Oh! russet shores of Rhine and Rhone! oh, mellow memories of ripe old vintages! oh, cobwebs in the Pyramids! oh, dust on Pharaoh’s tomb!—all, all recur, as I bethink me of that glorious gourd, its contents cogent as Tokay, itself as old as Mohi’s legends; more venerable to look at than his beard. Whence came it? Buried in vases, so saith the label, with the heart of old Marjora, now dead one hundred thousand moons. Exhumed at last, it looked no wine, but was shrunk into a subtile syrup. This special calabash was distinguished by numerous trappings, caparisoned like the sacred bay steed led before the Great Khan of Tartary. A most curious and betasseled network encased it; and the royal lizard was jealously twisted about its neck, like a hand on a throat containing some invaluable secret. All Hail, Marzilla! King’s Own Royal Particular! A vinous Percy! Dating back to the Conquest! Distilled of yore from purple berries growing in the purple valley of Ardair! Thrice hail. But the imperial Marzilla was not for all; gods only could partake; the Kings and demigods of the isles; excluding left-handed descendants of sad rakes of immortals, in old times breaking heads and hearts in Mardi, bequeathing bars-sinister to many mortals, who now in vain might urge a claim to a cup-full of right regal Marzilla. The Royal Particular was pressed upon me, by the now jovial Donjalolo. With his own sceptered hand charging my flagon to the brim, he declared his despotic pleasure, that I should quaff it off to the last lingering globule. No hard calamity, truly; for the drinking of this wine was as the singing of a mighty ode, or frenzied lyric to the soul. “Drink, Taji,” cried Donjalolo, “drink deep. In this wine a king’s heart is dissolved. Drink long; in this wine lurk the seeds of the life everlasting. Drink deep; drink long: thou drinkest wisdom and valor at every draught. Drink forever, oh Taji, for thou drinkest that which will enable thee to stand up and speak out before mighty Oro himself.” “Borabolla,” he added, turning round upon a domed old king at his left, “Was it not the god Xipho, who begged of my great-great- grandsire a draught of this same wine, saying he was about to beget a hero?” “Even so. And thy glorious Marzilla produced thrice valiant Ononna, who slew the giants of the reef.” “Ha, ha, hear’st that, oh Taji?” And Donjalolo drained another cup. Amazing! the flexibility of the royal elbow, and the rigidity of the royal spine! More especially as we had been impressed with a notion of their debility. But, sometimes these seemingly enervated young blades approve themselves steadier of limb, than veteran revelers of very long standing. “Discharge the basin, and refill it with wine,” cried Donjalolo. “Break all empty gourds! Drink, kings, and dash your cups at every draught.”