The gentleman pointed, with a smile, to a half-empty water-bottle beside him, and replied: "While the rest of the company have been industriously occupied in endeavoring to drown the distinctive attribute of man—reason—I have preserved its supremacy by simply confining myself to a non-intoxicating beverage."
I trust you will not think the following somewhat quaint verses, from the pen of an old and now almost forgotten poet, a mal-à-propos conclusion to this letter:
THE YOUTH AND THE PHILOSOPHER
A Grecian youth, of talents rare,
Whom Plato's philosophic care
Had formed for Virtue's nobler view,
By precept and example too,
Would often boast his matchless skill
To curb the steed, and guide the wheel;
And as he passed the gazing throng
With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong,
The idiot wonder they expressed,
Was praise and transport to his breast.
At length, quite vain, he needs would show
His master what his art could do;
And bade his slaves the chariot lead
To Academus' sacred shade.
The trembling grove confessed its fright,
The wood-nymphs started at the sight;
The Muses drop the learned lyre,
And to their inmost shades retire.
Howe'er, the youth, with forward air,
Bows to the Sage, and mounts the car;
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring;
And gathering crowds, with eager eyes,
And shouts, pursue him as he flies.
Triumphant to the goal returned,
With nobler thirst his bosom burned;
And now along the indented plain
The self-same track he marks again;
Pursues with care the nice design,
Nor ever deviates from the line.
Amazement seized the circling crowd;
The youths with emulation glowed;
E'en bearded sages hailed the boy,
And all but Plato gazed with joy.
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumph of the field:
And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And, flushed with hope, had caught his eye,
"Alas! unhappy youth," he cried,
"Expect no praise from me," (and sighed);
"With indignation I survey
Such skill and judgment thrown away:
The time profusely squandered there
On vulgar arts, beneath thy care,
If well employed, at less expense,
Had taught thee Honor, Virtue, Sense;
And raised thee from a coachman's fate,
To govern men, and guide the state."
One seldom finds a nicer selection of words than those of the last lines of these admonitory stanzas. With the wish that they may gratify your literary acumen, I am, as ever,
Your faithful friend,
Harry Lunettes.