and vaporously, like blown egg-froth, over the mystic land of the old gods,—­the terrible land filled with dark secrets as yet unexplored,—­the land “shadowing with wings,” as the Bible hath it,—­the land in which are buried tremendous histories as yet unguessed,—­profound enigmas of the supernatural,—­labyrinths of wonder, terror and mystery,—­all of which remain unrevealed to the giddy-pated, dancing, dining, gabbling throng of the fashionable travelling lunatics of the day,—­the people who “never think because it is too much trouble,” people whose one idea is to journey from hotel to hotel and compare notes with their acquaintances afterwards as to which house provided them with the best-cooked food.  For it is a noticeable fact that with most visitors to the “show” places of Europe and the East, food, bedding and selfish personal comfort are the first considerations,—­the scenery and the associations come last.  Formerly the position was reversed.  In the days when there were no railways, and the immortal Byron wrote his Childe Harold, it was customary to rate personal inconvenience lightly; the beautiful or historic scene was the attraction for the traveller, and not the arrangements made for his special form of digestive apparatus.  Byron could sleep on the deck of a sailing vessel wrapped in his cloak and feel none the worse for it; his well-braced mind and aspiring spirit soared above all bodily discomforts; his thoughts were engrossed with the mighty teachings of time; he was able to lose himself in glorious reveries on the lessons of the past and the possibilities of the future; the attitude of the inspired Thinker as well as Poet was his, and a crust of bread and cheese served him as sufficiently on his journeyings among the then unspoilt valleys and mountains of Switzerland as the warm, greasy, indigestible fare of the elaborate table-d’hotes at Lucerne and Interlaken serve us now.  But we, in our “superior” condition, pooh-pooh the Byronic spirit of indifference to events and scorn of trifles,—­we say it is “melodramatic,” completely forgetting that our attitude towards ourselves and things in general is one of most pitiable bathos.  We cannot write Childe Harold, but we can grumble at both bed and board in every hotel under the sun; we can discover teasing midges in the air and questionable insects in the rooms; and we can discuss each bill presented to us with an industrious persistence which nearly drives landlords frantic and ourselves as well.  In these kind of important matters we are indeed “superior” to Byron and other ranting dreamers of his type, but we produce no Childe Harolds, and we have come to the strange pass of pretending that Don Juan is improper, while we pore over Zola with avidity!  To such a pitch has our culture brought us!  And, like the Pharisee in the Testament, we thank God we are not as others are.  We are glad we are not as the Arab, as the African, as the Hindoo; we are proud of our elephant-legs and our dividing coat-line; these