I know full well that the soil has been tilled and the seed scattered of all that is worthy in the world.  Where giants have wrestled, it is not for pigmies to boast their prowess.  Where the gods have trodden, let mortals walk unsandalled.  The lowliest of their learners, I sit at the feet of the masters.  To me, as to all the world, the great and the good of the olden times have left their legacy, and the monarchs of to-day have scattered blessing.  Upon me, as upon all, have their grateful showers descended.  My brow have they crowned with their goodness, and on my life have their paths dropped fatness.  Dreaming under their vines and fig-trees, I have gathered in my lap and garnered in my heart their mellow fruits.

    “With them I take delight in weal
      And seek relief in woe,
    And while I understand and feel
      How much to them I owe,
    My cheeks have often been bedewed
    With tears of heartfelt gratitude.”

But, though with gladness and joy I render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, he shall not have that which does not belong to him.  Neither Benlomond, nor any living man, nor any one man, living or dead, has any claim to my fealty, be it worth much or little.  If I cannot go in to the banquet on Olympus by the bidding of the master of the feast, I will forswear ambrosia altogether, and to the end of my days feed on millet with the peasants in the Vale of Tempe.

Then you sail on another tack, smile and shake your head and say, “It is all very well, but it has not the element of immortality.  Observe the difference between this writer and Charles Lamb.  One is ginger-pop beer that foams and froths and is gone, while the other is the sound Madeira that will be better fifty years hence than now.”

Well, what of it?  Do you mean to say, that, because a man has no argosies sailing in from, the isles of Eden, freighted with the juices of the tropics, he shall not brew hops in his own cellar?  Because you will have none but the vintages of dead centuries, shall not the people delight their hearts with new wine?  Because you are an epicure, shall there be no more cakes and ale?  Go to!  It is a happy fate to be a poet’s Falernian, old and mellow, sealed in amphorae, to be crowned with linden-garlands and the late rose.  But for all earth’s acres there are few Sabine farms, whither poet, sage, and statesman come to lose in the murmur of Bandusian founts the din of faction and of strife; and even there it is not always Caecuban or Calenian, neither Formian nor Falernian, but the vile Sabinum in common cups and wreathed with simple myrtle, that bubbles up its welcome.  So, since there must be lighter draughts, or many a poor man go thirsty, we who are but the ginger-pop of life may well rejoice, remembering that ginger-pop is nourishing and tonic,—­that thousands of weary wayfarers who could never know the taste of the costly brands, and who go sadly and wearily, will be fleeter of foot and gladder of soul because of its humble and evanescent foam.