Although, when luxuries must be resigned, Such as cigars or even breakfast bacon, My hitherto "unconquerable mind" Its philosophic pose has not forsaken, By one impending sacrifice I find My stock of fortitude severely shaken-- I mean the dismal prospect of our losing The genial cup that cheers without bemusing. Blest liquor! dear to literary men, Which Georgian writers used to drink like fishes, When cocoa had not swum into their ken And coffee failed to satisfy all wishes; When tea was served to monarchs of the pen, Like JOHNSON and his coterie, in "dishes," And came exclusively from far Cathay-- See "China's fragrant herb" in WORDSWORTH'S lay. Beer prompted CALVERLEY'S immortal rhymes, Extolling it as utterly eupeptic; But on that point, in these exacting times, The weight of evidence supports the sceptic; Beer is not suitable for torrid climes Or if your tendency is cataleptic; But tea in moderation, freshly brewed, Was never by Sir ANDREW CLARK tabooed. We know for certain that the GRAND OLD MAN Drank tea at midnight with complete impunity, At least he long outlived the Psalmist's span And from ill-health enjoyed a fine immunity; Besides, robust Antipodeans can And do drink tea at every opportunity; While only Stoics nowadays contrive To shun the cup that gilds the hour of five. But war is war, and when we have to face Shortage in tea as well as bread and boots 'Tis well to teach us how we may replace The foreign brew by native substitutes, Extracted from a vegetable base In various wholesome plants and herbs and fruits, "Arranged and blended," very much like teas, To suit our "gastric idiosyncrasies." It is a list for future use to file, Including woodruff, marjoram and sage, Thyme, agrimony, hyssop, camomile (A name writ painfully on childhood's page), Tansy, the jaded palate to beguile, Horehound, laryngeal troubles to assuage, And, for a cup ere mounting to the stirrup, The stinging-nettle's stimulating syrup. And yet I cannot, though I gladly would, Forget the Babylonian monarch's cry, "It may be wholesome, but it is not good," When grass became his only food supply; Such weakness ought, of course, to be withstood, But oh, it wrings the teardrop from my eye To think of Polly putting on the kettle To brew my daily dose of stinging-nettle! * * * * * AT THE PLAY. "DEAR BRUTUS." There are great ways of borrowing, as EMERSON said, and in his new Fantasy Sir JAMES BARRIE has given us a very charming variation on _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ (with echoes of _Peter Pan_ and _The Admirable Crichton_). Certainly I got far more fun out of his deluded lovers in the Magic Wood than I ever extracted from the comedy of errors which occurred between the ladies and gentlemen of the Court of _Theseus_.