Very much so, madam, replied De Lancaster, in the writings of the Greeks. As to the Hebrews, the wise sayings of Solomon alone furnish a very copious collection, and are by us specifically called his Proverbs, or as the Greeks would term them his Paræmiæ, which some express by the word proverb, following Cicero’s interpretation; others by the word adage, preferring the authority of Varro, the most learned of all the Roman philologists.
The lady, who had drawn this conversation upon herself by an affectation of talking about what she did not understand, now perceiving the eyes of the company directed towards her, and a general silence kept whilst De Lancaster was speaking, felt her vanity so much flattered by having this learned harangue addressed to her, that, in order to hold it on, she ventured to ask which of the Greek authors were most famous for their proverbs.
Madam, replied De Lancaster, your question, though extremely pertinent for you to ask, is not easy for me to answer with the precision I could wish. I can only tell you that the Greek oracles were in general adages, and many of the latter are to be traced even in Homer: the bulk of them however is to be collected from Aristotle the Peripatetic, and his disciples Theophrastus and Clearchus of Irlöe, from Chrysippus, Cleanthes, Theætetus, Aristides, Aristophanes, Æschylus, Mylo, Aristarchus, and many others, that do not just now occur to me to name to you.
These are great authorities indeed, cried Mrs. Owen, more and more delighted with the conversation as it grew more and more unintelligible to her; and pray, learned sir, added she, condescend to inform me where the wise sayings of these great men are to be met with.
De Lancaster was not a man to withhold his answer from any question upon a point of philology, could any such have been put to him by his cook-maid; whereas Mrs. Owen had fairly hooked him in to believe that she was interested in his discourse, and solicitous to be informed. Possessed with this opinion, he replied—Madam, every question that you put to me is a convincing proof, that the ladies in your country turn their minds to studies, in which our English women have no ambition to be instructed (a conclusion falser than which he never made in his life) and it is with particular satisfaction I have the honour to inform you, that in Zenobius the sophist, or (as some will have it) Zenodotus, in Diogenianus of Heraclea, and in the Collectanea of Suidas, you will find ample store to gratify your very laudable curiosity: I would recommend to you also to consult Athenæus, Stobæus, Laertius, Michael Apostolius the sophist, Theophrastus called Logotheta, and others, that might be pointed out; but for the present perhaps these may suffice.
I dare say they will, cried Sir Owen, and if you find them in this house, sister Rachel, I’ll give you leave to keep them. Lord bless you, my good neighbour, she never heard the name of one of them, nor is there a monk in all Spain, that ever did put a word of theirs under his cowl, or ever will. I tell you they are as dull as asses, and as obstinate as mules. Rachel knows no more of what you have been saying to her than I do.
This side speech of the baronet’s, so unseasonably true, had scarce passed his lips, when little David bolted into the room, and having fixed his piercing eyes upon the person of De Lancaster, ran up to his mother, and in a screaming voice cried out—Look, look, mamma, there’s a man in a black wig, for all the world like our old governor of Cadiz!—Hush, hush, saucy child, cried the mother, stopping his mouth with her hand.—Don’t stop him, I pray you, said the good man; when children find out likenesses, ’tis a proof that they make observations. Your son compares me to the governor of Cadiz, and I dare say I am honoured by the comparison.
That is true politeness, said Mrs. Owen, addressing herself respectfully to De Lancaster. It is not often that great learning and great urbanity are found in the same person: when they are, how infinitely they adorn each other!—a reflection this, so much to the honour of Mrs. David Owen, that lest I may not have many to record equally to her credit, I am the more inclined to notice it upon this opportunity.
Addressing herself to Mr. Philip De Lancaster, she said—I take for granted, sir, you are extremely fond of the beautiful infant, of which I am to give you joy—Philip bowed and made no answer.—I hear, repeated she, he is an uncommon fine boy—Philip was of opinion that all infants were alike: for his part he could mark no difference between them—Perhaps you have not studied them with quite so much attention as you have given to your books—Philip was not very fond of reading—Of country sports perhaps—Still less—Of planting, farming, building?—Not in the least of either—Mrs. Owen seemed resolved to find his ruling passion—Did he take pleasure in the wholesome exercise of walking?—He doubted if it was wholesome, and he never walked, if he could avoid it: he angled now and then, and had no dislike to a game of chess—I comprehend you now, said the inquisitive lady; fishing is an amusement, that accords with meditation, and chess demands reflection and a fixt attention—I give little or no attention to it, replied Philip; and that may be the reason, why I never win a game—That certainly may be the reason, resumed the lady, and I’m persuaded you have struck upon it.
The conversation now took a general turn. Tea was served, and the black prying eyes of Rachel Owen were at leisure to scrutinize the dress and person of Cecilia, whom the baronet seemed now disposed to release from all further solicitation. Master David Owen in the mean time amused himself with teazing a poor little Spanish lap-dog, which, but for him, would have quietly reposed its diminutive body in his mother’s muff. When reprimanded by Sir Owen for tormenting a dumb creature, he set his nails with a most inveterate resolution into the little creature’s tail, and to his infinite delight convinced the hearers, that he had no dumb creature between his fingers. This produced a slight box on the ear from his uncle, and the yell of the suffering dog was instantly overpowered by the louder yell of the enraged tormentor—Poor fellow, said Mrs. Owen, you shall play with little Don when your uncle is not present: boys must be amused; must they not Mr. De Lancaster?—Not with cruelty I should hope, he replied; they ought not to be indulged in that amusement; and it is a very bad prognostic, when they can be amused by it—The dog is of little value to me, said Mrs. Owen, and I would sooner wring his nasty neck off with my own hands, than he should annoy my brother Owen, and expose my darling boy to be punished by him.