The brightness⁠—heaven and earth conspiring to be bright⁠—the levity and quiet of the air; the odd stirring silence⁠—more stirring than a tumult; the snow, the frost, the enchanted landscape: all have their part in the effect and on the memory, “ tous vous tapent sur la tête ”; and yet when you have enumerated all, you have gone no nearer to explain or even to qualify the delicate exhilaration that you feel⁠—delicate, you may say, and yet excessive, greater than can be said in prose, almost greater than an invalid can bear. There is a certain wine of France known in England in some gaseous disguise, but when drunk in the land of its nativity still as a pool, clean as river water, and as heady as verse. It is more than probable that in its noble natural condition this was the very wine of Anjou so beloved by Athos in the Musketeers