Indeed, I doubt we ever would have had punch, for in the gustatory and potatory laws of cause and effect, I know the punch-bowl evoked or generated punch instead of being made to hold punch. I would not go back to the rollicking, roaring, drunken ways of the olden time, but on the whole I am glad our grandfathers had those ways and bequeathed to us the glorious, great, ringing punch-bowls, in which they brewed and mixed and concocted, and from which they drank that “most insinuating drink” with which so often they got sadly, hopelessly “lusky, bosky, buffy, boozy, cocky, fuddled, balmy, pickled, screwed, funny, foggy, hazy, groggy, slewed, ruddled, dagged, jagged, comed, elevated, muddled, tight, primed, mainbrace well spliced, gilded”—or whatever elegant, chaste, colonial appellation our synonym-lacking language afforded to express being drunk. One worthy tribute to an old punch-bowl has been written by one of our best-loved poets. I would his bowl had been like my theme, china instead of silver—ah, no! I do not, for had it been of “tenderest porcelane” it might have been broken a century ago, and we should have known neither his punch-bowl nor his perfect poem. How true the opening verses! “This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.” And can I end better than with the concluding verses? “I tell you there was generous warmth in good old English cheer, I tell you ’twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here; ’Tis but the fool that loves excess—hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl! “I love the memory of the past, its pressed yet fragrant flowers, The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers— Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed—my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. “Then fill a fair and honest cup and bear it straight to me, The goblet hallows all it holds whate’er the liquid be, And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin, That dooms one to those dreadful words, ‘My dear, where have you been?’” XI. GEORGE AND MARTHA WASHINGTON’S CHINA