im discourse
upon the age of his wines--the 'pinhole,' the 'crust,' the 'bees'-wing,'
etc., was perfectly edifying--and every man who could not imbibe the
prescribed quantum, became his butt. To temperance and tea-total
societies he attributed the rapid growth of radicalism and dissent.

"Water," he would say, with a sort of hydrophobic shudder, "is only a fit
beverage for asses!"--"To say a man could drink like a fish, was once the
greatest encomium that a bon-vivant could bestow upon a brother
Bacchanalian--but, alas! in this matter-of-fact and degenerate age, men
do so literally--washing their gills with unadulterated water!--Dropsy
and water on the chest must be the infallible result! If such an order
of things continue, all the puppies in the kingdom, who would perhaps
have become jolly dogs in their time, will be drowned! Yes, they'll
inevitably founder, like a water-logged vessel, in sight of port. These
water-drinkers will not have a long reign. They would feign persuade us
that 'Truth lies at the bottom of a well,'--lies, indeed! I tell you
Horace knew better, and that his assertion of 'There is truth in wine,'
was founded on experience--his draughts had no water-mark in 'em, depend
on it."

He was a great buyer of choice "Pieces," and his cellar contained one of
the best stocks in the kingdom, both in the wood and bottle. Poor
Uncle!--he has now been some years "in the wood" himself, and snugly
stowed in the family vault!

Having been attacked with a severe cold, he was compelled to call in the
Doctor, who sent him a sudorific in three Lilliputian bottles; but
although he received the advice of his medical friend, he followed
Shakspeare's,

"Throw physic to the dogs,"

and prescribed for himself a bowl of wine-whey as a febrifuge. His
housekeeper remonstrated, but he would have his 'whey,' and he died!
leaving a handsome fortune, and two good-looking nephews to follow him to
the grave.

Myself and Cousin (the two nephews aforesaid) were vast favourites with
the old gentleman, and strenuously did he endeavour to initiate us in the
art of drinking, recounting the feats of his youth, and his
drinking-bouts with my father, adding, with a smile, "But you'll never be
a par with, your Uncle, Ned, till you can carry the six bottles under
your waistcoat."

My head was certainly stronger than my Cousin's; he went as far as the
third bottle--the next drop was on the floor! Now I did once manage the
fou