It was but a question of Time, on whose wings and amid whose plumes shelter all the woes and wonders of the world; it was but a question of Time, and now, at last, he has come. Borne along on soft, odorous winds from Xeres and Oporto, with the sunshine of Bordeaux in his eyes, and the vine leaves from the Côte d’Or in his hair, he has come, and, alas! he has come to stay. Redolent of all that is bright and cheerful in life, the scoff of our youth, the Cassandra of our prime, the scourge and the pest of our old age, he has laid his heavy hand upon our yet heavier boot. We are crucified with what Cicero
