There was a strange old belief that Ivy leaves worn as a garland prevented intoxication, that wine was less exciting when drunk from a cup of its wood, and that these cups had finally the singular property of separating water from wine by filtration, when the two were mingled--or, as it is expressed by MIZALDUS MONLUCIANUS in his delightfully absurd 'Centuries,'[7] 'a cup of Ivy, called _cissybius_, is especially fitted for two reasons, for feasts: firstly, because Ivy is said to banish drunkenness; and secondly, because by it the frauds of tavern keepers, who mix wine with water, are detected.' It is worth remarking, in connection with this, that, according to LOUDON(_Arboretum et Fruticetum Brittanicum_, c. 59), the wood of the Ivy is, when newly cut, really useful as a filter, though it is highly improbable that anything like a complete analysis of mingled water and wine can be effected by it. It may interest the literary critic, should he be ignorant of the fact, to know that the golden-berried Ivy--worn by Apollo ere he adopted the Daphnean laurel--is the plant consecrated to his calling. Witness Pope: 'Immortal Vida, on whose honored brow The poet's bays and critic's Ivy grow.' Perhaps it is given to the critics to remind them that they should be kindly sheltering and warmly protecting to poor poets and others, who may be greatly cheered by a little kindness. For there is an old legend that the Druids decorated dwelling places with Ivy and holly during the winter, 'that the sylvan spirits might repair to them, and remain unnipped with frost and cold winds, until a milder season had renewed the foliage of their darling abodes. (DR. CHANDLER, _Travels in Greece_.) Think of this when ye ink your pens for the onslaught! It is worth noting that in two or three 'Dream Books' the Ivy is set down as indicating 'long-continued health, and new friendships'--an explanation quite in keeping with its ancient symbolism, and still more with its most literal and apparent meaning of _attachment_. This latter sense has given poet and artist many a fine figure and image. 'Nothing,' says ST. PIERRE in his _Studies of Nature_, 'can separate the Ivy from the tree which it has once embraced: it clothes it with its own leaves in that inclement season when its dark boughs are covered with hoar frost. The faithful companion of its destiny, it falls when the tree is cut down: death itself does not relax its grasp; and it continues to adorn with its verdure the dry trunk that once supported it.' And of the golden-berried Ivy, Spenser sings: 'Emongst the rest, the clamb'ring Ivy grew, Knitting his wanton arms with grasping hold, Lest that the poplar happely should rew Her brother's strokes, whose boughs she doth enfold With her lythe twigs, till they the top survew And paint with pallid green her buds of gold.'