the winds—­without a choice, save to come down by virtue of a collapse.  Could we say to ourselves, in the great style, This is the point where desire to embrace humanity is merged in vindictiveness toward individuals:  where radiant sweet temper culminates in tremendous wrath:  where the treasures of anticipation, waxing riotous, arouse the memory of wrongs:  in plain words, could we know positively, and from the hand of science, when we have had enough, we should stop.  There is not a doubt that we should stop.  It is so true we should stop, that, I am ready to say, ladies have no right to call us horrid names, and complain of us, till they have helped us to some such trustworthy scientific instrument as this which I have called for.  In its absence, I am persuaded that the true natural oinometer is the hat.  Were the hat always worn during potation; were ladies when they retire to place it on our heads, or, better still, chaplets of flowers; then, like the wise ancients, we should be able to tell to a nicety how far we had advanced in our dithyramb to the theme of fuddle and muddle.  Unhappily the hat does not forewarn:  it is simply indicative.  I believe, nevertheless, that science might set to work upon it forthwith, and found a system.  When you mark men drinking who wear their hats, and those hats are seen gradually beginning to hang on the backs of their heads, as from pegs, in the fashion of a fez, the bald projection of forehead looks jolly and frank:  distrust that sign:  the may-fly of the soul is then about to be gobbled up by the chub of the passions.  A hat worn fez-fashion is a dangerous hat.  A hat on the brows shows a man who can take more, but thinks he will go home instead, and does so, peaceably.  That is his determination.  He may look like Macduff, but he is a lamb.  The vinous reverses the non-vinous passionate expression of the hat.  If I am discredited, I appeal to history, which tells us that the hats of the Hillford five-and-twenty were all exceedingly hind-ward-set when the march was resumed.  It followed that Peter Bartholomew, potboy, made irritable objections to that old joke which finished his name as though it were a cat calling, and the offence being repeated, he dealt an impartial swing of his stick at divers heads, and told them to take that, which they assured him they had done by sending him flying into a hedge.  Peter, being reprimanded by his commanding officer, acknowledged a hot desire to try his mettle, and the latter responsible person had to be restrained from granting the wish he cherished by John Girling, whom he threw for his trouble and as Burdock was the soundest hitter, numbers cried out against Girling, revolting him with a sense of overwhelming injustice that could be appeased only by his prostrating two stout lads and squaring against a third, who came up from a cross-road.  This one knocked him down with the gentleness of a fist that knows how Beer should be treated, and then sang out, in the voice of Wilfrid Pole:  “Which is the nearest way to Ipley, you fellows?”