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and been broken to the ways of many men. I have eaten ice with a Druse of Lebanon, and sucked a water-melon with a Kirghiz chief; drunk quass with the Archimandrite of Pechersk, and gulped the dregs of a tank with an Arab Sheikh ; tasted, unwittingly, the saltness of the Dead Sea, and shrunk with loathing from the nauseous ooze of Bitter Creek.
I have lapped the Nile, and lingered by the fountains of Loja.
In the absence of wine I can drink water with a Good Templar, and live in comfort on tea and milk.
But an Oxonian near me, reared on foot-ball ground and cricket-field, asks for beer.
“ Can you get me a pint of bitter ale?”
It is a crucial test, and I regard the waiter's face while seeming not to notice him.
“Well, Sir, it may be got.”
“Then bring me some at once.”
“Yes, Sir, but not at once.
The thing will take some time.
I have to send for it.”
“To send for it — where from?”
“From the Commissioner's.”
“Pray, who is this Commissioner?”
“ Who is this Commissioner!”
1875.
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