After the Englishman had fitted his mouth to the rim for so long a period that he must have come near to looking upon the bottom, he gave back the cup to the innkeeper, and ordered it to be refilled. It was then handed to me, and I was invited to drink.
“That is if you can,” said he. “It is such a damnable liquor that personally I hardly durst touch it. But I suspect your stomach is not so proud as mine, you strong-toothed rogue. You see, we English are a most delicate people.”
I drank a copious draught of the wine, which was excellent, or at least my great thirst of the day had made it so. Then said the Englishman, eyeing me with approval:
“Well, my young companion, and what do you think of the pot?”
“The pot is worthy of notice,” said I, examining its rare contexture.
“It has been admired in Europe, and it has been admired in Asia,” said the Englishman. “That it merits attention I have been informed by half the great world. For example, the Emperor Maximilian broached a cask of Rhenish in its homage, and would, I doubt not, have fallen as drunk as a Cossack, had it been possible for a great crowned person to embrace these indecent courses. He offered me a thousand guilders for that pot; but said I, ‘Honest Max’—I must tell you, Spaniard, there is no crowned person of my acquaintancy for whom I entertain a higher regard—‘honest Max,’ I said, ‘offer your old gossip the Baltic ocean, the sun, the moon, and the most particular stars of heaven, and that pot will still remain faithful to my house.’ ‘Why, so, honest Dick?’ said the Emperor. ‘It is in this wise, my old bully rook,’ said I, fetching him a buffet along the fifth rib with a kindly cordiality, ‘that pot was given many years ago by the famous Charlemagne to my kinsman, Sir Cadwallader Pendragon, for his conduct upon the field of battle.’ ‘In that case, worthy Richard, friend of my youth and beguiler of my maturity,’ said the Emperor, embracing me with the greatest affection and filling my old sack cup with gold dollars—all the dollars are gold in Turkey—‘I do not ask it of you; let it remain an heirloom in your house.’ Therefore you will see at once, good Spaniard, that this pot is in some sort historical. And in all my travels I bear it at my saddle-bow; so whether I happen to lie down with fleas in a villainous Spanish venta hard by to purgatory; or whether I happen to sit at the right hand of potentates in England, Germany, and France, I can take my sack as I like to take it—that is, easily and copiously, with a proper freedom for the mouth, and with a brim that’s wide enough to prevent the nose from tapping against the sides.”
Curious as I had been from the first in regard to this strange individual, the nature of his conversation rendered me more so. In spite of his remarkable appearance, his costume might once have been that of a person of condition, however lamentably it failed to be so now; while his manners, although none of those of the great of my own country, may yet have been accustomed to receive consideration from the world. Therefore I said with a bow, “Good Sir Englishman, under your worshipful indulgence I would make so bold as to ask your name.”
Such a request seemed to give him great pleasure.
“That is a very proper question,” said he, “for my name happens to be one that has been favourably mentioned in every nation of the civilized globe.”
“Yes, sir, I feel sure of it,” said I; for as he spoke his dignity grew of the finest nature.