0 2 6
& Dinar, one mes oats 0 1 4
Super half mug flyp 0 3 0
10th Brakf.--one dram 0 1 8
Dinner, Lodging, horse-keeping 0 2 0
one mug flyp, horse bating 0 3 0
11th. horse keeping 1
13th. glass rum & Diner 1 8
14th. Horse bating 0 0 6
Horse Jorney 28 miles 0 5 10

A true accomp.--total 1 14 6
William Bradford,
Dilivered to Capt. Crosby 2 2 6

Alas! the major's inscription and the foregoing "accomp." are
hollow mockeries to the thirsty traveller, for there is neither
rum nor "flyp" to be had; the bar is dry as an old cork; the door
of the cupboard into which the jovial Howes were wont to stick the
awl with which they opened bottles still hangs, worn completely
through by the countless jabs, a melancholy reminder of the
convivial hours of other days. The restrictions of more abstemious
times have relegated the ancient bar to dust, the idle awl to
slow-consuming rust.

It is amazing how thirsty one gets in the presence of musty
associations of a convivial character. The ghost of a spree is a
most alluring fellow; it is the dust on the bottle that flavors
the wine; a musty bin is the soul's delight; we drink the vintage
and not the wine.

Drinking is a lost art, eating a forgotten ceremony. The pendulum
has swung from Trimalchio back to Trimalchio. Quality is lost in
quantity. The tables groan, the cooks groan, the guests groan,--
feasting is a nightmare.

Wine is a subject, not a beverage; it is discussed, not drunk; it
is sipped, tasted, and swallowed reluctantly; it lingers on the
palate in fragrant and delicious memory; it comes a bouquet and
departs an aroma; it is the fruition of years, the distillation of
ages; a liquid jewel, it reflects the subtle colors of the
rainbow, running the gamut from a dull red glow to the violet rays
that border the invisible.

But, alas! the appreciation of wine is lost. Everybody serves
wine, no one understands it; everybody drinks it, no one loves it.
From a fragrant essence wine has become a coarse reality,--a
convention. Chablis with the oysters, sherry with the soup,
sa