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.
Mrs. R. is always instructing herself. She has been reading up legal technicalities. "The names," she says, "in some cases are so appropriate. I am informed that in a Divorce case, where the husband is the petitioner, the Judge issues a writ of 'Fie Fie' against the wife."
