THROUGH A GLASS LIGHTLY
when the white chestnut blossoms are simulating snowflakes at Hampton Court, or the plash of Thames’ waves is straining this way and that the reeds and irises on the bank.
Rather, this venerable fellow is the companion of the advanced Sybarite. He is a product of extreme artificiality; he has nothing in common with nature. Moreover, he induces, so his enemies assert, the fell Podagra or gout. But his colour! his bouquet! his flavour! Why, with all the faults lying at the back of him, do not these virtues of his throw all other wines into the shades of discredited liquids? He is so rare, so select, so refined. Few there be who can ever meet him face to face. He is filled with curious and quaint learning, and he has picked up in the com-
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