In Paris the high priests of Bacchus now hold forth. But in these degenerate days no furied band of Maenads follows beloved Liber's route, for only a solemn group of graybeards meets to celebrate the triumphal offerings of the vine. They gather, whiff the sacred fragrance, and sip, nor do they ever drink to the joys of youth and songs of pleasure. They are sad, as wine has made them sad; the fields of Bacchus have been sullied by the mundane and unworthy impious of the temple of Mercury. The cratera is empty, while cases of gin replace the dusty amphora.

But all is not lost. In a stirring plea M. Tardieu asks winebibbers the world over to join in the rescue of the vineyards. They must organize and play politics, to save wine from the greedy budgets and siccant reformers. Imposts, tariffs, taxes, embargoes must fall to make way for the return of Falernian and Caecuban. Propaganda must teach the gospel of Bacchus, and the world be taught again to hold precious the gifts of the god. Meanwhile, liqueurs, the misbegotten brats of Mercury and Ceres, hold sway. Men drink, but they feel the touch of Circe's wand, not the warming joys of gentle Liber. The noisome juniper has dethroned the luscious grape.

Eheu, these are sorry times indeed when the nitred vaults for lack of love must be thrown open and the choicest vintage blazoned on bill boards. But perhaps before the exquisite measures of learned Flaccus die completely from the ears of men, there will be a new Renaissance which will save the attic treasures without resort to abasing vulgarity.