it air, but to exclude
the furtive or the inquisitive hand, threw open to your inspection the
immense wine-cellar within.

Such indeed were the dimensions of the crypt that some little time might
elapse before your eye could fully gauge them: but on accustoming
yourself to the enlarged mensuration occasioned by the unearthly light,
you saw that the cavity in question could not be less than six feet high
at the top of the arch, three feet wide, and at least forty-eight inches
deep. It was musty, cobwebbed, and encrusted with stalactic nitre, but
the spirit of rare old vintages exhaled from its depths, and visionary
clusters of purplest grapes dangled in every direction. And first your
eye lighted upon a half dozen real old India Port, picked up by golden
chance at an assignee's sale in Rivington Street. The chalk-mark on the
bottles was intended to be cabalistically private, but an acquaintance
with the occult dialect of Spanish Zingari convinced you that 1/2, meant
nothing else than that the bottles represented twelve and a half cents
each, with three years interest,--a fabulous sum, but lavished in a
direction where the pledge of a dukedom had not been irrational, if the
object could not have been otherwise accomplished. Next a row of Medoc
claimed the enraptured attention; delicately overspread with the dust of
years, but flashing through the filmy covering the undeniable blood of
the Honduras forest. Here might one well pause and indulge in Clautian
memories: the violent remonstrances of Nature against, and her
subsequent acquiescence in, the primal draughts of _vin ordinaire_,
whether expertly served by a Delmonico, or carelessly decanted by the
Hibernian attendant in the gorgeous saloon of a Taylor; next the ascent
to St. Julien, Number 2, when haply a friend from the country lingers at
the office, and you see no way of escape but an exodus in quest of
chicken and green peas; a blushing crimson at the surface and unknown
clouds below; then the _De Grave_ in delicate flagons, a fit sacrifice
to the exquisite tastes of the editor who is to notice your forthcoming
volume, or to the epicurean palate of some surcharged capitalist, into
whose custody you are about to negotiate some land-grant bonds.
Recovering from these delicious souvenirs, your attention was drawn to
the Sauternes, indisputably titled at a Wall Street sale, and priceless.
This wine had never yet been tasted, for Roseton was wont to say, 'I
only care fo