“I deny your position. The Carthaginians were nothing but a great trading aristocracy—with a glorious family or two I grant you, like that of Hannibal; but, on the whole, a dirty, bargain-driving, buy-cheap-and-sell-dear aristocracy—of whom the world was well rid. They like the Athenians indeed! Why, just look what the two people have left behind them——”
“Yes,” interrupted Tom; “but we only know the Carthaginians through the reports of their destroyers. Your heroes trampled them out with hoofs of iron.”
“Do you think the Roman hoof could have trampled out their Homer if they ever had one?” said Hardy. “The Romans conquered Greece too, remember.”
“But Greece was never so near beating them.”
“True. But I hold to my point. Carthage was the mother of all hucksters, compassing sea and land to sell her wares.”
“And no bad line of life for a nation. At least Englishmen ought to think so.”
“No, they ought not; at least if ‘Punica fides’ is to be the rule of trade. Selling any amount of Brummagem wares never did nation or man much good, and never will. Eh, Grey?”
Grey winced at being appealed to, but remarked that he hoped the Church would yet be able to save England from the fate of Tyre and Carthage, the great trading nations of the old world: and then, swallowing his tea, and looking as if he had been caught robbing a hen-roost, he made a sudden exit, and hurried away out of college to the night-school.
“What a pity he is so odd and shy,” said Tom; “I should so like to know more of him.”