reated to praise the
immortal gods."

DORION. Let us respectfully salute, in Eucrites, the last of the stoics.
Grave and white, he stands in the midst of us like the image of an
ancestor. He is solitary amidst a crowd of men, and the words he utters
are not heard.

EUCRITES. You deceive yourself, Dorion. The philosophy of virtue is not
dead. I have numerous disciples in Alexandria, Rome, and Constantinople.
Many of the slaves, and some of the nephews of Caesar, now know how to
govern themselves, to live independently, and being unconcerned with all
affairs, they enjoy boundless happiness. Many of them have revived, in
their own person, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. But if it were true
that virtue were for ever extinguished upon the earth, in what way
would the loss of it affect my happiness, since it did not depend on
me whether it existed or perished? Only fools, Dorion, place their
happiness out of their own power. I desire nothing that the gods do not
wish, and I desire all that they do wish. By that means I render myself
like unto them, and share their infallible content. If virtue perishes,
I consent that it should perish, and that consent fills me with joy, as
the supreme effort of my reason or my courage. In all things my wisdom
will copy the divine wisdom, and the copy will be more valuable than the
model; it will have cost greater care and more work.

NICIAS. I understand. You put yourself on the same level as divine
providence. But if virtue consists only in effort, Eucrites, and in that
intense application by which the disciples of Zeno pretend to render
themselves equal to the gods, the frog, which swelled itself out to try
and become as big as the ox, accomplished a masterpiece of stoicism.

EUCRITES. You jest, Nicias, and, as usual, you excel in ridicule. But
if the ox of which you speak is really a god, like Apis, or like that
subterranean ox whose high priest I see here, and if the frog, being
wisely inspired, succeed in equalling it, would it not be, in fact,
more virtuous than the ox, and could you refrain from admiring such a
courageous little animal!

Four servants placed on the table a wild pig, still covered with its
bristles. Little pigs, made of pastry, surrounded the animal, as though
they would suckle, to show that it was a sow.

Zenothemis, turning towards the monk, said--

"Friends, a guest has come hither to join us. The illustrious
Paphnutius, who leads such an extraordinary life o