“By Jupiter!--gentlemen!--When I'm being snuffed out I'll at least go like a gentleman if I have a drop of this on my lips. It's a bunch of roses--a veritable nosegay. Heavens!--what a bouquet! Some fresh glasses, Todd.” Malachi and Todd both stepped forward for the honor of serving it, but the major waved them aside, and rising to his feet began the round of the table, filling each slender pipe-stem glass to the brim. Then the talk, which had long since drifted away from general topics, turned to the color and sparkle of some of the more famous wines absorbed these many years by their distinguished votaries. This was followed by the proper filtration and racking both of Ports and Madeiras, and whether milk or egg were best for the purpose--Kennedy recounting his experience of different vintages both here and abroad, the others joining in, and all with the same intense interest that a group of scientists or collectors would have evinced in discussing some new discovery in chemistry or physics, or the coming to light of some rare volume long since out of print--everybody, indeed, taking a hand in the discussion except Latrobe, whose mouth was occupied in the slow sipping of his favorite Madeira--tilting a few drops now and then on the end of his tongue, his eyes devoutly closed that he might the better relish its flavor and aroma. It was all an object lesson to Harry, who had never been to a dinner of older men--not even at his father's--and though at first he smiled at what seemed to him a great fuss over nothing, he finally began to take a broader view. Wine, then, was like food or music, or poetry--or good-fellowship--something to be enjoyed in its place--and never out of it. For all that, he had allowed no drop of anything to fall into his own glass--a determination which Todd understood perfectly, but which he as studiously chose to ignore--going through all the motions of filling the glass so as not to cause Marse Harry any embarrassment. Even the “1817” was turned down by the young man with a parrying gesture which caught the alert eyes of the major. “You are right, my boy,” the bon vivant said sententiously. “It is a wine for old men. But look after your stomach, you dog--or you may wake up some fine morning and not be able to know good Madeira from bad. You young bloods, with your vile concoctions of toddies, punches, and other satanic brews, are fast going to the devil--your palates, I am speaking of. If you ever saw the inside of a distillery you would never drink another drop of whiskey. There's poison in every thimbleful. There's sunshine in this, sir!” and he held the glass to his eyes until the light of the candles flashed through it.