Mr. Wharton had been one of a set of
politicians in New York, whose principal exploits before the war had
been to assemble, and pass sage opinions on the signs of the times,
under the inspiration of certain liquor made from a grape that grew on
the south side of the island of Madeira, and which found its way into
the colonies of North America through the medium of the West Indies,
sojourning awhile in the Western Archipelago, by way of proving the
virtues of the climate. A large supply of this cordial had been drawn
from his storehouse in the city, and some of it now sparkled in a bottle
before the captain, blushing in the rays of the sun, which were passing
obliquely through it, like amber.
Though the meat and vegetables had made their entrance with perfect
order and propriety, their exeunt was effected much in the manner of a
retreat of militia. The point was to clear the board something after the
fabled practice of the harpies, and by dint of scrambling, tossing,
breaking, and spilling, the remnants of the overflowing repast
disappeared. And now another series of processions commenced, by virtue
of which a goodly display of pastry, with its usual accompaniments,
garnished the table.
Mr. Wharton poured out a glass of wine for the lady who sat on his right
hand, and, pushing the bottle to a guest, said with a low bow,--
"We are to be honored with a toast from Miss Singleton.
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