Popanilla took up packets upon all possible
subjects; smelt them, but they were not savory; he was sorely puzzled.
At last, he lighted on a slender volume bound in brown calf, which, with
the confined but sensual notions of a savage, he mistook for
gingerbread, at least. It was 'The Universal Linguist, by Mr. Hamilton;
or, the Art of Dreaming in Languages.'
No sooner had Popanilla passed that well-formed nose, which had been so
often admired by the lady whose lock of hair he had unfortunately lost,
a few times over a few pages of the Hamiltonian System than he sank upon
his bed of flowers, and, in spite of his curiosity, was instantly
overcome by a profound slumber. But his slumber, though deep, was not
peaceful, and he was the actor in an agitating drama.
He found himself alone in a gay and glorious garden. In the centre of
it grew a pomegranate tree of prodigious size; its top was lost in the
sky, and its innumerable branches sprang out in all directions, covered
with large fruit of a rich golden hue.
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