THROUGH A GLASS LIGHTLY
palate; only that Nature abhors a vacuum. The state they ambitioned was at best a kind of convivial repletion. In the matter of liquor, the Olympians were co-mates and brothers in ignorance with the Teutons of the Dark Ages. These called their “bene bowse” Nectar, those others, Mead. And Mead, in truth, it was: sweet, clammy, cloying, over-rated Mead.
It is otherwise with Port. Only when the grosser cravings are appeased; when a ruined continent of beef has been toppled down the kitchen stairs; when the jellies and kickshaws are laid waste; when the crumbs are brushed away; when the fair stretch of napery has been whisked into space, and your glowing face beams back at you from the warm, rich, hospitable lustre of the mahogany; when silver reflects its reverted
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