wonted pugil.
Moist rappee, and a Tonka-bean lying therein. I made the manual sign
understood of all mankind that use the precious dust, and presently my
brain, too, responded to the long unused stimulus.----O boys,--that
were,--actual papas and possible grandpapas,--some of you with crowns
like billiard-balls,--some in locks of sable silvered, and some
of silver sabled,--do you remember, as you doze over this, those
after-dinners at the Trois Freres, when the Scotch-plaided snuff-box
went round, and the dry Lundy-Foot tickled its way along into our happy
sensoria? Then it was that the Chambertin or the Clot Vougeot came in,
slumbering in its straw cradle. And one among you,--do you remember how
he would have a bit of ice always in his Burgundy, and sit tinkling it
against the sides of the bubble-like glass, saying that he was hearing
the cow-bells as he used to hear them, when the deep-breathing kine
came home at twilight from the huckleberry pasture, in the old home a
thousand leagues towards the sunset?]

Ah, me! what strains and strophes of unwritten verse pulsate through my
soul when I open a certain closet in the ancient house where I was born!
On its shelves used to lie bundles of sweet-marjoram and pennyroyal and
lavender and mint and catnip; there apples were stored until their seeds
should grow black, which happy period there were sharp little milk-teeth
always ready to anticipate; there peaches lay in the dark, thinking of
the sunshine they had lost, until, like the hearts of saints that dream
of heaven in their sorrow, they grew fragrant as the breath of angels.
The odorous echo of a score of dead summers lingers yet in those dim
recesses.

----Do I remember Byron's line about "striking the electric chain"?--To
be sure I do. I sometimes think the less the hint that stirs the
automatic machinery of association, the more easily this moves us. What
can be more trivial than that old story of opening the folio Shakspeare
that used to lie in some ancient English hall and finding the flakes of
Christmas pastry between its leaves, shut up in them perhaps a hundred
years ago? And, lo! as one looks on those poor relics of a bygone
generation, the universe changes in the twinkling of an eye; old George
the Second is back again, and the elder Pitt is coming into power, and
General Wolfe is a fine, promising young man, and over the Channel they
are pulling the Sieur Damiens to pieces with wild horses, and across the
At