(Greek passage) Philetaerus: Cynagis.  
          I pray you, what can mortal man do better
          Than live his daily life as pleasantly
          As daily means avail him? Life's frail¹ tenure²
          Warns not to trust to-morrow.
The next day Mr. Falconer was perfectly³ certain that Miss Gryll was not yet well enough to be removed. No one was anxious to refute the proposition; they were all so well satisfied with,»the place and the company they were in, that they felt, the young lady included, a decided⁴ unwillingness⁵ to go. That day Miss Gryll came to dinner, and the next day she came to breakfast, and in the evening she joined in the music, and, in short, she was once more altogether herself; but Mr. Falconer continued to insist that the journey home would be too much for her. When this excuse failed, he still entreated⁶ his new friends to remain; and so passed several days. At length Mr. Gryll found he must resolve on departing, especially as the time had arrived when he expected some visitors. He urgently invited Mr. Falconer to visit him in return. The invitation was cordially accepted, and in the meantime considerable progress had been made in the Aristophanic comedy. Mr. Falconer, after the departure of his visitors, went up into his library. He took down one book after another, but they did not fix his attention as they used to do; he turned over the leaves of Homer, and read some passages about Circe; then took down Bojardo, and read of Morgana and Falerina and Dragontina; then took down Tasso and read of Armida. He would not look at Ariosto's Alcina, because her change into an old woman destroyed all the charm of the previous picture. He dwelt on the enchantress who remained in unaltered beauty. But even this he did only by fits and starts, and found himself continually wandering away towards a more enchanting⁸ reality.
 
He descended⁹ to his bedroom, and meditated¹⁰ on ideal beauty in the portraits of Saint Catharine. But he could not help thinking that the ideal might be real, at least in one instance, and he wandered down into his drawing-room. There he sat absorbed in thought, till his two young handmaids appeared with his luncheon¹¹. He smiled when he saw them, and sat down to the table as if nothing had disturbed him. Then, taking his stick and his dog, he walked out into the forest.
 
There was within moderate distance a deep dell, in the bottom of which ran a rivulet¹², very small in dry weather, but in heavy rains becoming a torrent¹³, which had worn itself a high-banked channel, winding¹⁴ in fantastic curves from side to side of its narrow boundaries. Above this channel old forest trees rose to a great height on both sides of the dell The slope every here and there was broken by promontories¹⁵ which during centuries the fall of the softer portions of the soil had formed; and on these promontories were natural platforms, covered, as they were more or less accessible to the sun, with grass and moss¹⁶ and fern and foxglove, and every variety of forest vegetation. These platforms were favourite resorts of deer, which imparted to the wild scene its own peculiar¹⁷ life.
 
This was a scene in which, but for the deeper and deeper wear of the floods and the bolder falls of the promontories, time had made little change. The eyes of the twelfth century had seen it much as it appeared to those of the nineteenth. The ghosts of departed ages might seem to pass through it in succession, with all their changes of faith and purpose and manners and costume. To a man who loved to dwell in the past, there could not be a more congenial scene. One old oak stood in the centre of one of the green platforms, and a portion of its gnarled roots presented a convenient seat. Mr. Falconer had frequently passed a day here when alone. The deer had become too accustomed to him to fly at his approach, and the dog had been too well disciplined to molest¹⁸ them. There he had sat for hours at a time, reading his favourite poets.
 
There was no great poet with some of whose scenes this scenery did not harmonise. The deep woods that surrounded the dwelling¹⁹ of Circe, the obscure sylvan²⁰ valley in which Dante met Virgil, the forest depths through which Angelica fled, the enchanted²¹ wood in which Rinaldo met the semblance²² of Armida, the forest-brook by which Jaques moralised over the wounded deer, were all reproduced in this single spot, and fancy peopled it at pleasure with nymphs and genii, fauns and satyrs, knights²³ and ladies, friars, foresters, hunters, and huntress maids, till the whole diurnal²⁴ world seemed to pass away like a vision. There, for him, Matilda had gathered flowers on the opposite bank;{1} Laura had risen from one of the little pools—resting-places of the stream—to seat herself in the shade;{2} Rosalind and Maid Marian had peeped forth²⁵ from their alleys²⁶ green; all different in form, in feature, and in apparel; but now they were all one; each, as she rose in imagination, presented herself under the aspect of the newly-known Morgana.
 
          1 Dante: Purgatorio, c. 28.
 
          2 Or in forma di Ninfa o d' altra Diva,
          Che del più chiaro fondo di Sorga esca,
          E pongasi a seder in sulla riva.
          PETRARCA: Sonetto 240.
Finding his old imaginations thus disturbed, he arose and walked home. He dined alone, drank a bottle of Madeira, as if it had been so much water, summoned the seven sisters to the drawing-room earlier and detained them later than usual, till their music and its old associations had restored him to something like tranquillity²⁷. He had always placed the summum bonum of life in tranquillity, and not in excitement. He felt that his path was now crossed by a disturbing force, and determined²⁸ to use his utmost exertions²⁹ to avoid exposing himself again to its influence.
 
In this mood the Reverend Doctor Opimian found him one morning in the library reading. He sprang up to meet the Divine, exclaiming, 'Ah, dear doctor, I am very glad to see you. Have you any special favourite among the Odes of Pindar?'
 
The doctor thought this an odd question for the first salutation. He had expected that the first inquiry³⁰ would have been for the fair convalescent. He divined that the evasion³¹ of this subject was the result of an inward struggle. He thought it would be best to fall in with the mood of the questioner, and said, 'Charles Fox's favourite is said to have been the second Olympic; I am not sure that there is, or can be, anything better. What say you?'
 
Mr. Falconer. It may be that something in it touches a peculiar tone of feeling; but to me there is nothing like the ninth Pythian.
 
The Rev⁷. Dr. Opimian. I can understand your fancy for that ode. You see an image of ideal beauty in the nymph Cyrene.
 
Mr. Falconer. 'Hidden are the keys of wise persuasion³² of sacred endearments,'{1} seems a strange phrase in English; but in Greek the words invest a charming sentiment with singular grace. Fit words to words as closely as we may, the difference of the mind which utters them fails to reproduce the true semblance of the thought. The difference of the effect produced, as in this instance, by exactly corresponding words, can only be traced to the essential difference of the Greek and the English mind.
 
     1 (Greek passage)—Pindar?
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. And indeed, as with the words, so with the image. We are charmed by Cyrene wrestling with the lion; but we should scarcely choose an English girl so doing as the type of ideal beauty.
 
Mr. Falconer. We must draw the image of Cyrene, not from an English girl but from a Greek statue.
 
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Unless a man is in love, and then to him all images of beauty take something of the form and features of his mistress.
 
Mr. Falconer. That is to say, a man in love sees everything through a false medium. It must be a dreadful calamity³³ to be in love.
 
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Surely not when all goes well with it.
 
Mr. Falconer. To me it would be the worst of all mischances.
 
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Every man must be subject to Love once in his life. It is useless to contend with him. 'Love,' says Sophocles, 'is unconquered in battle, and keeps his watch in the soft cheeks of beauty.'{1}
 
Mr. Falconer. I am afraid, doctor, the Morgana to whom you have introduced me is a veritable enchantress. You find me here, determined to avoid the spell.
 
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Pardon me. You were introduced, as Jupiter was to Semele, by thunder and lightning, which was, happily, not quite as fatal.
 
Mr. Falconer. I must guard against its being as fatal in a different sense; otherwise I ............