THROUGH A GLASS LIGHTLY
later and bigger-drinking centuries, it came about that in Scotland there was good Claret and better Claret, but no bad Claret. They tell the same tale of Whiskey now: of Claret—not. Yet, though we may still find “Gladstone” flooding the cellars of Scots who should know better, there is a feeling in the air that traditions are not quickly broken, and that such Claret is still landed at the Port of Leith as the Port of London can never hope to acquire.
The world is growing bigger and bigger, and though the ranks of the Teetotaller are “swellin wisibly”, the God Dionysos still holds his cult, and the wine merchant looms large on the horizon. He comes on the wings of the circular, and clad in the raiment of hyperbole, flagrantly disregarding the adage that good
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