tary
sanctimonious toping in which certain of our northern brethren are known
to indulge. They had better give to the quaffing of that rich gift, sent
to be a medicine for the mind, to raise us above the perpetual
contemplation of worldly ills, as much of romance and elegance as
possible. It is the opener of the heart, the awakener of nobler feelings
of generosity and love, the banisher of all that is narrow, and sordid,
and selfish; the herald of all that is exalted in man. No wonder that
the Greeks made a god of Bacchus, that the Hindu worshipped the mellow
Soma, and that there has been scarce a poet who has not sung its praise.
There was some beauty in the feasts of the Greeks, when the goblet was
really wreathed with flowers; and even the German student, dirty and
drunken as he may be, removes half the stain from his orgies with the
rich harmony of his songs, and the hearty good-fellowship of his toasts.
We drink still, perhaps we shall always drink till the end of time, but
all the romance of the bowl is gone; the last trace of its beauty went
with the frigid abandonment of the toast.

There was some excuse for wine when it brought out that now forgotten
expression of good-will. Many a feud was reconciled in the clinking of
glasses; just as many another was begun when the cup was drained too
deeply. The first quarter of the last century saw the end of all the
social glories of the wassail in this country, and though men drank as
much fifty years later, all its poetry and romance had then disappeared.

It was still, however, the custom at that period to call on the name of
some fair maiden, and sing her praises over the cup as it passed. It was
a point of honour for all the company to join the health. Some beauties
became celebrated for the number of their toasts; some even standing
toasts among certain sets. In the Kit-kat Club the custom was carried
out by rule, and every member was compelled to name a beauty, whose
claims to the honour were then discussed, and if her name was approved,
a separate bowl was consecrated to her, and verses to her honour
engraved on it. Some of the most celebrated toasts had even their
portraits hung in the club-room, and it was no slight distinction to be
the favourite of the Kit-kat. When only eight years old, Lady Mary
Wortley Montagu enjoyed this privilege. Her father, the Lord Dorchester,
afterwards Evelyn, Duke of Kingston, in a fit of caprice, proposed 'the
pretty little child