is more refreshing to sitters at a card-table,
than one or two glasses of champagne (with
or without sponge-cake) served in the evening."
We begin to fear that Our Wine
Merchant is rather a fast man,

BURGUNDY—CHAPTER VIII.—is a theme
on which our author descants with rapture.
It is, he says, " the wine of princes.
Burgundy smiles, hock winks, champagne laughs.
There are many dreams in a bottle of
Burgundy!" In the first rank, and he is right
there, he places the " Romanée Conti;" we
don't mean to disparage Our Wine
Merchant's Romanée, (marked at sixty shillings.
Hear it, ye grocers and fruiterers!) but if
the reader really wants to know where the
best is to be had, let him persuade Mr.
Bathe of the London Tavern, to produce a
bottle of his Romanée the next time he dines
at that first of all taverns; he will never
ask for it anywhere else afterwards. Next
in order comes Chambertin, " the pet tipple
of Nap," apropos of which we meet with this
remark, " A bottle of Chambertin, a ragout
à la Sardanapalus, and a lady causeur (query
causeuse), are the best companions in France."

"Claret," observes Our Wine Merchant,
"is the wine of the gentle born," and "to give
a friend a bottle of claret (perfectly quiet and
cool) is one of the most perfect marks of a
gentleman." We trust that this distinguishing
characteristic will not be lost sight of when
we send for a dozen or two at the Emporium.
Our Wine Merchant revels in Claret. " It
may be served at table from the
commencement of the dinner, to the end of the
entertainment. . . . No wine is so congenial to the
human constitution. . . . It is fashionable
to drink it in large glasses, and often in large
quantities" (an eye to the main chance here)—and the course advised is " to serve it out
fresh from the cellar, and drink it out of the
black bottle."

But we fear, in our admiration of the
Vade Mecum, that we may be carried too
far. We shall, therefore, say nothing about
Hock, "which keeps off the doctor," or
Hermitage, which Our Wine Merchant says is
"Church wine in name, in strength, and in
paternity;" neither shall we dwell upon the
rest of the contents of" One of our five guinea
hampers," but descend at once to homely
"British gin." Very commendably objecting
to the frightful abuse of this spirit among the
lower orders, who never drink it pure, Our
Wine Merchant thinks it is "a good familiar
creature, if well used," and furnishes us with
the following receipt for converting it into
toddy. "In making gin toddy, mind that
the water boils—have an iron-stone China
jug, pour in a little boiling water first, and
rinse and warm the jug, then put in first as
much loaf sugar as you may require, pour on
it about half a pint of boiling water, well stir
with a spoon, so as to make a syrup, then
pour as much more boiling water as you
require to have toddy, mix again, and now
add lemon juice and skins of lemon, and stir, ,
now taste, and you will find Ihis an agreeable
drink, if properly mixed with sweet and acid;
now pour in about one fourth of gin more,
and stir again, set the mixture in front of
the fire, or put it on a hob, in a little time
serve it hot in tumblers, and you will find a
toddy that everybody likes. If this toddy
is made thus, and put to keep hot, with a
cover over the top, and served the last thing
before guests leave on a cold night, it will be
highly appreciated."

But the best made toddy must fail if the
materials be not first rate; and, therefore.
Our Wine Merchant concludes with this
word of caution and recommendation: " But
mind, the gin must be good—we keep none
but that made by So-and-So, and we serve it
in two gallons (twelve bottles) to our
customers, pure and unadulterated, as it comes
from their distillery, and one bottle of our
gin will be equal in strength to one and a
half bottles of the retail shops, and infinitely
more pure."

And so, with our earnest wish that the
carboy and the truck may have plenty to do
as the season of festivity draws near, we
shake hands with our Wine Merchant, and
shut up his Vade Mecum.

        AN UGLY NURSLING.

GRUEL, if you please, Mrs. Rummer, for my
nursling. I have picked up a Catarrh in the
streets, and brought it home with me to be
nursed; a very ugly nursling, certainly. At
this time of the year there is a catarrh, or a
cold, or whatever you please to call it, now
in one shape now in another, lying heavily on
the breast of many a woman and man, who
is compelled to stop at home and nurse it.
We must feed it upon gruel, Mrs. Rummer,
keep it indoors, and let it have plenty of
sleep in a warm bed—that is the way to kill
it. There is a shorter way of killing it which
I think cruel, and that is by depriving it of
drink. An ugly catarrh, you see, is not like
a pretty baby, though you do perhaps feed
both with gruel; you nurse one in order to
destroy it, and the other in order to keep it
safe and sound.

Put a little brandy in the gruel, Mrs.
Rummer—it may do me no good, but it will take
away from the sloppiness; and while you stir
within the saucepan, faithful housekeeper, to
make your brewing thick and slab, I'll ease
my mind—as fidgetty old gentlemen like well
to do—by talking to you freely on the subject
of my ailment.

Mucous membrane. Madam, is the sufferer
on these occasions. We are lined with skin
outside and with mucous membrane inside,
as perhaps you know. The two join at the
nose and lips. There is mucous membrane in
the nostril, which runs up to a little cavern
in the bone at the root of the nose—I shall
have that blockaded to-morrow, and a pretty