illegible treasure of the fourth century; but
these are nothing to the mysterious solemnity of
him who, uncorking a bottle of rare wine, waits
to note the varying sensations of your first
enjoyment down to your perfect ecstasy.

I tried to perform my part of the piece with
credit: I looked long at the amber-coloured
liquor in the glass, I sniffed it and smiled
approvingly; the host smiled too, and said "Ja."
Not another syllable did he utter, but how
expressive was that "Ja!" "Ja" meant, "You are
right, Potts, it is the veritable wine of 1764,
bottled for the Herzog Ludwig's marriage; every
drop of it is priceless. Mark the odour how it perfumes
the air around us; regard the colour—the
golden hair of Venus can alone rival it; see how
the oily globules cling to the glass!" "Ja" meant
all this, and more.

As I drank off my glass, I was sorely puzzled
by the precise expression in which to couch my
approval; but he supplied it and said, "Is it not
Göttlich?" and I said it was Göttlich; and while
we finished the two bottles, this solitary phrase
sufficed for converse between us, "Göttlich"
being uttered by each as he drained his glass,
and Göttlich being re-echoed by his companion.

There is great wisdom in reducing our admiration
to a word; giving, as it were, a cognate
number to our estimate of anything. Wherever
we amplify we usually blunder: we employ
epithets that disagree, or, in even less
questionable taste, soar into extravagances that
are absurd. Besides, our moods of highest
enjoyment are not such as dispose to talkativeness:
the ecstasy that is most enthralling is
self-contained. Who on looking at a glorious
landscape does not feel the insufferable bathos of
the descriptive enthusiast beside him? How
grateful would he own himself if he would be satisfied
with one word for his admiration. And if one
needs this calm repose, this unbroken peace, for
the enjoyment of scenery, equally is it applicable
to our appreciation of a curious wine. I have
no recollection that any further conversation
passed between us, but I have never ceased, and
most probably never shall cease, to have a
perfect memory of the pleasant ramble of my
thoughts as I sat there sipping, sipping. I
pondered long over a plan of settling down in this
place for life, by what means I could realise
sufficient to live in that elevated sphere the
host spoke of. If Potts père—I mean my
father—were to learn that I was received in the
highest circles, admitted to all that was most
socially exclusive, would he be induced to make
an adequate provision for me? He was an
ambitious and a worldly man; would he see in
these beginnings of mine the seeds of future
greatness? Fathers, I well knew, are splendidly
generous to their successful children, and "the
poor they send empty away." It is so pleasant
to aid him who does not need assistance, and
such a hopeless task to be always saving him
who will be drowned!

My first care, therefore, should be to impress
upon my parent the appropriateness of his
contributing his share to what already was an
accomplished success. "Wishing, as the French say,
to make you a part in my triumph, dear father,
I write these lines." How I picture him to my
mind's eye as he reads this, running frantically
about to his neighbours, and saying, "I have
got a letter from Algy—strange boy—but as I
always foresaw, with great stuff in him, very
remarkable abilities. See what he has done!
struck out a perfect line of his own in life; just
the sort of thing genius alone can do. He went
off from this one morning by way of a day's
excursion, never returned—never wrote. All my
efforts to trace him were in vain. I advertised,
and offered rewards, did everything, without
success; and now, after all this long interval, comes
a letter by this morning's post to tell me that he
is well, happy, and prosperous. He is settled,
it appears, in a German capital with a hard name,
a charming spot, with every accessory of
enjoyment in it: men of the highest culture, and
women of most graceful and attractive manners;
as he himself writes, 'the elegance of a Parisian
salon added to the wisdom of the professor's
cabinet.' Here is Algy living with all that is
highest in rank and most distinguished in station;
the favoured guest of the prince, the bosom
friend of the English minister; his advice
sought for, his counsel asked in every difficulty;
trusted in the most important state offices, and
taken into the most secret councils of the
duchy. Though the requirements of his station
make heavy demands upon his means, very little
help from me will enable him to maintain a position
which a few years more will have consolidated
into a rank recognised throughout Europe."
Would the flintiest of fathers, would the
most primitive-rock-hearted of parents resist
an appeal like this? It is no hand to rescue
from the waves is sought, but a little finger to
help to affluence. "Of course you'll do it, Potts,
and do it liberally; the boy is a credit to you.
He will place your name where you never
dreamed to see it. What do you mean to settle
on him? Above all things, no stinginess; don't
disgust him."

I hear these and such-like on every hand;
even the most close-fisted and miserly of our
acquaintances will be generous of their friend's
money; and I think I hear the sage remarks
with which they season advice with touching
allusions to that well-known ship that was lost
for want of a small outlay in tar. "Come down
handsomely, Potts," says a resolute man, who
has sworn never to pay a sixpence of his son's
debts. "What better use can we make of our
hoardings than to render our young people
happy?" I don't like the man who says this,
but I like his sentiments; and I am much
pleased when he goes on to remark that "there
is no such good investment as what establishes
a successful son. Be proud of the boy, Potts,
and thank your stars that he had a soul above
senna, and a spirit above sal volatile!"

As I invent all this play of dialogue for myself,
and picture the speakers before me, I come
at last to a small peevish little fellow named
Lynch, a merchant tailor, who lived next door