sensation, always a pleasure and a delight, besides these there were the
indefinable inexpressible images which all fine literature summons to the
mind. As the chemist in his experiments is sometimes astonished to find
unknown, unexpected elements in the crucible or the receiver, as the
world of material things is considered by some a thin veil of the
immaterial universe, so he who reads wonderful prose or verse is
conscious of suggestions that cannot be put into words, which do not rise
from the logical sense, which are rather parallel to than connected with
the sensuous delight. The world so disclosed is rather the world of
dreams, rather the world in which children sometimes live, instantly
appearing, and instantly vanishing away, a world beyond all expression or
analysis, neither of the intellect nor of the senses. He called these
fancies of his "Meditations of a Tavern," and was amused to think that a
theory of letters should have risen from the eloquent noise that rang all
day about the violet and golden wine.

"Let us seek for more exquisite things," said Lucian to himself. He could
almost imagine the magic transmutation of the senses accomplished, the
strong sunlight was an odor in his nostrils; it poured down in the white
marble and the palpitating roses like a flood. The sky was a glorious
blue, making the heart joyous, and the eyes could rest in the dark green
leaves and purple shadow of the ilex. The earth seemed to burn and leap
beneath the sun, he fancied he could see the vine tendrils stir and
quiver in the heat, and the faint fume of the scorching pine needles was
blown across the gleaming garden to the seat beneath the porch. Wine
was before him in a cup of carved amber; a wine of the color of a dark
rose, with a glint as of a star or of a jet of flame deep beneath the
brim; and the cup was twined about with a delicate wreath of ivy. He was
often loath to turn away from the still contemplation of such things,
from the mere joy of the violent sun, and the responsive earth. He loved