With wistful eyes we watched the golden tide ebb lower and lower, and not a few calculations were made by expectant members of the half-circle about our fireside, as to who would be the fortunate allottee of the last precious drops.
Radiant to the last, like a sun, it finally set into the wine-glass of an old gentleman, whose seat was nearest the fire.
Others of the company had drained their glasses, fearing that, unless they exhibited a decided deficit, the costly wine would, by acclamation, be passed onwards. Not so the old gentleman. Slowly and solemnly he added the remainder of the Madeira to his already fair supply; then, heaving a sigh, he handed the empty bottle to his disappointed successor, placed the full glass on the mantel-piece, and piously contemplated it.
There was a befitting silence for some moments. The old gentleman tasted his Madeira with a melancholy relish, and having attracted everybody’s attention by an exaggerated “hem!” volunteered the following story, which, as I recollect it to have eclipsed any other on the same occasion, I have attempted to reproduce briefly, thus:
In the island of Barbados, it was usual for absentee land-proprietors to be represented by some agricultural agent or,‘attorney’[1] as he was called there. This important functionary, in common with most people in England, had his boxing season at Christmas; and it was customary to send certain annual presents for his acceptance, such as hams, barrels of spiced beef, cheese, and wine.
Some years ago a Mr. Hollingsworth was the attorney or manager of certain estates in Barbados, called the Codrington estates, under trust to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.
As usual, at Christmas time one year, this gentleman received as a gift a hogshead of special Madeira.
As might be supposed, great value was set upon the wine, and all care was taken of it during its transit to the island.
On an appointed day, orders were given for broaching the cask, and great expectations were naturally raised; a group surrounded the hogshead—the cooper was called, the wine tapped; but, to the vast disappointment of all, the Madeira was found to be in an highly acetous state—in plain English, the valued wine was vinegar!
Something had happened to it! Everybody said so. Knowing hands declared, perhaps not without truth, that the failure was owing to defective fermentation, insufficient fining, or careless casking. Be that as it might—the wine was spoiled, and, save for kitchen purposes, worthless; and even for that use it was not as yet entirely fit.
Well, the cask was rolled out into the mill-yard with expressions of disgust; the head unhooped, and carelessly placed over the top of the hogshead for the purpose of allowing the rays of the sun to ripen the deceitful Madeira into honest vinegar; no dependence was to be placed in it—it was left to its fate.
Some six or eight months afterwards, upon the occasion of some festivity at the “great house,” the preparation of some pièce de résistance required the assistance of vinegar. The kitchen stock was exhausted—the nearest neighbours, of course, were singularly enough in want, at that moment, of all the little that remained to them. The waiters were at their wits’ end; and the cook, under the combined influence of pressure of work and the absence of the necessary ingredient, was almost a maniac.
Heated negroes rushed tumultuously to Mr. Hollingsworth with the lamentable tidings. He soon bethought him of the despised Madeira; on the hint, away flew the rabble to the mill-yard, and instantaneously some of the contents of the exiled cask were drawn off in a jug.
But no expression of relief shone in the intelligent countenances of those who hastily tasted the liquor. Evidently their difficulty was not solved; something was the matter with the Madeira again!
Slowly the drawers retrace their steps, bearing the jug with the perverted liquor at arm’s length, lest the manifest presence of a darker power than even Cuffee himself should do them harm.
Mr. Hollingsworth tasted the contents. He started! Surprise, but not alarm, agitated him. The negroes watched with mistrust and fear.
Mr. Hollingsworth tasted it again: he smiled this time. The negroes breathed again.
There was a strange convulsion of Mr. H.’s eyelid; it was a telegraph of inward appreciation.
“Roll the cask into the cellar—hoop on the head carefully—lock the door and bring me the key.”
The order was rapidly obeyed.
Dismissing the still unsatisfied negroes, Mr. Hollingsworth creeps to the cellar—enters—taps the wine—tastes it again—drinks it—he laughs aloud! and why? The vinegar is no longer vinegar, but superlative Madeira!
*****
How they drank that night! Evidently the host had kept the good wine until now. How they drank! and was there ever such Madeira! General Haynes endorsed it; and the then Rector of St. John’s Parish certified to its merits “with meditative grunts of much content.”
*****
Well, the wine didn’t last very long. The climate of the West Indies is, I confess, a very thirsty climate. It passed away, deeply regretted by all who knew its worth. And when they came to the bottom of the cask, the secret came out, which had worked this wonderful cure and metamorphosis. At the bottom of the hogshead, in various stages of decomposition, lay the bodies of four or five large RATS!
*****
It is well known that animal matter refines wine. The rats, thirsty souls, stooped to drink, and met an acetic grave.
But their good lived after them, and their- ↑ “Attorney,” in the original and etymological sense of representative.
