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One dreams of coffee after dinner in the open air, as described in "In Memoriam;" one longs for the cool, the hush, the quiet. But try the country on a July night. First you have trouble with all the great, big, hairy, leathery moths and bats which fly in at the jasmine-muffled lattice, and endeavour to put out your candle.

Even in the Whitechapel Road it is possible to read A book of verses underneath a bough; but I shall not be content till Matthew Arnold's exquisite quatrain comes literally true of London Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon and the white evening star.

But we did appreciate its wonderfully exact and beautiful interpretation of Nature, and we had but to look around us to see the very picture Arnold painted when he wrote: Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, Sweetwilliam with his homely cottage smell, And stocks in fragrant blow: Roses that down the alley shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden trees, And the full moon, and the white evening star.

The amount of profanity, insanity, ill-health, and general misery which one rooster can cause is far beyond calculation. When London nights are intolerable, people think with longing of the cool, fragrant country, of the jasmine-muffled lattices, and the groups beneath the dreaming evening star.