change, and the
waves are incessantly renewed."

"I know, Dorion," replied the Prefect of the Fleet, "that you care
little for the civic virtues, and you think that the sage ought to hold
himself aloof from all affairs. I think, on the contrary, that an honest
man should desire nothing better than to fill a responsible post in the
State. The State is a noble thing."

Hermodorus, the High Priest of Serapis, spoke next--

"Dorion has asked, 'What is one's country?' I will reply that the altars
of the gods and the tombs of ancestors make one's country. A man is a
fellow-citizen by association of memories and hopes."

Young Aristobulus interrupted Hermodorus.

"By Castor! I saw a splendid horse to-day. It belonged to Demophoon.
It has a fine head, small jaw, and strong forelegs. It carries its neck
high and proud, like a cock."

But young Chereas shook his head.

"It is not such a good horse as you say, Aristobulus. Its hoofs are
thin, and the pasterns are too low; the animal will soon go lame."

They were continuing their dispute, when Drosea uttered a piercing
shriek.

"Oh! I nearly swallowed a fish-bone, as long and much sharper than a
style. Luckily, I was able to get it out of my throat in time! The gods
love me!"

"Did you say, Drosea, that the gods loved you?" asked Nicias, smiling.
"Then they must share the same infirmities as men. Love presupposes
unhappiness on the part of whoever suffers from it, and is a proof of
weakness. The affection they feel for Drosea is a great proof of the
imperfection of the gods."

At these words Drosea flew into a great rage.

"Nicias, your remarks are foolish and not to the point. But that is your
character--you never understand what is said, and reply in words devoid
of sense."

Nicias smiled again.

"Talk away, talk away, Drosea. Whatever you say, we are glad every time
you open your mouth. Your teeth are so pretty!"

At that moment, a grave-looking old man, negligently dressed, walking
slowly, with his head high, entered the room, and gazed at the guests
quietly. Cotta made a sign to him to take a place by his side, on the
same couch.

"Eucrites," he said, "you are welcome. Have you composed a new treatise
on philosophy this month? That would make, if I calculate correctly, the
ninety-second that has proceeded from the Nile reed you direct with an
Attic hand."

Eucrites replied, stroking his silver beard--

"The nightingale was created to sing, and I was c