WARWICK WOODLANDS. 5') 



get the soup-tureen, the biggest one, and see that it's 

 clean. The old villain has got a punch-bowl — bring half a 

 dozen of champagne, a bucket full of ice, and then go 

 down into the kitchen, and make two quarts of green tea, 

 as strong as possible; and when it's made, set it to cool 

 in the ice-house I" 



In a few minutes all the ingredients were at hand; the 

 rind, peeled carefully from all the lemons, was deposited 

 with two tumblers full of finely powdered sugar in the 

 bottom of the tureen; thereupon were poured instantly 

 three pints of pale old Cognac; and these were left to 

 steep, without admixture, until Tim Matlock made his en- 

 trance with the cold, strong, green tea; two quarts of this, 

 strained clear, were added to the brandy, and then two 

 flasks of curacoa ! 



Into this mixture of a dozen lumps of clear ice were 

 thrown, and the whole stirred up 'till the sugar was en- 

 tirely suspended ; then pop ! pop ! went the long necks, and 

 their creaming nectar was discharged into the bowl ; and 

 by the body of Bacchus — as the Italians swear — and by his 

 soul, too, which he never steeped in such delicious nectar, 

 what a drink that was, when it was completed. 



Even Tom Draw, who ever was much disposed to look 

 upon strange potables as trash, and who had eyed the 

 whole proceedings with ill-concealed suspicion and dis- 

 dain, when he had quaffed off a pint-beaker full, which he 

 did without once moving the vessel from his head, 

 smacked his lips with a report which might have been 

 heard half a mile off, and which resembled very nearly 

 the crack of a first-rate huntsman's whip. 



"That's not slow, now!" he said, half dubiously, "to tell 

 the truth now, that's first rate; I reckon, though, it would 

 be better if there wasn't that tea into it' — it makes it weak 

 and trashy-like!" 



"You be hanged !" answered Harry, "that's mere affecta- 

 tion — that smack of your lips told the story; did you ever 

 hear such an infernal sound ? I never did, by George !" 



"Begging your pardon, Measter Archer," interposed 

 Timothy, pulling his forelock, with an expression of pro- 

 found respect, mingled with a ludicrous air of regret, at 

 being forced to differ in the least degree from his master ; 

 "begging your pardon, Measter Archer, that was a room- 



