d, especially since the arrival of General Braddock's
army in his native country, our young Virginian had acquired rather
a liking for the filling of bumpers and the calling of toasts; having
heard that it was a point of honour among the officers never to decline
a toast or a challenge. So Harry and his chaplain drank their claret in
peace and plenty, naming, as the simple custom was, some favourite lady
with each glass.

The chaplain had reasons of his own for desiring to know how far
the affair between Harry and my Lady Maria had gone; whether it was
advancing, or whether it was ended; and he and his young friend were
just warm enough with the claret to be able to talk with that great
eloquence, that candour, that admirable friendliness, which good wine
taken in rather injudicious quantity inspires. O kindly harvests of
the Aquitanian grape! O sunny banks of Garonne! O friendly caves of
Gledstane and Morol, where the dusky flasks lie recondite! May we not
say a word of thanks for all the pleasure we owe you? Are the Temperance
men to be allowed to shout in the public places? are the Vegetarians to
bellow "Cabbage for ever?" and may we modest Enophilists not sing the
praises of our favourite plant? After the drinking of good Bordeaux
wine, there is a point (I do not say a pint) at which men arrive, when
all the generous faculties of the soul are awakened and in full vigour;
when the wit brightens and breaks out in sudden flashes; when the
intellects are keenest; when the pent-up words and confined thoughts get
a night-rule, and rush abroad and disport themselves; when the kindliest
affection, come out and shake hands with mankind, and the timid Truth
jumps up naked out of his well and proclaims himself to all the world.
How, by the kind influence of the wine-cup, we succour the poor and
humble! How bravely we rush to the rescue of the oppressed! I say, in
the face of all the pumps which ever spouted, that there is a moment in
a bout of good wine at which, if a man could but remain, wit, wisdom,
courage, generosity, eloquence, happiness were his; but the moment
passes, and that other glass somehow spoils the state of beatitude.
There is a headache in the morning; we are not going into Parliament
for our native town; we are not going to shoot those French officers
who have been speaking disrespectfully of our country; and poor Jeremy
Diddler calls about eleven o'clock for another half-sovereign, and we
are unwell in bed,