Here might one well pause and indulge in Clautian
memories: the violent remonstrances of Nature against, and her
subsequent acquiescence in, the primal draughts of _vin ordinaire_,
whether expertly served by a Delmonico, or carelessly decanted by the
Hibernian attendant in the gorgeous saloon of a Taylor; next the ascent
to St. Julien, Number 2, when haply a friend from the country lingers at
the office, and you see no way of escape but an exodus in quest of
chicken and green peas; a blushing crimson at the surface and unknown
clouds below; then the _De Grave_ in delicate flagons, a fit sacrifice
to the exquisite tastes of the editor who is to notice your forthcoming
volume, or to the epicurean palate of some surcharged capitalist, into
whose custody you are about to negotiate some land-grant bonds.
Recovering from these delicious souvenirs, your attention was drawn to
the Sauternes, indisputably titled at a Wall Street sale, and priceless.
This wine had never yet been tasted, for Roseton was wont to say, 'I
only care for vitriol when it is a hundred years old,' and this had only
seen the summer of twenty. But a precious odor breathed from the casks,
and the corroding capsules confessed the mighty powers that lurked
within.
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