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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
168
XX.
Truly,
I
grow
aged.
I
have
no
longer
much
delight
in
wine.
But
then,
no
wine
ever
much
rejoiced
me
save
that
of
Italy.
Wine-drinking
in
England
is,
after
all,
only
make-believe,
a
mere
playing
with
an
exotic
inspiration.
Tennyson
had
his
port,
whereto
clings
a
good
old
tradition;
sherris
sack
belongs
to
a
nobler
age;
these
drinks
are
not
for
us.
Let
him
who
will,
toy
with
dubious
Bordeaux
or
Burgundy;
to
get
good
of
them,
soul's
good,
you
must
be
on
the
green
side
of
thirty.
Once
or
twice
they
have
plucked
me
from
despair;
I
would
not
speak
unkindly
of
anything
in
cask
or
bottle
which
bears
the
great
name
of
wine.
But
for
me
it
is
a
thing
of
days
gone
by.
Never
again
shall
I
know
the
mellow
hour
cum
regnat
rosa,
cum
madent
capilli.
Yet
how
it
lives
in
memory!
"What
call
you
this
wine?"
I
asked
of
the
temple-guardian
at
Paestum,
when
he
ministered
to
my
thirst.
"Vino
di
Calabria,"
he
answered,
and
what
a
glow
in
the
name!
There
I
drank
it,
seated
against
the
column
of
Poseidon's
temple.
There
I
drank
it,
my
feet
resting
on
acanthus,
my
eyes
wandering
from
sea
to
mountain,
or
peering
at
little
shells
niched
in
the
crumbling
surface
of
the
sacred
stone.
The
autumn
day
declined;
a
breeze
of
evening
whispered
about
the
forsaken
shore;
on
the
far
summit
lay
a
long,
still
cloud,
and
its
hue
was
that
of
my
Calabrian
wine.
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