  AUGUST Mrs. Bett had been having a "tantrim," brought on by nothing definable. Abruptly as she and Ina were getting supper, Mrs. Bett had fallen silent, had in fact refused to reply when addressed. When all was ready and Dwight was entering, hair wetly brushed, she had withdrawn from the room and closed her bedroom door until it echoed. "She's got one again," said Ina, grieving; "Dwight, you go." He went, showing no sign of annoyance, and stood outside his mother-in-law's door and knocked. No answer. "Mother, come and have some supper." No answer. "Looks to me like your muffins was just about the best ever." No answer. "Come on—I had something funny to tell you and Ina." He retreated, knowing nothing of the admirable control exercised by this woman for her own passionate satisfaction in sliding him away unsatisfied. He showed nothing but anxious concern, touched with regret, at his failure. Ina, too, returned from that door discomfited. Dwight made a gallant effort to retrieve the fallen fortunes of their evening meal, and turned upon Di, who had just entered, and with exceeding facetiousness inquired how Bobby was. Di looked hunted. She could never tell whether her parents were going to tease her about Bobby, or rebuke her for being seen with him. It depended on mood, and this mood Di had not the experience to gauge. She now groped for some neutral fact, and mentioned that he was going to take her and Jenny for ice cream that night. Ina's irritation found just expression in office of motherhood. "I won't have you downtown in the evening," she said. "But you let me go last night." "All the better reason why you should not go to-night." "I tell you," cried Dwight. "Why not all walk down? Why not all have ice cream...." He was all gentleness and propitiation, the reconciling element in his home. "Me too?" Monona's ardent hope, her terrible fear were in her eyebrows, her parted lips. "You too, certainly." Dwight could not do enough for every one. Monona clapped her hands. "Goody! goody! Last time you wouldn't let me go." "That's why papa's going to take you this time," Ina said. These ethical balances having been nicely struck, Ina proposed another: "But," she said, "but, you must eat more supper or you can not go." "I don't want any more." Monona's look was honest and piteous. "Makes no difference. You must eat or you'll get sick." "No!" "Very well, then. No ice cream soda for such a little girl." Monona began to cry quietly. But she passed her plate. She ate, chewing high, and slowly. "See? She can eat if she will eat," Ina said to Dwight. "The only trouble is, she will not take the time." "She don't put her mind on her meals," Dwight Herbert diagnosed it. "Oh, bigger bites than that!" he encouraged his little daughter. Di's mind had been proceeding along its own paths. "Are you going to take Jenny and Bobby too?" she inquired. "Certainly. The whole party." "Bobby'll want to pay for Jenny and I." "Me, darling," said Ina patiently, punctiliously—and less punctiliously added: "Nonsense. This is going to be papa's little party." "But we had the engagement with Bobby. It was an engagement." "Well," said Ina, "I think we'll just set that aside—that important engagement. I think we just will." "Papa! Bobby'll want to be the one to pay for Jenny and I—" "Di!" Ina's voice dominated all. "Will you be more careful of your grammar or shall I speak to you again?" "Well, I'd rather use bad grammar than—than—than—" she looked resentfully at her mother, her father. Their moral defection was evident to her, but it was indefinable. They told her that she ought to be ashamed when papa wanted to give them all a treat. She sat silent, frowning, put-upon. "Look, mamma!" cried Monona, swallowing a third of an egg at one impulse. Ina saw only the empty plate. "Mamma's nice little girl!" cried she, shining upon her child. The rules of the ordinary sports of the playground, scrupulously applied, would have clarified the ethical atmosphere of this little family. But there was no one to apply them. When Di and Monona had been excused, Dwight asked: "Nothing new from the bride and groom?" "No. And, Dwight, it's been a week since the last." "See—where were they then?" He knew perfectly well that they were in Savannah, Georgia, but Ina played his game, told him, and retold bits that the letter had said. "I don't understand," she added, "why they should go straight to Oregon without coming here first." Dwight hazarded that Nin probably had to get back, and shone pleasantly in the reflected importance of a brother filled with affairs. "I don't know what to make of Lulu's letters," Ina proceeded. "They're so—so—" "You haven't had but two, have you?" "That's all—well, of course it's only been a month. But both letters have been so—" Ina was never really articulate. Whatever corner of her brain had the blood in it at the moment seemed to be operative, and she let the matter go at that. "I don't think it's fair to mamma—going off that way. Leaving her own mother. Why, she may never see mamma again—" Ina's breath caught. Into her face came something of the lovely tenderness with which she sometimes looked at Monona and Di. She sprang up. She had forgotten to put some supper to warm for mamma. The lovely light was still in her face as she bustled about against the time of mamma's recovery from her tantrim. Dwight's face was like this when he spoke of his foster-mother. In both these beings there was something which functioned as pure love. Mamma had recovered and was eating cold scrambled eggs on the corner of the kitchen table when the ice cream soda party was ready to set out. Dwight threw her a casual "Better come, too, Mother Bett," but she shook her head. She wished to go, wished it with violence, but she contrived to give to her arbitrary refusal a quality of contempt. When Jenny arrived with Bobby, she had brought a sheaf of gladioli for Mrs. Bett, and took them to her in the kitchen, and as she laid the flowers beside her, the young girl stopped and kissed her. "You little darling!" cried Mrs. Bett, and clung to her, her lifted eyes lit by something intense and living. But when the ice cream party had set off at last, Mrs. Bett left her supper, gathered up the flowers, and crossed the lawn to the old cripple, Grandma Gates. "Inie sha'n't have 'em," the old woman thought. And then it was quite beautiful to watch her with Grandma Gates, whom she tended and petted, to whose complainings she listened, and to whom she tried to tell the small events of her day. When her neighbour had gone, Grandma Gates said that it was as good as a dose of medicine to have her come in. Mrs. Bett sat on the porch restored and pleasant when the family returned. Di and Bobby had walked home with Jenny. "Look here," said Dwight Herbert, "who is it sits home and has ice cream put in her lap, like a queen?" "Vanilly or chocolate?" Mrs. Bett demanded. "Chocolate, mammal" Ina cried, with the breeze in her voice. "Vanilly sets better," Mrs. Bett said. They sat with her on the porch while she ate. Ina rocked on a creaking board. Dwight swung a leg over the railing. Monona sat pulling her skirt over her feet, and humming all on one note. There was no moon, but the warm dusk had a quality of transparency as if it were lit in all its particles. The gate opened, and some one came up the walk. They looked, and it was Lulu. "Well, if it ain't Miss Lulu Bett!" Dwight cried involuntarily, and Ina cried out something. "How did you know?" Lulu asked. "Know! Know what?" "That it ain't Lulu Deacon. Hello, mamma." She passed the others, and kissed her mother. "Say," said Mrs. Bett placidly. "And I just ate up the last spoonful o' cream." "Ain't Lulu Deacon!" Ina's voice rose and swelled richly. "What you talking?" "Didn't he write to you?" Lulu asked. "Not a word." Dwight answered this. "All we've had we had from you—the last from Savannah, Georgia." "Savannah, Georgia," said Lulu, and laughed. They could see that she was dressed well, in dark red cloth, with a little tilting hat and a drooping veil. She did not seem in any wise upset, nor, save for that nervous laughter, did she show her excitement. "Well, but he's here with you, isn't he?" Dwight demanded. "Isn't he here? Where is he?" "Must be 'most to Oregon by this time," Lulu said. "Oregon!" "You see," said Lulu, "he had another wife." "Why, he had not!" exclaimed Dwight absurdly. "Yes. He hasn't seen her for fifteen years and he thinks she's dead. But he isn't sure." "Nonsense," said Dwight. "Why, of course she's dead if he thinks so." "I had to be sure," said Lulu. At first dumb before this, Ina now cried out: "Monona! Go upstairs to bed at once." "It's only quarter to," said Monona, with assurance. "Do as mamma tells you." "But—" "Monona!" She went, kissing them all good-night and taking her time about it. Everything was suspended while she kissed them and departed, walking slowly backward. "Married?" said Mrs. Bett with tardy apprehension. "Lulie, was your husband married?" "Yes," Lulu said, "my husband was married, mother." "Mercy," said Ina. "Think of anything like that in our family." "Well, go on—go on!" Dwight cried. "Tell us about it." Lulu spoke in a monotone, with her old manner of hesitation: "We were going to Oregon. First down to New Orleans and then out to California and up the coast." On this she paused and sighed. "Well, then at Savannah, Georgia, he said he thought I better know, first. So he told me." "Yes—well, what did he say?" Dwight demanded irritably. "Cora Waters," said Lulu. "Cora Waters. She married him down in San Diego, eighteen years ago. She went to South America with him." "Well, he never let us know of it, if she did," said Dwight. "No. She married him just before he went. Then in South America, after two years, she ran away again. That's all he knows." "That's a pretty story," said Dwight contemptuously. "He says if she'd been alive, she'd been after him for a divorce. And she never has been, so he thinks she must be dead. The trouble is," Lulu said again, "he wasn't sure. And I had to be sure." "Well, but mercy," said Ina, "couldn't he find out now?" "It might take a long time," said Lulu simply, "and I didn't want to stay and not know." "Well, then, why didn't he say so here?" Ina's indignation mounted. "He would have. But you know how sudden everything was. He said he thought about telling us right there in the restaurant, but of course that'd been hard—wouldn't it? And then he felt so sure she was dead." "Why did he tell you at all, then?" demanded Ina, whose processes were simple. "Yes. Well! Why indeed?" Dwight Herbert brought out these words with a curious emphasis. "I thought that, just at first," Lulu said, "but only just at first. Of course that wouldn't have been right. And then, you see, he gave me my choice." "Gave you your choice?" Dwight echoed. "Yes. About going on and taking the chances. He gave me my choice when he told me, there in Savannah, Georgia." "What made him conclude, by then, that you ought to be told?" Dwight asked. "Why, he'd got to thinking about it," she answered. A silence fell. Lulu sat looking out toward the street. "The only thing," she said, "as long as it happened, I kind of wish he hadn't told me till we got to Oregon." "Lulu!" said Ina. Ina began to cry. "You poor thing!" she said. Her tears were a signal to Mrs. Bett, who had been striving to understand all. Now she too wept, tossing up her hands and rocking her body. Her saucer and spoon clattered on her knee. "He felt bad too," Lulu said. "He!" said Dwight. "He must have." "It's you," Ina sobbed. "It's you. My sister!" "Well," said Lulu, "but I never thought of it making you both feel bad, or I wouldn't have come home. I knew," she added, "it'd make Dwight feel bad. I mean, it was his brother—" "Thank goodness," Ina broke in, "nobody need know about it." Lulu regarded her, without change. "Oh, yes," she said in her monotone. "People will have to know." "I do not see the necessity." Dwight's voice was an edge. Then too he said "do not," always with Dwight betokening the finalities. "Why, what would they think?" Lulu asked, troubled. "What difference does it make what they think?". "Why," said Lulu slowly, "I shouldn't like—you see they might—why, Dwight, I think we'll have to tell them." "You do! You think the disgrace of bigamy in this family is something the whole town will have to know about?" Lulu looked at him with parted lips. "Say," she said, "I never thought about it being that." Dwight laughed. "What did you think it was? And whose disgrace is it, pray?" "Ninian's," said Lulu. "Ninian's! Well, he's gone. But you're here. And I'm here. Folks'll feel sorry for you. But the disgrace—that'd reflect on me. See?" "But if we don't tell, what'll they think then?" Said Dwight: "They'll think what they always think when a wife leaves her husband. They'll think you couldn't get along. That's all." "I should hate that," said Lulu. "Well, I should hate the other, let me tell you." "Dwight, Dwight," said Ina. "Let's go in the house. I'm afraid they'll hear—" As they rose, Mrs. Bett plucked at her returned daughter's sleeve. "Lulie," she said, "was his other wife—was she there?" "No, no, mother. She wasn't there." Mrs. Bett's lips moved, repeating the words. "Then that ain't so bad," she said. "I was afraid maybe she turned you out." "No," Lulu said, "it wasn't that bad, mother." Mrs. Bett brightened. In little matters, she quarrelled and resented, but the large issues left her blank. Through some indeterminate sense of the importance due this crisis, the Deacons entered their parlour. Dwight lighted that high, central burner and faced about, saying: "In fact, I simply will not have it, Lulu! You expect, I take it, to make your home with us in the future, on the old terms." "Well—" "I mean, did Ninian give you any money?" "No. He didn't give me any money—only enough to get home on. And I kept my suit—why!" she flung her head back, "I wouldn't have taken any money!" "That means," said Dwight, "that you will have to continue to live here—on the old terms, and of course I'm quite willing that you should. Let me tell you, however, that this is on condition—on condition that this disgraceful business is kept to ourselves." She made no attempt to combat him now. She looked back at him, quivering, and in a great surprise, but she said nothing. "Truly, Lulu," said Ina, "wouldn't that be best? They'll talk anyway. But this way they'll only talk about you, and the other way it'd be about all of us." Lulu said only: "But the other way would be the truth." Dwight's eyes narrowed: "My dear Lulu," he said, "are you sure of that?" "Sure?" "Yes. Did he give you any proofs?" "Proofs?" "Letters—documents of any sort? Any sort of assurance that he was speaking the truth?" "Why, no," said Lulu. "Proofs—no. He told me." "He told you!" "Why, that was hard enough to have to do. It was terrible for him to have to do. What proofs—" She stopped, puzzled. "Didn't it occur to you," said Dwight, "that he might have told you that because he didn't want to have to go on with it?" As she met his look, some power seemed to go from Lulu. She sat down, looked weakly at them, and within her closed lips her jaw was slightly fallen. She said nothing. And seeing on her skirt a spot of dust she began to rub at that. "Why, Dwight!" Ina cried, and moved to her sister's side. "I may as well tell you," he said, "that I myself have no idea that Ninian told you the truth. He was always imagining things—you saw that. I know him pretty well—have been more or less in touch with him the whole time. In short, I haven't the least idea he was ever married before." Lulu continued to rub at her skirt. "I never thought of that," she said. "Look here," Dwight went on persuasively, "hadn't you and he had some little tiff when he told you?" "No—no! Why, not once. Why, we weren't a bit like you and Ina." She spoke simply and from her heart and without guile. "Evidently not," Dwight said drily. Lulu went on: "He was very good to me. This dress—and my shoes—and my hat. And another dress, too." She found the pins and took off her hat. "He liked the red wing," she said. "I wanted black—oh, Dwight! He did tell me the truth!" It was as if the red wing had abruptly borne mute witness. Dwight's tone now mounted. His manner, it mounted too. "Even if it is true," said he, "I desire that you should keep silent and protect my family from this scandal. I merely mention my doubts to you for your own profit." "My own profit!" She said no more, but rose and moved to the door. "Lulu—you see! With Di and all!" Ina begged. "We just couldn't have this known—even if it was so." "You have it in your hands," said Dwight, "to repay me, Lulu, for anything that you feel I may have done for you in the past. You also have it in your hands to decide whether your home here continues. That is not a pleasant position for me to find myself in. It is distinctly unpleasant, I may say. But you see for yourself." Lulu went on, into the passage. "Wasn't she married when she thought she was?" Mrs. Bett cried shrilly. "Mamma," said Ina. "Do, please, remember Monona. Yes—Dwight thinks she's married all right now—and that it's all right, all the time." "Well, I hope so, for pity sakes," said Mrs. Bett, and left the room with her daughter. Hearing the stir, Monona upstairs lifted her voice: "Mamma! Come on and hear my prayers, why don't you?" When they came downstairs next morning, Lulu had breakfast ready. "Well!" cried Ina in her curving tone, "if this isn't like old times." Lulu said yes, that it was like old times, and brought the bacon to the table. "Lulu's the only one in this house can cook the bacon so's it'll chew," Mrs. Bett volunteered. She was wholly affable, and held contentedly to Ina's last word that Dwight thought now it was all right. "Ho!" said Dwight. "The happy family, once more about the festive toaster." He gauged the moment to call for good cheer. Ina, too, became breezy, blithe. Monona caught their spirit and laughed, head thrown well back and gently shaken. Di came in. She had been told that Auntie Lulu was at home, and that she, Di, wasn't to say anything to her about anything, nor anything to anybody else about Auntie Lulu being back. Under these prohibitions, which loosed a thousand speculations, Di was very nearly paralysed. She stared at her Aunt Lulu incessantly. Not one of them had even a talent for the casual, save Lulu herself. Lulu was amazingly herself. She took her old place, assumed her old offices. When Monona declared against bacon, it was Lulu who suggested milk toast and went to make it. "Mamma," Di whispered then, like escaping steam, "isn't Uncle Ninian coming too?" "Hush. No. Now don't ask any more questions." "Well, can't I tell Bobby and Jenny she's here?" "No. Don't say anything at all about her." "But, mamma. What has she done?" "Di! Do as mamma tells you. Don't you think mamma knows best?" Di of course did not think so, had not thought so for a long time. But now Dwight said: "Daughter! Are you a little girl or are you our grown-up young lady?" "I don't know," said Di reasonably, "but I think you're treating me like a little girl now." "Shame, Di," said Ina, unabashed by the accident of reason being on the side of Di. "I'm eighteen," Di reminded them forlornly, "and through high school." "Then act so," boomed her father. Baffled, thwarted, bewildered, Di went over to Jenny Plow's and there imparted understanding by the simple process of letting Jenny guess, to questions skilfully shaped. When Dwight said, "Look at my beautiful handkerchief," displayed a hole, sent his Ina for a better, Lulu, with a manner of haste, addressed him: "Dwight. It's a funny thing, but I haven't Ninian's Oregon address." "Well?" "Well, I wish you'd give it to me." Dwight tightened and lifted his lips. "It would seem," he said, "that you have no real use for that particular address, Lulu." "Yes, I have. I want it. You have it, haven't you, Dwight?" "Certainly I have it." "Won't you please write it down for me?" She had ready a bit of paper and a pencil stump. "My dear Lulu, now why revive anything? Why not be sensible and leave this alone? No good can come by—" "But why shouldn't I have his address?" "If everything is over between you, why should you?" "But you say he's still my husband." Dwight flushed. "If my brother has shown his inclination as plainly as I judge that he has, it is certainly not my place to put you in touch with him again." "You won't give it to me?" "My dear Lulu, in all kindness—no." His Ina came running back, bearing handkerchiefs with different coloured borders for him to choose from. He chose the initial that she had embroidered, and had not the good taste not to kiss her. They were all on the porch that evening, when Lulu came downstairs. "Where are you going?" Ina demanded, sisterly. And on hearing that Lulu had an errand, added still more sisterly; "Well, but mercy, what you so dressed up for?" Lulu was in a thin black and white gown which they had never seen, and wore the tilting hat with the red wing. "Ninian bought me this," said Lulu only. "But, Lulu, don't you think it might be better to keep, well—out of sight for a few days?" Ina's lifted look besought her. "Why?" Lulu asked. "Why set people wondering till we have to?" "They don't have to wonder, far as I'm concerned," said Lulu, and went down the walk. Ina looked at Dwight. "She never spoke to me like that in her life before," she said. She watched her sister's black and white figure going erectly down the street. "That gives me the funniest feeling," said Ina, "as if Lulu had on clothes bought for her by some one that wasn't—that was—" "By her husband who has left her," said Dwight sadly. "Is that what it is, papa?" Di asked alertly. For a wonder, she was there; had been there the greater part of the day—most of the time staring, fascinated, at her Aunt Lulu. "That's what it is, my little girl," said Dwight, and shook his head. "Well, I think it's a shame," said Di stoutly. "And I think Uncle Ninian is a slunge." "Di!" "I do. And I'd be ashamed to think anything else. I'd like to tell everybody." "There is," said Dwight, "no need for secrecy—now." "Dwight!" said Ina—Ina's eyes always remained expressionless, but it must have been her lashes that looked so startled. "No need whatever for secrecy," he repeated with firmness. "The truth is, Lulu's husband has tired of her and sent her home. We must face it." "But, Dwight—how awful for Lulu...." "Lulu," said Dwight, "has us to stand by her." Lulu, walking down the main street, thought: "Now Mis' Chambers is seeing me. Now Mis' Curtis. There's somebody behind the vines at Mis' Martin's. Here comes Mis' Grove and I've got to speak to her...." One and another and another met her, and every one cried out at her some version of: "Lulu Bett!" Or, "W-well, it isn't Lulu Bett any more, is it? Well, what are you doing here? I thought...." "I'm back to stay," she said. "The idea! Well, where you hiding that handsome husband of yours? Say, but we were surprised! You're the sly one—" "My—Mr. Deacon isn't here." "Oh." "No. He's West." "Oh, I see." Having no arts, she must needs let the conversation die like this, could invent nothing concealing or gracious on which to move away. She went to the post-office. It was early, there were few at the post-office—with only one or two there had she to go through her examination. Then she went to the general delivery window, tense for a new ordeal. To her relief, the face which was shown there was one strange to her, a slim youth, reading a letter of his own, and smiling. "Excuse me," said Lulu faintly. The youth looked up, with eyes warmed by the words on the pink paper which he held. "Could you give me the address of Mr. Ninian Deacon?" "Let's see—you mean Dwight Deacon, I guess?" "No. It's his brother. He's been here. From Oregon. I thought he might have given you his address—" she dwindled away. "Wait a minute," said the youth. "Nope. No address here. Say, why don't you send it to his brother? He'd know. Dwight Deacon, the dentist." "I'll do that," Lulu said absurdly, and turned away. She went back up the street, walking fast now to get away from them all. Once or twice she pretended not to see a familiar face. But when she passed the mirror in an insurance office window, she saw her reflection and at its appearance she felt surprise and pleasure. "Well!" she thought, almost in Ina's own manner. Abruptly her confidence rose. Something of this confidence was still upon her when she returned. They were in the dining-room now, all save Di, who was on the porch with Bobby, and Monona, who was in bed and might be heard extravagantly singing. Lulu sat down with her hat on. When Dwight inquired playfully, "Don't we look like company?" she did not reply. He looked at her speculatively. Where had she gone, with whom had she talked, what had she told? Ina looked at her rather fearfully. But Mrs. Bett rocked contentedly and ate cardamom seeds. "Whom did you see?" Ina asked. Lulu named them. "See them to talk to?" from Dwight. Oh, yes. They had all stopped. "What did they say?" Ina burst out. They had inquired for Ninian, Lulu said; and said no more. Dwight mulled this. Lulu might have told every one of these women that cock-and-bull story with which she had come home. It might be all over town. Of course, in that case he could turn Lulu out—should do so, in fact. Still the story would be all over town. "Dwight," said Lulu, "I want Ninian's address." "Going to write to him!" Ina cried incredulously. "I want to ask him for the proofs that Dwight wanted." "My dear Lulu," Dwight said impatiently, "you are not the one to write. Have you no delicacy?" Lulu smiled—a strange smile, originating and dying in one corner of her mouth. "Yes," she said. "So much delicacy that I want to be sure whether I'm married or not." Dwight cleared his throat with a movement which seemed to use his shoulders for the purpose. "I myself will take this up with my brother," he said. "I will write to him about it." Lulu sprang to her feet. "Write to him now!" she cried. "Really," said Dwight, lifting his brows. "Now—now!" Lulu said. She moved about, collecting writing materials from their casual lodgments on shelf and table. She set all before him and stood by him. "Write to him now," she said again. "My dear Lulu, don't be absurd." She said: "Ina. Help me. If it was Dwight—and they didn't know whether he had another wife, or not, and you wanted to ask him—oh, don't you see? Help me." Ina was not yet the woman to cry for justice for its own sake, nor even to stand by another woman. She was primitive, and her instinct was to look to her own male merely. "Well," she said, "of course. But why not let Dwight do it in his own way? Wouldn't that be better?" She put it to her sister fairly: Now, no matter what Dwight's way was, wouldn't that be better? "Mother!" said Lulu. She looked irresolutely toward her mother. But Mrs. Bett was eating cardamom seeds with exceeding gusto, and Lulu looked away. Caught by the gesture, Mrs. Bett voiced her grievance. "Lulie," she said, "Set down. Take off your hat, why don't you?" Lulu turned upon Dwight a quiet face which he had never seen before. "You write that letter to Ninian," she said, "and you make him tell you so you'll understand. I know he spoke the truth. But I want you to know." "M—m," said Dwight. "And then I suppose you're going to tell it all over town—as soon as you have the proofs." "I'm going to tell it all over town," said Lulu, "just as it is—unless you write to him now." "Lulu!" cried Ina. "Oh, you wouldn't." "I would," said Lulu. "I will." Dwight was sobered. This unimagined Lulu looked capable of it. But then he sneered. "And get turned out of this house, as you would be?" "Dwight!" cried his Ina. "Oh, you wouldn't!" "I would," said Dwight. "I will. Lulu knows it." "I shall tell what I know and then leave your house anyway," said Lulu, "unless you get Ninian's word. And I want you should write him now." "Leave your mother? And Ina?" he asked. "Leave everything," said Lulu. "Oh, Dwight," said Ina, "we can't get along without Lulu." She did not say in what particulars, but Dwight knew. Dwight looked at Lulu, an upward, sidewise look, with a manner of peering out to see if she meant it. And he saw. He shrugged, pursed his lips crookedly, rolled his head to signify the inexpressible. "Isn't that like a woman?" he demanded. He rose. "Rather than let you in for a show of temper," he said grandly, "I'd do anything." He wrote the letter, addressed it, his hand elaborately curved in secrecy about the envelope, pocketed it. "Ina and I'll walk down with you to mail it," said Lulu. Dwight hesitated, frowned. His Ina watched him with consulting brows. "I was going," said Dwight, "to propose a little stroll before bedtime." He roved about the room. "Where's my beautiful straw hat? There's nothing like a brisk walk to induce sound, restful sleep," he told them. He hummed a bar. "You'll be all right, mother?" Lulu asked. Mrs. Bett did not look up. "These cardamon hev got a little mite too dry," she said. In their room, Ina and Dwight discussed the incredible actions of Lulu. "I saw," said Dwight, "I saw she wasn't herself. I'd do anything to avoid having a scene—you know that." His glance swept a little anxiously his Ina. "You know that, don't you?" he sharply inquired. "But I really think you ought to have written to Ninian about it," she now dared to say. "It's—it's not a nice position for Lulu." "Nice? Well, but whom has she got to blame for it?" "Why, Ninian," said Ina. Dwight threw out his hands. "Herself," he said. "To tell you the truth, I was perfectly amazed at the way she snapped him up there in that restaurant." "Why, but, Dwight—" "Brazen," he said. "Oh, it was brazen." "It was just fun, in the first place." "But no really nice woman—" he shook his head. "Dwight! Lulu is nice. The idea!" He regarded her. "Would you have done that?" he would know. Under his fond look, she softened, took his homage, accepted everything, was silent. "Certainly not," he said. "Lulu's tastes are not fine like yours. I should never think of you as sisters." "She's awfully good," Ina said feebly. Fifteen years of married life behind her—but this was sweet and she could not resist. "She has excellent qualities." He admitted it. "But look at the position she's in—married to a man who tells her he has another wife in order to get free. Now, no really nice woman—" "No really nice man—" Ina did say that much. "Ah," said Dwight, "but you could never be in such a position. No, no. Lulu is sadly lacking somewhere." Ina sighed, threw back her head, caught her lower lip with her upper, as might be in a hem. "What if it was Di?" she supposed. "Di!" Dwight's look rebuked his wife. "Di," he said, "was born with ladylike feelings." It was not yet ten o'clock. Bobby Larkin was permitted to stay until ten. From the veranda came the indistinguishable murmur of those young voices. "Bobby," Di was saying within that murmur, "Bobby, you don't kiss me as if you really wanted to kiss me, to-night."
You will find on examination, that history in general has a great many of this kind, which, if you listen to them all, you will be sufficiently convinced of; and for this purpose it may not be unseasonable to recollect some of them by way of example. And the first that I shall mention is that intolerable custom which most of them have of omitting facts, and dwelling for ever on the praises of their generals and commanders, extolling to the skies their own leaders, and degrading beyond measure those of their enemies, not knowing how much history differs from panegyric, that there is a great wall between them, or that, to use a musical phrase, they are a double octave These men seem not to know that poetry has its particular rules and precepts; and that history is governed by others directly opposite. That with regard to the former, the licence is immoderate, and there is scarce any law but what the poet prescribes to himself. When he is full of the Deity, and possessed, as it were, by the Muses, if he has a mind to put winged horses Those, I must here observe, are greatly mistaken who divide history into two parts, the useful and the agreeable; and in consequence of it, would introduce panegyric as always delectable and entertaining to the reader. But the division itself is false and delusive; for the great end and design of history is to be useful: a species of merit which can only arise from its truth. If the agreeable follows, so much the better, as there may be beauty in a wrestler. And yet Hercules would esteem the brave though ugly Nicostratus as much as the beautiful AlcÆus. And thus history, when she adds pleasure to utility, may attract more admirers; though as long as she is possessed of that greatest of perfections, truth, she need not be anxious concerning beauty. In history, nothing fabulous can be agreeable; and flattery is disgusting to all readers, except the very dregs of the people; good judges look with the eyes of Argus on every part, reject everything that is false and adulterated, and will admit nothing but what is true, clear, and well expressed. These are the men you are to have a regard to when you write, rather than the vulgar, though your flattery should delight them ever so much. If you stuff history with fulsome encomiums and idle tales, you will make her like Hercules in Lydia, as you may have seen him painted, waiting upon Omphale, who is dressed in the lion’s skin, with his club in her hand; whilst he is represented clothed in yellow and purple, and spinning, and Omphale beating him with her slipper; a ridiculous spectacle, wherein everything manly and godlike is sunk and degraded to effeminacy. The multitude perhaps, indeed, may admire such things; but the judicious few whose opinion you despise will always laugh at what is absurd, incongruous, and inconsistent. Everything has a beauty peculiar to itself; but if you put one instead of another, the most beautiful becomes ugly, because it is not in its proper place. I need not add, that praise is agreeable only to the person praised, and disgustful to everybody else, especially when it is lavishly bestowed; as is the practice of most writers, who are so extremely desirous of recommending themselves by flattery, and dwell so much upon it as to convince the reader it is mere adulation, which they have not art enough to conceal, but heap up together, naked, uncovered, and totally incredible, so that they seldom gain what they expected from it; for the person flattered, if he has anything noble or manly in him, only abhors and despises them for it as mean parasites. Aristobulus, after he had written an account of the single combat between Alexander and Porus, showed that monarch a particular part of it, wherein, the better to get into his good graces, he had inserted a great deal more than was true; when Alexander seized the book and threw it (for they happened at that time to be sailing on the Hydaspes) directly into the river: “Thus,” said he, “ought you to have been served yourself for pretending to describe my battles, and killing half a dozen elephants for me with a single spear.” This anger was worthy of Alexander, of him who could not bear the adulation of that architect What is there in this custom, therefore, that can be agreeable, unless to the proud and vain; to deformed men or ugly women, who insist on being painted handsome, and think they shall look better if the artist gives them a little more red and white! Such, for the most part, are the historians of our times, who sacrifice everything to the present moment and their own interest and advantage; who can only be despised as ignorant flatterers of the age they live in; and as men, who, at the same time, by their extravagant stories, make everything which they relate liable to suspicion. If notwithstanding any are still of opinion, that the agreeable should be admitted in history, let them join that which is pleasant with that which is true, by the beauties of style and diction, instead of foisting in, as is commonly done, what is nothing to the purpose. I will now acquaint you with some things I lately picked up in Ionia and Achaia, from several historians, who gave accounts of this war. By the graces I beseech you to give me credit for what I am going to tell you, as I could swear to the truth of it, if it were polite to swear in a dissertation. One of these gentlemen begins by invoking the Muses, and entreats the goddesses to assist him in the performance. What an excellent setting out and how properly is this form of speech adapted to history! A little farther on, he compares our emperor to Achilles, and the Persian king to Thersites; not considering that his Achilles would have been a much greater man if he had killed Hector rather than Thersites; if the brave should fly, he who pursues must be braver. Then follows an encomium on himself, showing how worthy he is to recite such noble actions; and when he is got on a little, he extols his own country, Miletus, adding that in this he had acted better than Homer, who never tells us where he was born. He informs us, moreover, at the end of his preface, in the most plain and positive terms, that he shall take care to make the best he can of our own affairs, and, as far as lies in his power, to get the upper hand of our enemies the barbarians. After investigating the cause of the war, he begins thus: “That vilest of all wretches, Vologesus, entered upon the war for these reasons.” Such is this historian’s manner. Another, a close imitator of Thucydides, that he may set out as his master does, gives us an exordium that smells of the true Attic honey, and begins thus: “Creperius Calpurnianus, a citizen of Pompeia, hath written the history of the war between the Parthians and the Romans, showing how they fought with one another, commencing at the time when it first broke out.” After this, need I inform you how he harangued in Armenia, by another CorcyrÆan orator? or how, to be revenged of the NisibÆans for not taking part with the Romans, he sent the plague amongst them, taking the whole from Thucydides, excepting the long walls of Athens. He had begun from Æthiopia, descended into Egypt, and passed over great part of the royal territory. Well it was that he stopped there. When I left him, he was burying the miserable Athenians at Nisibis; but as I knew what he was going to tell us, I took my leave of him. Another thing very common with these historians is, by way of imitating Thucydides, to make use of his phrases, perhaps with a little alteration, to adopt his manner, in little modes and expressions, such as, “you must yourself acknowledge,” “for the same reason,” “a little more, and I had forgot,” and the like. This same writer, when he has occasion to mention bridges, fosses, or any of the machines used in war, gives them Roman names; but how does it suit the dignity of history, or resemble Thucydides, to mix the Attic and Italian thus, as if it was ornamental and becoming? Another of them gives us a plain simple journal of everything that was done, such as a common soldier might have written, or a sutler who followed the camp. This, however, was tolerable, because it pretended to nothing more; and might be useful by supplying materials for some better historian. I only blame him for his pompous introduction: “Callimorphus, physician to the sixth legion of spearmen, his history of the Parthian war.” Then his books are all carefully numbered, and he entertains us with a most frigid preface, which he concludes with saying that “a physician must be the fittest of all men to write history, because Æsculapius was the son of Apollo, and Apollo is the leader of the Muses, and the great prince of literature.” Besides this, after setting out in delicate Ionic, he drops, I know not how, into the most vulgar style and expressions, used only by the very dregs of the people. And here I must not pass over a certain wise man, whose name, however, I shall not mention; his work is lately published at Corinth, and is beyond everything one could have conceived. In the very first sentence of his preface he takes his readers to task, and convinces them by the most sagacious method of reasoning that “none but a wise man should ever attempt to write history.” Then comes syllogism upon syllogism; every kind of argument is by turns made use of, to introduce the meanest and most fulsome adulation; and even this is brought in by syllogism and interrogation. What appeared to me the most intolerable and unbecoming the long beard of a philosopher, was his saying in the preface that our emperor was above all men most happy, whose actions even philosophers did not disdain to celebrate; surely this, if it ought to be said at all, should have been left for us to say rather than himself. Neither must we here forget that historian who begins thus: “I come to speak of the Romans and Persians;” and a little after he says, “for the Persians ought to suffer;” and in another place, “there was one Osroes, whom the Greeks call Oxyrrhoes,” with many things of this kind. This man is just such a one as him I mentioned before, only that one is like Thucydides, and the other the exact resemblance of Herodotus. But there is yet another writer, renowned for eloquence, another Thucydides, or rather superior to him, who most elaborately describes every city, mountain, field, and river, and cries out with all his might, “May the great averter of evil turn it all on our enemies!” This is colder than Caspian snow, or Celtic ice. The emperor’s shield takes up a whole book to describe. The Gorgon’s From inability, and ignorance of everything useful, these men are driven to descriptions of countries and caverns, and when they come into a multiplicity of great and momentous affairs, are utterly at a loss. Like a servant enriched on a sudden by coming into his master’s estate, who does not know how to put on his clothes, or to eat as he should do; but when fine birds, fat sows, and hares are placed before him, falls to and eats till he bursts, of salt meat and pottage. The writer I just now mentioned describes the strangest wounds, and the most extraordinary deaths you ever heard of; tells us of a man’s being wounded in the great toe, and expiring immediately; and how on Priscus, the general, bawling out loud, seven-and-twenty of the enemy fell down dead upon the spot. He has told lies, moreover, about the number of the slain, in contradiction to the account given in by the leaders. He will have it that seventy thousand two hundred and thirty-six of the enemy died at Europus, and of the Romans only two, and nine wounded. Surely nobody in their senses can bear this. Another thing should be mentioned here also, which is no little fault. From the affectation of Atticism, and a more than ordinary attention to purity of diction, he has taken the liberty to turn the Roman names into Greek, to call Saturninus, Κρονιος , Chronius; Fronto, Φροντις, Frontis; Titianus, Τιτανιος , Titanius, and others still more ridiculous. With regard to the death of Severian, he informs us that everybody else was mistaken when they imagined that he perished by the sword, for that the man starved himself to death, as he thought that the easiest way of dying; not knowing (which was the case) that he could only have fasted three days, whereas many have lived without food for seven; unless we are to suppose that Osroes stood waiting till Severian had starved himself completely, and for that reason he would not live out the whole week. But in what class, my dear Philo, shall we rank those historians who are perpetually making use of poetical expressions, such as “the engine crushed, the wall thundered,” and in another place, “Edessa resounded with the shock of arms, and all was noise and tumult around;” and again, “often the leader in his mind revolved how best he might approach the wall.” At the same time amongst these were interspersed some of the meanest and most beggarly phrases, such as “the leader of the army epistolised his master,” “the soldiers bought utensils,” “they washed and waited on them,” with many other things of the same kind, like a tragedian with a high cothurnus on one foot and a slipper on the other. You will meet with many of these writers, who will give you a fine heroic long preface, that makes you hope for something extraordinary to follow, when after all, the body of the history shall be idle, weak, and trifling, such as puts you in mind of a sporting Cupid, who covers his head with the mask of a Hercules or Titan. The reader immediately cries out, “The mountain All this, however, with regard to style and composition, may be borne with, but when they misinform us about places, and make mistakes, not of a few leagues, but whole day’s journeys, what shall we say to such historians? One of them, who never, we may suppose, so much as conversed with a Syrian, or picked up anything concerning them in the barbers’ What he tells us of Severian, and which he swears he heard from those who were eye-witnesses of it, is no doubt extremely probable; that he did not choose to drink poison, or to hang himself, but was resolved to find out some new and tragical way of dying; that accordingly, having some large cups of very fine glass, as soon as he had taken the resolution to finish himself, he broke one of them in pieces, and with a fragment of it cut his throat; he would not make use of sword or spear, that his death might be more noble and heroic. To complete all, because Thucydides Others there are who, from ignorance and want of skill, not knowing what should be mentioned, and what passed over in silence, entirely omit or slightly run through things of the greatest consequence, and most worthy of attention, whilst they most copiously describe and dwell upon trifles; which is just as absurd as it would be not to take notice of or admire the wonderful beauty of the Olympian Jupiter, I remember one of these who despatches the battle at Europus in seven lines, and spends some hundreds in a long frigid narration, that is nothing to the purpose, showing how “a certain Moorish cavalier, wandering on the mountains in search of water, lit on some Syrian rustics, who helped him to a dinner; how they were afraid of him at first, but afterwards became intimately acquainted with him, and received him with hospitality; for one of them, it seems, had been in Mauritania, where his brother bore arms.” Then follows a long tale, “how he hunted in Mauritania, and saw several elephants feeding together; how he had like to have been devoured by a lion; and how many fish he bought at CÆsarea.” This admirable historian takes no notice of the battle, the attacks or defences, the truces, the guards on each side, or anything else; but stands from morning to night looking upon Malchion, the Syrian, who buys cheap fish at CÆsarea: if night had not come on, I suppose he would have supped there, as the chars Another of them, who had never set a foot out of Corinth, or seen Syria or Armenia, begins thus: “It is better to trust our eyes than our ears; I write, therefore, what I have seen, and not what I have heard;” he saw everything so extremely well that he tells us, “the Parthian dragons (which amongst them signifies no more than a great number, Another famous writer has given an account of everything that passed, from beginning to end, in Armenia, Syria, Mesopotamia, upon the Tigris, and in Media, and all in less than five hundred lines; and when he had done this, tells us, he has written a history. The title, which is almost as long as the work, runs thus: “A narrative of everything done by the Romans in Armenia, Media, and Mesopotamia, by Antiochianus, who gained a prize in the sacred games of Apollo.” I suppose, when he was a boy, he had conquered in a running match. I have heard of another likewise, who wrote a history of what was to happen hereafter, Thus do these foolish fellows trifle with us, neither knowing what is fit to be done, nor if they did, able to execute it, at the same time determined to say anything that comes into their ridiculous heads; affecting to be grand and pompous, even in their titles: of “the Parthian victories so many books;” Parthias, says another, like Atthis; another more elegantly calls his book the Parthonicica of Demetrius. I could mention many more of equal merit with these, but shall now proceed to make my promise good, and give some instructions how to write better. I have not produced these examples merely to laugh at and ridicule these noble histories; but with the view of real advantages, that he who avoids their errors, may himself learn to write well—if it be true, as the logicians assert, that of two opposites, between which there is no medium, the one being taken away, the other must remain. Somebody, perhaps, will tell me that the field is now cleansed and weeded, that the briars and brambles are cut up, the rubbish cleared off, and the rough path made smooth; that I ought therefore to build something myself, to show that I not only can pull down the structures of others, but am able to raise up and invent a work truly great and excellent, which nobody could find fault with, nor Momus himself turn into ridicule. I say, therefore, that he who would write history well must be possessed of these two principal qualifications, a fine understanding and a good style: one is the gift of nature, and cannot be taught; the other may be acquired by frequent exercise, perpetual labour and an emulation of the ancients. To make men sensible and sagacious, who were not born so, is more than I pretend to; to create and new-model things in this manner would be a glorious thing indeed; but one might as easily make gold out of lead, silver out of tin, a Titornus out of a Conon, or a Milo out of a Leotrophides. What then is in the power of art or instruction to perform? not to create qualities and perfections already bestowed, but to teach the proper use of them; for as Iccus, Herodicus, Theon, Neither can it be here asserted, be he ever so sensible or sagacious, that he doth not stand in need of assistance with regard to those things which he is ignorant of; otherwise he might play on the flute or any other instrument, who had never learned, and perform just as well; but without teaching, the hands will do nothing; whereas, if there be a master, we quickly learn, and are soon able to play by ourselves. Give me a scholar, therefore, who is able to think and to write, to look with an eye of discernment into things, and to do business himself, if called upon, who hath both civil and military knowledge; one, moreover, who has been in camps, and has seen armies in the field and out of it; knows the use of arms, and machines, and warlike engines of every kind; can tell what the front, and what the horn is, how the ranks are to be disposed, how the horse is to be directed, and from whence to advance or to retreat; one, in short, who does not stay at home and trust to the reports of others: but, above all, let him be of a noble and liberal mind; let him neither fear nor hope for anything; otherwise he will only resemble those unjust judges who determine from partiality or prejudice, and give sentence for hire: but, whatever the man is, as such let him be described. The historian must not care for Philip, when he loses his eye by the arrow of Aster, The only business of the historian is to relate things exactly as they are: this he can never do as long as he is afraid of Artaxerxes, whose physician To speak impartially, the historians of former times were too often guilty of flattery, and their works were little better than games and sports, the effects of art. Of Alexander, this memorable saying is recorded: “I should be glad,” said he, “Onesicritus, after my death, to come to life again for a little time, only to hear what the people then living will say of me; for I am not surprised that they praise and caress me now, as every one hopes by baiting well to catch my favour.” Though Homer wrote a great many fabulous things concerning Achilles, the world was induced to believe him, for this only reason, because they were written long after his death, and no cause could be assigned why he should tell lies about him. The good historian, This rule therefore Thucydides observed, distinguishing properly the faults and perfections of history: not unmindful of the great reputation which Herodotus had acquired, insomuch that his books were called by the names of the Muses. Such an historian would I wish to have under my care: with regard to language and expression, I would not have it rough and vehement, consisting of long periods, History may sometimes assume a poetical form, and rise into a magnificence of expression, when the subject demands it; and especially when it is describing armies, battles, and sea-fights. The Pierian spirit With regard to composition, the words should not be so blended and transposed as to appear harsh and uncouth; nor should you, as some do, subject them entirely to the rhythmus; Facts must not be carelessly put together, but with great labour and attention. If possible, let the historian be an eye-witness of everything he means to record; or, if that cannot be, rely on those only who are incorrupt, and who have no bias from passion or prejudice, to add or to diminish anything. And here much sagacity will be requisite to find out the real truth. When he has collected all or most of his materials, he will first make a kind of diary, a body whose members are not yet distinct; he will then bring it into order and beautify it, add the colouring of style and language, adopt his expression to the subject, and harmonise the several parts of it; then, like Homer’s Jupiter, The mind of the historian should resemble a looking-glass, shining clear and exactly true, representing everything as it really is, and nothing distorted, or of a different form or colour. He writes not to the masters of eloquence, but simply relates what is done. It is not his to consider what he shall say, but only how it is to be said. He may be compared to Phidias, Praxiteles, Alcamenus, or other eminent artists; for neither did they make the gold, the silver, the ivory, or any of the materials which they worked upon. These were supplied by the Elians, the Athenians, and Argives; their only business was to cut and polish the ivory, to spread the gold into various forms, and join them together; their art was properly to dispose what was put into their hands; and such is the work of the historians, to dispose and adorn the actions of men, and to make them known with clearness and precision: to represent what he hath heard, as if he had been himself an eye-witness of it. To perform this well, and gain the praise resulting from it, is the business of our historical Phidias. When everything is thus prepared, he may begin if he pleases without preface or exordium, unless the subject particularly demands it; he may supply the place of one, by informing us what he intends to write upon, in the beginning of the work itself: if, however, he makes use of any preface, he need not divide it as our orators do, into three parts, but confine it to two, leaving out his address to the benevolence of his readers, and only soliciting their attention and complacency: their attention he may be assured of, if he can convince them that he is about to speak of things great, or necessary, or interesting, or useful; nor need he fear their want of complacency, if he clearly explains to them the causes of things, and gives them the heads of what he intends to treat of. Such are the exordiums which our best historians have made use of. Herodotus tells us, “he wrote his history, lest in process of time the memory should be lost of those things which in themselves were great and wonderful, which showed forth the victories of Greece, and the slaughter of the barbarians;” and Thucydides sets out with saying, “he thought that war most worthy to be recorded, as greater than any which had before happened; and that, moreover, some of the greatest misfortunes had accompanied it.” The exordium, in short, may be lengthened or contracted according to the subject matter, and the transition from thence to the narration easy and natural. The body of the history is only a long narrative, and as such it must go on with a soft and even motion, alike in every part, so that nothing should stand too forward, or retreat too far behind. Above all, the style should be clear and perspicuous, which can only arise, as I before observed, from a harmony in the composition: one thing perfected, the next which succeeds should be coherent with it; knit together, as it were, by one common chain, which must never be broken: they must not be so many separate and distinct narratives, but each so closely united to what follows, as to appear one continued series. Brevity is always necessary, especially when you have a great deal to say, and this must be proportioned to the facts and circumstances which you have to relate. In general, you must slightly run through little things, and dwell longer on great ones. When you treat your friends, you give them boars, hares, and other dainties; you would not offer them beans, saperda, When you describe mountains, rivers, and bulwarks, avoid all pomp and ostentation, as if you meant to show your own eloquence; pass over these things as slightly as you can, and rather aim at being useful and intelligible. Observe how the great and sublime Homer acts on these occasions! as great a poet as he is, he says nothing about Tantalus, Ixion, Tityus, and the rest of them. But if Parthenius, Euphorion, or Callimachus, had treated this subject, what a number of verses they would have spent in rolling Ixion’s wheel, and bringing the water up to the very lips of Tantalus! Mark, also, how quickly Thucydides, who is very sparing When it is necessary to make any one speak, you must take care to let him say nothing but what is suitable to the person, and to what he speaks about, and let everything be clear and intelligible: here, indeed, you may be permitted to play the orator, and show the power of eloquence. With regard to praise, or dispraise, you cannot be too modest and circumspect; they should be strictly just and impartial, short and seasonable: your evidence otherwise will not be considered as legal, and you will incur the same censure as Theopompus If anything occurs that is very extraordinary or incredible, you may mention without vouching for the truth of it, leaving everybody to judge for themselves concerning it: by taking no part yourself, you will remain safe. Remember, above all, and throughout your work, again and again, I must repeat it, that you write not with a view to the present times only, that the age you live in may applaud and esteem you, but with an eye fixed on posterity; from future ages expect your reward, that men may say of you, “that man was full of honest freedom, never flattering or servile, but in all things the friend of truth.” This commendation, the wise man will prefer to all the vain hopes of this life, which are but of short duration. Recollect the story of the Cnidian architect, when he built the tower in Pharos, where the fire is kindled to prevent mariners from running on the dangerous rocks of ParÆtonia, that most noble and most beautiful of all works; he carved his own name on a part of the rock on the inside, then covered it over with mortar, and inscribed on it the name of the reigning sovereign: well knowing that, as it afterwards happened, in a short space of time these letters would drop off with the mortar, and discover under it this inscription: “Sostratus the Cnidian, son of Dexiphanes, to those gods who preserve the mariner.” Thus had he regard not to the times he lived in, not to his own short existence, but to the present period, and to all future ages, even as long as his tower shall stand, and his art remain upon earth. Thus also should history be written, rather anxious to gain the approbation of posterity by truth and merit, than to acquire present applause by adulation and falsehood. Such are the rules which I would prescribe to the historian, and which will contribute to the perfection of his work, if he thinks proper to observe them; if not, at least, I have rolled my tub. Tam vacui capitis populum PhÆaca putavit. Some modern critics, however, have endeavoured to defend them. The present inhabitants of that island make a small quantity of excellent wine for their own use and are liberal of it to strangers who travel that way, but dare not, being under Turkish government, cultivate the vines well, or export the product of them. “Not poppy, nor mandragora, —“the bear and fiddle, D’Ablancourt, as I observed above, has carried it on a little farther. There is still room for any ingenious modern to take the plan from Lucian, and improve upon it. The Greeks measured all their distances by stadia, which, after all we can discover concerning them, are different in different times and places. “O praise the Lord of heaven, praise Him in the height. Praise Him, sun and moon; praise Him, all ye stars; praise the Lord upon earth, ye dragons and all deeps; fire and hail, snow and vapours, wind and storm fulfilling His word.”—Psalm cxlviii. “Sometimes by friendship, all are knit in one, This was called the ορκος Ραδαμανθιος, or oath of Rhadamanthus, who, as Porphyry informs us, made a law that men should swear, if they needs must swear, by geese, dogs, etc. υπερ που μη τους θεους επι πασιν ονομαζω, that they might not, on every trifling occasion, call in the name of the gods. This is a kind of religious reason, the custom was therefore, Porphyry tells us, adopted by the wise and pious Socrates. Lucian, however, who laughs at everything here (as well as the place above quoted), ridicules him for it. “Wisdom held my hand.” Homer says nothing but—my mind changed. |
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