and white lions that gamboled in the land of Prester John, nor his onyx floors, imparting courage to all who trod on them. Not for us the Terrestrial Paradise, with its "Welle of Youthe, whereat thei that drynken semen alle weys yongly, and lyven withouten sykeness;"[1] nor the Fortunate Isles beyond the Western Sea, where spring was ever green; where youths and maidens danced hand in hand on the dewy grass, where the cows ungrudgingly gave milk enough to fill whole ponds instead of milking-pails, and where wizards and usurers could never hope to enter. The doors of these enchanted spots are closed upon us, and their key, like Excalibur, lies hidden where no hand can grasp it.
"The whole wide world is painted gray on gray,
And Wonderland forever is gone past."
All we can do is to realize our loss with becoming modesty, and now and then cast back a wistful glance
"where underneath
The shelter of the quaint kiosk, there sigh
A troup of Fancy's little China Dolls,
Who dream and dream, with damask round their loins,
And in their hands a golden tulip flower."
