If ever a wine ran a chance of being puffed to its damnation, that wine is Burgundy. For it is a favourite freak of the vintner to proclaim in his fly-sheets that he is now “selling at a ridiculously low figure a fine, full-bodied Burgundy, combining delicate aroma with grand
blood-making properties.” Now this is at worst to bring down one of the finest wines ever squeezed from grape to the level of a blood-mixture or a fruit-salt; and at best to hint darkly at what were better left to individual imagination, that these same vintners favour the cult of Aphrodite no less than that of Dionysos; and yet, after all, it would seem that
