of nightmare seemed suddenly to take possession of the world, in which alternately policemen swallowed oysters and oysters policemen.  How sad it all was—­that masterly flourish of the knife with which the oysterman ruthlessly hurried dozen after dozen into eternity; that deferential ‘Sir’ in his voice to every demand of his customer; that brisk alacrity with which he bid his assistant bring ’the gentleman’s half-stout.’

There seemed a world of tears in these simple operations, and the plain oysterman had grown suddenly mystical as an astrological symbol.  And, indeed, there was planetary influence in the thing, for there was Jupiter high above us, sneering at our little world of policemen and oystermen.

His grin disagreeably reminded me—­had I not myself that very night ignorantly flourished on a brass knocker?

It is so hard to remember the respect we owe to death.  Yet for me there is always a feeling that if we direct our lives cautiously, with proportionate seriousness and no more, not presuming on life as our natural birthright, but taking it with simple thankfulness as a boon which we have done nothing to deserve, and which may be snatched from us before our next breath:  that, if we so order our days, Death may respect our humility.

    ’The lusty lord, rejoicing in his pride,
      He draweth down; before the armed knight
    With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
      He crosseth the strong captain in the fight’;

but such are proud people, arrogant in beauty and strength.  With a humble person, who is careful not to flourish beneath his signature, who knocks just as much as he means on the knocker, bows just as much as he respects, smiles cautiously, and never fails to touch his hat to the King of Terrors—­may he not deal more gently with such a one?

And yet Death is not a pleasant companion at Life’s feast, however kindly disposed.  One cannot quite trust him, and he doesn’t go well with flowers.  Perhaps, after all, they are wisest who forget him, and happy indeed are they who have not yet caught sight of him grinning to himself among the green branches of their Paradise.

Yes, it is good that youth should go with a feather in his cap, that spring should garland herself with blossom, and love’s vows make light of death.  He is a bad companion for young people.  But for older folk the wisdom of that knocker in Gray’s Inn applies.

A TAVERN NIGHT

Looking back, in weak moments, we are sometimes heard to say:  ’After all, youth was a great fool.  Look at the tinsel he was sure was solid gold.  Can you imagine it?  This tawdry tinkling bit of womanhood, a silly doll that says “Don’t” when you squeeze it,—­he actually mistook her for a goddess.’  Ah! reader, don’t you wish you could make such a splendid mistake?  I do.  I’d give anything to be once more sitting before the footlights for the first time, with the wonderful overture just beginning to steal through my senses.