A Sportsman 213 



place, after a few bottles of old port of the comet year 

 from our own cellar. 



The wine cellars of the guilds are something im- 

 portant, and to refer to with admiration as containing 

 the choicest liquors and wines to be obtained, and a 

 lay-down of new stock occurs as fast as any old stock 

 is drawn upon, and any member or guest at the ban- 

 quets may freely call without limit for the most select 

 wines on the menu. All goes merrily, and the ban- 

 quet draws on. 



The Worthy Warden, arrayed in his gown of cere- 

 mony, adorned with chain and medal of insignia, leads 

 on, preceded by ushers with staffs, and the diners fol- 

 low in proper order to the tables, garnished with 

 flowers and precious silverware accumulated in past 

 years. Nearly all express their preference for the 

 clear green turtle soup with slabs of turtle fat, a spe- 

 cialty of renown with the guilds; and express not too 

 much hilarity at this moment, in memory of the inci- 

 dent illustrated in an old number of Punch, where an 

 aldermanic epicure, with portly nose, and napkin under 

 chin tucked, turns sadly with repressed severity upon 

 his adjoining companion with the request that he will 

 refrain from further jokes for a while, as he had already 

 swallowed two morsels of green fat without tasting. 



Will have Chambertin of 1867 or Clos Vogeout of 

 '88? No, thanks, shall take Scotch and soda, but sug- 

 gest you try the old port of the comet year of 1872. 

 Money can't buy it. 



Hark! the alcove curtain parts, and a song from the 

 lovely lass of the Highlands. 



Later on, the loving cup of gallon dimension and 

 double handled goes around, but with no interruption 



