Volume 98 — THOUGHTS ON HIS WINE-MERCHANT.

I love my Wine-merchant—he talks with a charm That robs his most dubious vintage of harm. And the choicest Havanas less comforting are Than the fumes of his special commended cigar.

I'm a reticent man, with a palate of wood, And I judge by results if a vintage be good. But I own to the charm of my Wine-merchant's worst, If he gives me his comforting flattery first.

He proffers me samples to praise or to blame, And I strongly suspect they're exactly the same. But we gaze at each other with critical eye, And I wish he would hint if it's fruity or dry.

I want, say, a dozen of average stuff (Though a couple of bottles were really enough), And I enter his portals, reluctant and slow, Resolved just to give him the order and go.

But he takes me in hand in his soothering style, Suggests in a whisper, and "books" with a smile; And I vainly dissemble the joy in my face When he ceases to ply me with bottle and case.

The talk drifts away to affairs of the State, And I ought to escape, but I palter and wait; And he opens a box in the midst of his chat, And asks, like a flash, my opinion of "that"?

I sniff the tobacco, and turn it about With an air that is really of genuine doubt, And knowing so little what judges would say, I meekly consent to a hundred—and pay.

There's a charm, when the varied consignment arrives, To men who are blest with amenable wives; But I watch my Amanda with covert alarm, And wait till she severs the Wine-merchant's charm.