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Updated: June 28, 2025
I was so disgusted I never went into that place again. We got the 12.20 at King's Cross and it was a quarter past one in the morning before we arrived at our house. Here was a nice state of things; the elder son finding his fifteen-year-old brother in El Vino, and coming home with the milk. That was my brother's way all along. He made everything I do seem a black sin.
They are as sad and dreary as if they led to the moated grange where Mariana waited in desperation for something to happen; and it's easy to take the usual inscription over the porch as a recommendation to those who enter to renounce all hope of anything but a glass of more or less agreeably acrid <i>vino romano</i>. For what you chiefly see over the walls and at the end of the straight short avenue of rusty cypresses are the appurtenances of a <i>vigna</i> a couple of acres of little upright sticks blackening in the sun, and a vast sallow-faced, scantily windowed mansion, whose expression denotes little of the life of the mind beyond what goes to the driving of a hard bargain over the tasted hogsheads.
His narratives fall into regular categories, Haunted Houses, Ghosts, Wraiths, Second Sight, Consolatory Divine Visions. Thus Mr. Stewart's uncle, Harry, 'ane eminent Christian, and very joviall, at a drinking party saw himself in bed, and his coffin at his bed-foot. This may be explained as a case of 'the horrors, a malady incident to the jovial. He died in a week, In vino veritas.
Can I, can anyone, do more than that?" The Englishman rallied, passed a hand across his brow, then rose unsteadily to his feet, looking around the cabin. Habit called for a drink at this juncture and he saw nothing to drink. Anger awoke in him; he grew maniacal, dangerous, and the late September shadows filled the room. "What woman do you mean?" he cried. "In vino veritas! You thought I was sober.
While he was thus engaged, Hadley watched him in irritated silence. "In vino veritas!" he mused to himself. Truly the wine had spoken plainly. The cloven hoof was clearly visible. It was not so much the congenial companion, the soul-mate which Robert Stafford saw in Virginia Blaine as it was a lovely young animal for the gratification of his lust, his appetites.
Indian beef is not half bad in my humble opinion, and the Vino Tinto is straight from Lisbon, by Goa, the Portuguese port on this west coast, what better could a man desire? A hitch in our arrangements occurred here. Our plans were to tie on to a north-going train at two in the morning, and cut off again at a tank some miles up the line where the duck-shooting is sublime.
Amusements are at all times among the best indications of national character; a truth which the ancients seem to have exaggerated into their maxim in vino veritas. Here the national comparison is not "odious."
It is long before I recover from my first mouthful, and the Baron stands over me with a fan and a glass of wine, while Mrs. Steele laughs until the tears come into her eyes. "Water! water!" I gasp. "No, vino blanco, Señorita," says the Baron, putting the glass to my lips. I drain the last drop. "Now some water, please." "Yes, leedle more vino blanco," says the Peruvian, pouring out another glass.
Moreover, these wines are even more heady and spirituous than those of the northern island; and there will be greater difficulty in converting them to the category vino de pasto, a light dinner-wine. Before 1810 Tenerife exported her wines not from Santa Cruz, but from Orotava, the centre of commerce.
And in spite of the exaggeration and extravagance which shield themselves under the claim of poetic license, I venture to affirm that "In vino veritas" is not truer than In carmine veritas.
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