Inhaling this odor, you seemed to see the Original White Hermit
himself, brooding over his tiny principality of barren rock, and
performing miracles with the aid of the imported carboy and the
indigenous rill. As the evening gloomed, and twilight fell among the
crags, a faint snicker spread upon the air, and in the dim light of the
rising moon one might fancy a finger laid to the side of the nose of the
holy man. From these reveries, a smart blow on the back, neatly executed
by the butler, recalled your active attention to a demi-john of
warranted French brandy, and a can of Bourbon certified by the
hand-writing of Louis Capet himself. Upon the sawdust in the lower
niches of the vault lay packages of the finest Hollands, wicker
casements of Curacoa, and the apple-jack of Jersey in gleaming glass.
But the eye dwelt finally, and with a crowning wonder and approval, upon
an entire basket of the celebrated eleven-dollar Heidsieck champagne,
blue label, that lay upon the floor of the crypt.
The acquisition of this treasure was one of those rare good-fortunes by
which the life of here and there an individual is illustrated. About a
year previous to this, in the dead of night, a mysterious stranger
solicited audience of the master of Pont-Noir.
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