34 Hunting in the Golden Days. 



a man who has one of the finest cellars of wine in this 

 country. Unfortunately, like most men who are in a 

 position to have such a cellar, he is prevented by the 

 doctor's orders from doing justice to it; the family 

 butler, therefore, knows more about the wine than his 

 master. One day my uncle gave a dinner, and when 

 the cloth had been removed, and the first and second 

 bottle had been emptied, he called for another and 

 another. On enquiry from the butler as to what vintage 

 he had produced with the last bottle, my uncle modestly 

 called attention to the wine, saying it was considered 

 the finest vintage he had in his cellar. The wine was 

 solemnly passed round, smelt, viewed, and tasted — its 

 colour, condition, and vinocity being fully discussed and 

 praised. One gentleman suggested that it was pretty 

 drinking; another, holding up his glass to the light, 

 declared the wine was a poem. I had my doubts, as the 

 wine appeared to me to be nothing less than culch ; 

 still, not wishing to cry stinking fish, especially at my 

 relative's table, I was naturally silent on the point. 

 The next day, however, on passing the butler's pantry, 

 I dropped in to have a word with old Corks, the butler, 

 and whispered into his ear my doubts and fears as to 

 the last bottle produced. A look of horror passed 

 across his rubicund features. 



" * Oh lor', sir," says he, 'I suppose the cat's out of 

 the bag.' 



" ' What do you mean ? ' I said. 



" 'Well,' says he, ' I suppose it is all out.' 



" * You had better make a clean breast of it. Corks', 

 said I, * it is only between you and me, all the rest of the 

 party are as innocent as lambs.' 



"'Well, sir, it was like this; the master ordered 

 another bottle, and I had not time to go down into the 



