The doctor thought this an odd question for the first salutation. He had expected that the first inquiry would have been for the fair convalescent. He divined that the evasion of this subject was the result of an inward struggle. He thought it would be best to fall in with the mood of the questioner, and said, 'Charles Fox's favourite is said to have been the second Olympic; I am not sure that there is, or can be, anything better. What say you?' _Mr. Falconer._ It may be that something in it touches a peculiar tone of feeling; but to me there is nothing like the ninth Pythian. _The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ I can understand your fancy for that ode. You see an image of ideal beauty in the nymph Cyrene. _Mr. Falconer._ 'Hidden are the keys of wise persuasion of sacred endearments,'{1} seems a strange phrase in English; but in Greek the words invest a charming sentiment with singular grace. Fit words to words as closely as we may, the difference of the mind which utters them fails to reproduce the true semblance of the thought. The difference of the effect produced, as in this instance, by exactly corresponding words, can only be traced to the essential difference of the Greek and the English mind. 1 (Greek passage)--Pindar? _The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ And indeed, as with the words, so with the image. We are charmed by Cyrene wrestling with the lion; but we should scarcely choose an English girl so doing as the type of ideal beauty. _Mr. Falconer._ We must draw the image of Cyrene, not from an English girl but from a Greek statue. _The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ Unless a man is in love, and then to him all images of beauty take something of the form and features of his mistress. _Mr. Falconer._ That is to say, a man in love sees everything through a false medium. It must be a dreadful calamity to be in love. _The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ Surely not when all goes well with it. _Mr. Falconer._ To me it would be the worst of all mischances. _The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ Every man must be subject to Love once in his life. It is useless to contend with him. 'Love,' says Sophocles, 'is unconquered in battle, and keeps his watch in the soft cheeks of beauty.'{1} _Mr. Falconer._ I am afraid, doctor, the Morgana to whom you have introduced me is a veritable enchantress. You find me here, determined to avoid the spell. _The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ Pardon me. You were introduced, as Jupiter was to Semele, by thunder and lightning, which was, happily, not quite as fatal. _Mr. Falconer._ I must guard against its being as fatal in a different sense; otherwise I may be myself the _triste bidental_.{2} I have aimed at living, like an ancient Epicurean, a life of tranquillity. I had thought myself armed with triple brass against the folds of a three-formed Chimaera. What with classical studies, and rural walks, and a domestic society peculiarly my own, I led what I considered the perfection of life: 'days so like each other they could not be remembered.' {3}