"Hear what M. Paquirre says about 'doctoring' the real wine: 'But in order to give the Bordeaux wines some resemblance to those wines of Spain and Portugal, which are used in England' [and this will suit the locality of the United States also], 'to render them to the taste preferred, they are obliged to work them; that is, to mix them by means of a particular operation, so that those wines which are shipped can no longer be known as the same wines that are produced in the Department of the Gironde, or that remain at Bordeaux.' This 'particular operation' M. Paquirre describes. It is achieved by using orris root for restoring the bouquet, touching up with raspberry brandy, using mineral crystal (which simply means alum) and isinglass. All this is done to the genuine wine. But what farther it gets when it has once crossed the Atlantic would be beyond telling. Now let us see how we shall make a splendid article of claret that shall possess color, flavor, body, and strength, and which we must sell for from $2.50 to $3 per dozen—the usual price, bottles, boxes, and straw included. We will take thirty gallons of water, two of alcohol, logwood sufficient for coloring, a little bi-tartrate of potash, a small quantity of gypsum, powdered catechu, a trifle of cocculus indicus, and we have a very good article at a very low price. If we are extravagant, we will improve this by coloring with elderberries or mulberries instead of logwood, or we will add the red beet well crushed; we will improve it with a gallon or two of raspberry juice, possibly a little brandy. We must not, however, be too lavish, or we shall convert our claret into a Burgundy or a dry port. And now I have in my pocket a little vial with which I shall work wonders."
Biggs began rummaging again in his pocket as before. Visions of Signor Blitz and that little powder he always carried in his pocket, which, in my youthful days, turned gold watches to rabbits, and baked pancakes in gentlemen's hats, rushed through my brain. He said a little vial. He could not certainly mean, after drinking all he conveniently could (for I am obliged to say that Biggs began to look queer), to carry away the rest in a bottle. If so, I must have up another bottle, as he had finished that one with very little help from myself. I was soon relieved on this point by his pulling out a vial measuring about an inch in length, which he held up to the light, showing it to contain a colorless fluid. From both our glasses Biggs gathered, with an unsteady hand, about half a glass of wine, and uncorked his vial. As he looked toward me I could notice a change come over the countenance of Biggs. There was an attempt at composure that sat very ridiculously on him.
"Now, my boy," said he, "perceive what I am about to do. This vial contains a solution of caustic potash. I shall drop a single grain of it in this claret. If the wine is pure, it will not be affected; if it is colored with logwood, it will turn reddish purple; if with elderberries, dark purple; if with mulberries, light purple; if with beet-root, clear red; if with Brazil wood, muddy red; if with litmus, light violet. Now, look out!"
Of all the impudent things I ever knew mortal man to be guilty of, I think this beat all. To test a man's wine in his own house chemically, right under his nose, and that after finishing several bottles! I emphatically refuse to state what color my wine turned. I shall only say that I have lost to Biggs that dinner for six, and Biggs is not a man to forget it. He coolly corked his vial again, and restored it to his waistcoat pocket.
"There, Sir, what I have said about claret applies equally well to all the German and Rhine wines. The cheaper the wine the more poisonous. I defy contradiction, Sir; I defy it, Sir; I defy all the world, Sir; I defy you, Sir!"
I shall never lose the idea that at this special moment I saved the life of Biggs (though why I did it I can not imagine) by seizing the glass containing the balance of the claret to which he had administered a dose of caustic potash, and which, in his forgetfulness and excitement, he was raising to his lips.
"Give us," said Biggs, "pure liquors. Make it death to adulterate, or make it death to drink."
"It is," I ventured to remark.
"Hold your tongue, Sir," responded Biggs. "Let this Government, Sir, appoint an Envoy Extra-or-di-nor-di-na-ry and a Minister Plen-i-po-pen-i-ten-tia-ry, Sir, to go to the wine districts, Sir, and see, Sir, that the wines come to us, Sir, pure and un-a-dul-ter-a-ted, Sir. Then, Sir, throw open your ports—'free trade and sailors' rights'—and admit 'em, Sir, without duty. For, said the great patriot Jefferson, 'Gen-tlemen,' says he, 'I rejoice as a moralist on the prospect of the reduction of duties on wine by our National Legislature. It is an error to view a tax on that liquor as merely a tax on the rich. It is a prohibition of its use to the middling classes of our citizens, and a condemnation of them to the poison of spirits, which is desolating their homes. No nation is drunken where wine is cheap, and none sober where the dearness of wine substi-tutes—ardent—spirits—as the—common—beverage.'"
"That's it, Sir. How—do—like—it, Sir?"
Biggs was showing evident signs of sleep.
"John, John! Here, bring a carriage for Mr. Biggs."
"Steady now; there, take my arm—so."
"Good-by, ol—fel—"