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Alas! September shakes a great dominion :
Crushed is the gastromic Capital.
Who eats Cramouski à la Cardinal,
As in the reckless days Imperial,
Ere Prussia camped before the City-wall, Or a great Empire fell for an opinion ? Ay, and the Aï Béranger loved so well, Clicquot and Heidsieck, Piper, Moët, Roederer,
Shall not be quaffed in Pleasure's fair pavilions ;
These slake the thirst of tasteless Teuton millions, Cooling the throat of many a licensed murdererWhich I consider a confounded sell.
October ! Month of the climax! King of game,
The pheasant, of the beech-copse peerless denizen,
Deserves the epicure's right earnest benison, Deserves the well-skilled sportsman's careful aim. ... [Alas, hens hatch them, and they're much too tame !] Moreover, excellent is red-deer venison ;
And partridge, plump as girl be-rhymed by
· Tennyson, Still on the palate hath a special claim. You can begin with oysters-go to Rule's :
A sturgeon cutlet makes a pleasant dish
For any one who likes unusual fish-
Final delight a woodcock or a snipe :
As autumn fields grow mistier and moister ;
And, dainty fit to tempt a nun from cloister,
Humanity with foies. Who love to royster
Know well that plumper, sweeter, grows the oyster: While for fierce-hungry followers of the fox,
Who love a mighty joint of the ancient sort,
Washed down with mighty gulps of ancient port, After a rapid run a royal revel
For them the solid splendour of the beef;
Capon and pheasant yield a light relief; And turkeys' thighs are now just fit to devil.
I don't know what to say about December :
It is the very month of hospitality,
Through which let no vile air of unreality Breathe to annoy one. Don't we all remember Some Christmas time of boyhood—some slow ember
Of the Yule log that had its actuality
Two decades back ? You'd give a principality To be a boy again, and to dismember Your goose with the boy's invincible appetite, And eat thereafter fifty-five mince pies, And think that you had wisely bridged the
isthmus Betwixt two years. What will you say to-night, Having grown somewhat cool, and calm, and wise,
And not particularly fond of Christmas ?
Death is the ocean of immortal rest:
And what is sleep? A bath our angel brings
AMONG the exquisite necessities of existence, there is nothing to equal sleep. It is, as the verse above indicates, a foretaste of the infinite future. We want an oneirologist. There is nothing more wondrous in the ancient Hebrew idiosyncrasy than the capacity for interpretation of dreams. Always, among the descendants of Abraham, dreams were significant. Why should it not be thus ? Homer referred to immemorial legend when he wrote his immortal verse concerning the Gate of Ivory and the Gate of Horn. Happy
the man who receives his visions through the Gate of Ivory: false they may be now and then, but they are poetic, and poetry is the soul of life. Moreover, sleep and its results are a special study in connexion with the question I have on hand. If you sleep badly, dear reader, either your mind or your digestion is troubled. Now, as to trouble of mind advice is useless ; if you are in love, why, gather your rosebud as soon as possible ; if you are in debt, fight your way through ; try to attain that enviable position, to be owner of a small country-house and a large balance at Coutts's. These annoyances conquered, you may sleep soundly and deliciously. There are two kinds of sleep. There is that of the man who has tired himself out, mentally or bodily, and who
sleeps in Elysium.' There is that of the man who has not quite exhausted himself, and who drinks delicious draughts of imagination's wine in the magical realm of dreams.