I then searched for Publius, and making my purchases, returned home, Milo following with the books. As Milo relieved himself of his burden, discharging it upon the floor of the library, I overheard him to say, 'Lie there, accursed rolls! May the flames consume you, ere you are again upon my shoulders! For none but Piso would I have done what I have. Let me to the temple and expiate.' 'What words are these?' cried Solon, emerging suddenly at the sound from a recess. 'Who dares to heap curses upon books, which are the soul embalmed and made imperishable? What have we here? Aha! a new treasure for these vacant shelves, and most trimly ordered.' 'These, venerable Greek,' exclaimed Milo, waving him away, 'are books of magic! oriental magic! Have a care! A touch may be fatal! Our noble master affects the Egyptians.' 'Magic!' exclaimed Solon, with supreme contempt; 'art thou so idiotic as to put credence in such fancies? Away!--hinder me not!' And saying so, he eagerly grasped a volume, and unrolling it, to the beginning of the work, dropped it suddenly, as if bitten by a serpent. 'Ha!' cried Milo, 'said I not so? Art thou so idiotic, learned Solon, as to believe in such fancies? How is it with thee? Is thy blood hot or cold?--thy teeth loose or fast?--thy arm withered or swollen?' Solon stood surveying the pile, with a look partly of anger, partly of sorrow. 'Neither, fool!' he replied. 'These possess not the power nor worth fabled of magic. They are books of dreams, visions, reveries, which are to the mind what fogs would be for food, and air for drink, innutritive and vain. Papias!--Irenaeus!--Hegesippus!--Polycarp!--Origen!--whose names are these, and to whom familiar? Some are Greek, some are Latin, but not a name famous in the world meets my eye. But we will order them on their shelves, and trust that time, which accomplishes all things, will restore reason to Piso. Milo, essay thy strength--my limbs are feeble--and lift these upon yonder marble; so may age deal gently with thee.' 'Not for their weight in wisdom, Solon, would I again touch them. I have borne them hither, and if the priests speak truly, my life is worth not an obolus. I were mad to tempt my fate farther.' 'Avaunt thee, then, for a fool and a slave, as thou art!' 'Nay now, master Solon, thy own wisdom forsakes thee. Philosophers, they say, are ever possessors of themselves, though for the rest they be beggars.' 'Beggar! sayest thou? Avaunt! I say, or Papias shall teach thee'--and he would have launched the roll at the head of Milo, but that, with quick instincts, he shot from the apartment, and left the pedagogue to do his own bidding. So, Fausta, you see that Solon is still the irritable old man he was, and Milo the fool he was. Think not me worse than either, for hoping so to entertain you. I know that in your solitude and grief, even such pictures may be welcome.