Oliver Cromwell would not have liked John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester. Born in 1647, two years before Cromwell engineered Charles I’s final appearance at Whitehall, Rochester was a shooting star in the Stuart Restoration under Charles II. His father, Henry, was a Cavalier who had been instrumental in arranging Charles II’s escape to the continent after Cromwell’s regicide. For services rendered, Henry was created Earl of Rochester in 1652. Rochester inherited the title upon his father’s death in 1658.
You cannot read about either Rochester without soon encountering the word “dashing.” Both were charismatic, hard-drinking, courageous adventurers, epitomes of the Cavalier spirit. Henry, who died at 45, has receded into the footnotes of English history. His son, who only made it to 33, occupies a notable, if ostentatiously bawdy, place in the annals of English literature. Think some of the more risqué poems of Catullus and Horace, both great influences on the learned but disdainful Rochester.
Château Margaux does not seem to enjoy the celebrity of some of the other first growths
Rochester, who was privately tutored as a youth, went to Wadham College, Oxford when he was 13. It is said that it was there that he “grew debauched.” He fought bravely in the Second Anglo-Dutch War in 1665, emerged a war hero, then found himself an exasperating fixture, in and out of favor, at the court of Charles II. In his diary, Samuel Pepys describes how the 18-year-old Rochester attempted to abduct Elizabeth Malet, his future wife. The King was not amused and consigned him to the Tower. Rochester secured his release after three weeks with a penitent letter of apology to the King.
The satirical Rochester was like the protagonist of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem “First Fig”: “My candle burns at both ends;/ It will not last the night;/ But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends–/ It gives a lovely light!” Since this is a family publication, I shall forbear to quote from Rochester’s more anatomically frank poems. One famous G-rated effusion was addressed to the King:
We have a pretty witty king,
Whose word no man relies on.
He never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one.
Charles is said to have agreed, commenting only that if his actions lacked wisdom, it was the fault of his ministers.
Rochester was also a witty and prodigious letter-writer. One of his chief correspondents was the diplomat and MP Henry Savile. In the early 1670s, he wrote to Savile imploring him to “do a charity becoming of your pious principles in preserving your humble servant Rochester from the imminent Peril of Sobriety, which, for want of good wine more than company… is very likely to befall me.” He goes on:
Remember what pains I have formerly taken to wean you from your pernicious resolutions of discretion and wisdom. And, if you have a grateful heart (which is a miracle among you statesmen), show it by directing the bearer to the best wine in town, and pray let not this highest point of sacred friendship be performed slightly… Let your well-discerning palate (the best judge about you) travel from cellar to cellar and then from piece to piece till it has lighted on wine fit for its noble choice and my approbation.
I felt I had acquired my very own Henry Savile recently when dining at a semi-secure, undisclosed location and, after getting outside a bottle of champagne (Billecart-Salmon rosé) we proceeded to the grandest of the seven Grands Crus Chablis, Les Clos. The 2022 from Domaine Pinson Frères was fresh and minerally but shot through with that distinctive, almost bready depth that is characteristic of the best Chablis. Domaine Pinson has been making wine in Chablis since 1640. Today’s father-daughter team own a handful of Premier Cru vineyards, some ordinary Chablis and their crown jewel at Les Clos. They labor not in vain.
Rochester would have liked that succulent chardonnay. He would have loved the 1996 Château Margaux that followed. Most of my readers will know that Château Margaux is one of the five vineyards denominated “first growths” in 1855 when Louis Napoleon asked for a classification of Bordeaux wines on the run up to the Paris Exposition Universelle.
For reasons I cannot fathom, Château Margaux does not seem to enjoy the celebrity of some of the other first growths, especially the Paulliacs Lafite, Latour and Mouton. But Margaux can be every bit as fetching and complex, especially in its best years, and 1996 was a classic. It is often said that poor soil makes for rich wine. The gravelly terroir of Margaux is notably poor. The roots must burrow more than 20 feet to find sustenance. It is worth the struggle. As the great wine writer Hugh Johnson notes: “There is a delicacy about archetypal Margaux, and a sweet haunting perfume, that can make it the most exquisite claret of all.” I agree. So would have John Wilmot. I am sorry he couldn’t join us.
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