grew a man. My father quarrelled with Colonel Goodwin. Months after I
felt as if I had only just been torn from Clara, but she stood in a mist,
irrecoverably distant. I had no other friend.

Twelve dozen of splendid Burgundy were the fruit of our tour, to be laid
down at Dipwell farm for my arrival at my majority, when I should be a
legal man, embarked in my own ship, as my father said. I did not taste
the wine. 'Porter for me that day, please God!' cried Mrs. Waddy, who
did. My father eyed her with pity, and ordered her to send the wine down
to Dipwell, which was done. He took me between his knees, and said
impressively, 'Now, Richie, twelve dozen of the best that man can drink
await you at the gates of manhood. Few fathers can say that to their
sons, my boy! If we drink it together, blessings on the day! If I'm
gone, Richie, shut up in the long box,' his voice shook, and he added,
'gone to Peribanou underneath, you know, remember that your dada saw that
the wine was a good vintage, and bought it and had it bottled in his own
presence while you were asleep in the Emperor's room in the fine old
Burgundy city, and swore that, whatever came to them both, his son should
drink the wine of princes on the day of his majority.' Here my father's
tone was highly exalted, and he sat in a great flush.

I promised him I would bend my steps toward Dipwell to be there on my
twenty-first birthday, and he pledged himself to be there in spirit at
least, bodily if possible. We sealed the subject with some tears. He
often talked of commissioning a poet to compose verses about that
wonderful coming day at Dipwell. The thought of the day in store for us
sent me strutting as though I had been in the presence of my drill-
master. Mrs. Waddy, however, grew extremely melancholy at the mention of
it.