PORT
timber that rare and fragrant quality which should have exalted a living palate. Of a brave look, but sans character, sans style, sans everything but liquidity, who does not know the wretch, and, knowing him, long for the days that were? In truth, the modern tipple (it deserves no better word) is miserably wanting in the great bulk and body and splendour of the vintage wines. Ah, those wines! Whence cometh the wonder of them? The pure grape they are not: for they are garrisoned with the mercenaries of other lands, they are stored with the heroic afflatus, they are watered with the Water of Life. Yes; the great Englishman was right when he pronounced them the drink of Men; and had he but laid down his liquor as he laid down his law, there had been
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