Uncle!--he has now been some years "in the wood" himself, and snugly
stowed in the family vault!

Having been attacked with a severe cold, he was compelled to call in the
Doctor, who sent him a sudorific in three Lilliputian bottles; but
although he received the advice of his medical friend, he followed
Shakspeare's,

"Throw physic to the dogs,"

and prescribed for himself a bowl of wine-whey as a febrifuge. His
housekeeper remonstrated, but he would have his 'whey,' and he died!
leaving a handsome fortune, and two good-looking nephews to follow him to
the grave.

Myself and Cousin (the two nephews aforesaid) were vast favourites with
the old gentleman, and strenuously did he endeavour to initiate us in the
art of drinking, recounting the feats of his youth, and his
drinking-bouts with my father, adding, with a smile, "But you'll never be
a par with, your Uncle, Ned, till you can carry the six bottles under
your waistcoat."

My head was certainly stronger than my Cousin's; he went as far as the
third bottle--the next drop was on the floor! Now I did once manage the
fourth bottle--but then--I must confess I was obliged to give it up!

"Young men," would my Uncle say, "should practice 'sans intermission,'
until they can drink four bottles without being flustered, then they will
be sober people; for it won't be easy to make them tipsy--a drunken man I
abominate!"