Basswood books

My uncle was telling me that he saw
Sheridan drink five bottles at Brookes's, besides a bottle of Maraschino.
This is some of the finest wine in England, he says. So it is, by Jove.
There's nothing like it. Nunc vino pellite curas--cras ingens iterabimus
aeq,--fill your glass, Old Smirke, a hogshead of it won't do you any
harm." And Mr. Pen began to sing the drinking song out of Der
Freischuetz. The dining-room windows were open, and his mother was softly
pacing on the lawn outside, while little Laura was looking at the sunset.
The sweet fresh notes of the boy's voice came to the widow. It cheered
her kind heart to hear him sing.
"You--you are taking too much wine, Arthur," Mr. Smirke said softly--"you
are exciting yourself."
"No," said Pen, "women give headaches, but this don't. Fill your glass,
old fellow, and let's drink--I say, Smirke, my boy--let's drink to her--
your her, I mean, not mine, for whom I swear I'll care no more--no, not a
penny--no, not a fig--no, not a glass of wine. Tell us about the lady,
Smirke; I've often seen you sighing about her.


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