But this day was, in reality, a festive occasion, and my father was disposed to be more than usually agreeable.
When the cloth was removed, he flung the cellar-key at my head, and exclaimed, in a burst of unexampled good-humor:-- "Basil, you dog, fetch up a bottle of the particular port!" Now it is one of my theories that a man's after-dinner talk takes much of its weight, color, and variety from the quality of his wines.

A generous vintage brings out generous sentiments.

Good fellowship, hospitality, liberal politics, and the milk of human kindness, may be uncorked simultaneously with a bottle of old Madeira; while a pint of thin Sauterne is productive only of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.

We grow sententious on Burgundy--logical on Bordeaux--sentimental on Cyprus--maudlin on Lagrima Christi--and witty on Champagne.
Port was my father's favorite wine.

It warmed his heart, cooled his temper, and made him not only conversational, but expansive.