“Well, I can probably bear it. Aunt Eliza had a classical tutor for me.”
I always relish a chance to recite my favorite poet, and I began accordingly:—
“Laetus in praesens animus quod ultra est
Oderit curare et—”
“I know that one!” he exclaimed, interrupting me. “The tutor made me put it into English verse. I had the severest sort of a time. I ran away from it twice to a deer-hunt.” And he, in his turn, recited:—
“Who hails each present hour with zest
Hates fretting what may be the rest,
Makes bitter sweet with lazy jest;
Naught is in every portion blest.”
I complimented him, in spite of my slight annoyance at being deprived by him of the chance to declaim Latin poetry, which is an exercise that I approve and enjoy; but of course, to go on with it, after he had intervened with his translation, would have been flat.
“You have written good English, and very close to the Latin, too,” I told him, “particularly in the last line.” And I picked up from the bridge which we were crossing, an oyster-shell, and sent it skimming over the smooth water that stretched between the low shores, wide, blue, and vacant.
“I suppose you wonder why we call this the ‘New Bridge,’” he remarked.
“I did wonder when I first came,” I replied.
He smiled. “You’re getting used to us!”