for his surgical skill, bought some of it; and when sold with the rest of his cellar after his death it fetched 115_s._ a dozen.[1] The success of Bute's viticultural experiments aroused very general interest in England; and it is perhaps worth while putting on record, as a good specimen of the now discredited art of the punster, a notice of the new industry which appeared, now nearly half a century ago, in the principal comic paper of the day: The Marquis of Bute has, it appears, a Bute-iful vineyard at Castle Coch, near Cardiff, where it is to be hoped such wine will be produced that in future Hock will be superseded by Coch, and the unpronounceable vintages of the Rhine will yield to the unpronounceable vintages of the Taff. Cochheimer is as yet a wine _in potentia_, but the vines are planted, and the gardener, Mr. Pettigrew, anticipates no petty growth. No distinctive name was, as a matter of fact, ever given to the wine made from the Castle Coch grapes; {120} and Bute on more than one occasion asked good Welsh scholars (including some of the Cardiff clergy) to dinner, in order to consult with them as to this point. The site of one of the vineyards was a place called Swanbridge (Pont-yr-alarch), and it was suggested that "Sparkling Pont-yr-alarch"[2] would look well in a wine merchant's list. "True," was Bute's comment, made in the serious vein in which he loved to treat such subjects: "yet I fear that such a name would militate against the casual demand for my wine in hotels or restaurants. One can hardly imagine the ordinary diner calling for a bottle of Pont-yr-alarch at the beginning of his meal, still less asking for a second bottle at a more advanced stage of the repast. All orders for this particular vintage would have, in practice, to be given in writing." The wine continued to be anonymous; and Bute, who frequently had it served at his own table, used to puzzle his guests by asking their candid opinion of it. "Well, now, Lord Bute," said a distinguished connoisseur once, after tasting the 1893 vintage and rolling it over his palate _secundum artem_, "this is what I should call an _interesting_ wine." "I wonder what Sir H---- M---- exactly meant by that," Bute would sometimes say afterwards, recalling the incident. [Sidenote: 1875, Order of the Thistle]