smelling of the sun in forgotten
valleys, on the mountain side, or by the tideless shore, where the grape
has given me of its blood, and made life a rapture. Who but the veriest
fanatic of teetotalism would grudge me those hours so gloriously
redeemed? No draught of wine amid the old tombs under the violet sky but
made me for the time a better man, larger of brain, more courageous, more
gentle. 'Twas a revelry whereon came no repentance. Could I but live
for ever in thoughts and feelings such as those born to me in the shadow
of the Italian vine! There I listened to the sacred poets; there I
walked with the wise of old; there did the gods reveal to me the secret
of their eternal calm. I hear the red rillet as it flows into the rustic
glass; I see the purple light upon the hills. Fill to me again, thou of
the Roman visage and all but Roman speech! Is not yonder the long
gleaming of the Appian Way? Chant in the old measure, the song
imperishable

"dum Capitolium
Scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex--"

aye, and for how many an age when Pontiff and Vestal sleep in the eternal
silence. Let the slave of the iron gods chatter what he will; for him
flows no Falernian, for him the Muses have no smile, no melody. Ere the
sun set, and the darkness fall about us, fill again!

XXI.

Is there, at this moment, any boy of twenty, fairly educated, but without
means, without help, with nothing but the glow in his brain and steadfast
courage in his heart, who sits in a London garret, and writes for dear
life? There must be, I suppose; yet all that I have read and heard of
late years about young writers, shows them in a very different aspect. No
garretteers, these novelists and journalists awaiting their promotion.
They eat--and entertain their critics--at fashionable restaurants; they
are seen in expensive seats at the theatre; they inhabit handsome
flats--photographed for an illustrated paper on the first excuse. At the
worst, they belong to a reputable club, and have garments which permit
them to attend a garden party or an evening "at home" without attracting
unpleasant notice. Many biographical sketches have I read, during the
last decade, making personal introduction of young Mr. This or young Miss
That, whose book was--as the sweet language of the day will have
it--"booming"; but never one in which there was a hint of stern struggle,
of the pinched stomach and frozen fingers. I surmise that the path o