A certain Friar, in a Convent of the Benedictine Order, found means to procure, besides plenty of good wine, a certain number of dishes extremely nice and well seasoned, several of which were expressly forbidden by the Institutes of the Order; and he invited a select party of Brothers to partake of his fare. As they could not, with any degree of safety, carry on the entertainment in the cell of any of them, they thought of repairing to one of the cellars of the House; where they hid themselves in one of those wide and shallow tuns (about eight or nine feet in diameter, and three or four deep) which serve in the making of wines. The Abbot, in the meanwhile, missing so many of the Monks from the Convent, went in search of them through all the different apartments: being unable to find them, he at last went down into the cellars, and soon perceived whereabout they lay: he stepped up to the place, and, on a sudden, made his appearance over the edge of the tun. The Monks were prodigiously alarmed at this unexpected appearance of the Abbot; and there was none among them but who would have gladly compromised the affair, by giving up his remaining share of the entertainment, and submitting to instant dismission. But the Abbot, contrary to all hope, put on a mild and chearful look: he kindly expostulated with the Monks on their having made a secret of the affair to him; expressed to them the great pleasure it would have been for him to be one of their party; and added, that he should still be very glad to be admitted to partake of the entertainment. The Monks answered, by all means: the Abbot thereupon leaped into the tun; sat down among them; partook of their excellent wine and well-seasoned dishes with the greatest freedom, in just the same manner as it is said the late Sir James Lowther would of the dinner of his servants in his own kitchen; and, in short, spent an hour or two with them in the tun, in the most agreeable and convivial manner.