be found."

He saw the true gold into which the beggarly matter of existence may be
transmuted by spagyric art; a succession of delicious moments, all the
rare flavors of life concentrated, purged of their lees, and preserved
in a beautiful vessel. The moonlight fell green on the fountain and on
the curious pavements, and in the long sweet silence of the night he lay
still and felt that thought itself was an acute pleasure, to be expressed
perhaps in terms of odor or color by the true artist.

And he gave himself other and even stranger gratifications. Outside the
city walls, between the baths and the amphitheatre, was a tavern, a place
where wonderful people met to drink wonderful wine. There he saw priests
of Mithras and Isis and of more occult rites from the East, men who wore
robes of bright colours, and grotesque ornaments, symbolizing secret
things. They spoke amongst themselves in a rich jargon of colored words,
full of hidden meanings and the sense of matters unintelligible to the
uninitiated, alluding to what was concealed beneath roses, and calling
each other by strange names. And there were actors who gave the shows in
the amphitheatre, officers of the legion who had served in wild places,
singers, and dancing girls, and heroes of strange adventure.

The walls of the tavern were covered with pictures painted in violent
hues; blues and reds and greens jarring against one another and lighting
up the gloom of the place. The stone benches were always crowded, the
sunlight came in through the door in a long bright beam, casting a
dancing shadow of vine leaves on the further wall. There a painter had
made a joyous figure of the young Bacchus driving the leopards before him
with his ivy-staff, and the quivering shadow seemed a part of the
picture. The room was cool and dark and cavernous, but the scent and heat