coolies in
Ceylon. Souls in perplexity cluster round him like Canadian dimes
in a cash register in Plattsburgh, N. Y. He is a human sympathy
trust. When we are on our deathbed we shall send for him. The
perfection of his gentle sorrow will send us roaring out into the
dark, and will set a valuable example to the members of our
family.

But it is the rack of clouds that makes the sunset lovely. The
bosomy vapours of Dove's soul are the palette upon which the
decumbent sun of his spirit casts its vivid orange and scarlet
colours. His joy is the more perfect to behold because it bursts
goldenly through the pangs of his tender heart. His soul is like
the infant Moses, cradled among dark and prickly bullrushes; but
anon it floats out upon the river and drifts merrily downward on
a sparkling spate.

It has nothing to do with Dove, but we will here interject the
remark that a pessimist overtaken by liquor is the cheeriest
sight in the world. Who is so extravagantly, gloriously, and
irresponsibly gay?

Dove's eyes beaconed as the cider went its way. The sweet
lingering tang filled the arch of his palate with a soft mellow
cheer. His gaze fell upon us as his head tilted gently backward.
We wish there had been a painter there--someone like F. Walter
Taylor--to rush onto canvas the gorgeous benignity of his aspect.
It would have been a portrait of the rich Flemish school. Dove's
eyes were full of a tender emotion, mingled with a charmed and
wistful surprise. It was as though the poet was saying he had not
realized there was anything so good left on earth. His bearing
was devout, religious, mystical. In one moment of revelation (so
it appeared to us as we watched) Dove looked upon all the
profiles and aspects of life, and found them of noble outline.
Not since the grandest of Grand Old Parties went out of power has
Dove looked less as though he felt the world were on the verge of
an abyss. For several moments revolution and anarchy receded,
profiteers were tamed, capital and labour purred together on a
mattress of catnip, and the cosmos became a free verse poem. He
did not even utter the customary and ungracious remark of those
to whom cider potations are given: "That'll be at its best in
about a week." We apologized for the cider being a little warmish
from standing (discreetly hidden) under our desk. Douce man, he
said: "I think cider, like ale, ought not to be drunk too cold.
I like it just this way." He stood for a momen