Velvet and gold and brocade are nowise to my fancy. Nay, he added, believe me, I like luxurious living Even as little as you, and grieve in my soul not seldom, More for the rich indeed than the poor, who are not so guilty. So the discussion closed; and, said Arthur, Now it is my turn, How will my argument please you? To-morrow we start on our travel. And took up Hope the chorus, To-morrow we start on our travel. Lo, the weather is golden, the weather-glass, say they, rising; Four weeks here have we read; four weeks will we read hereafter; Three weeks hence will return and think of classes and classics. Fare ye well, meantime, forgotten, unnamed, undreamt of, History, Science, and Poets! lo, deep in dustiest cupboard, Thookydid, Oloros’ son, Halimoosian, here lieth buried! Slumber in Liddell-and-Scott, O musical chaff of old Athens, Dishes, and fishes, bird, beast, and sesquipedalian blackguard! Sleep, weary ghosts, be at peace and abide in your lexicon-limbo! Sleep, as in lava for ages your Herculanean kindred, Sleep, for aught that I care, ‘the sleep that knows no waking,’ Æschylus, Sophocles, Homer, Herodotus, Pindar, and Plato. Three weeks hence be it time to exhume our dreary classics. And in the chorus joined Lindsay, the Piper, the Dialectician, Three weeks hence we return to the _shop_ and the _wash-hand-stand basin_ (These are the Piper’s names for the bathing-place and the cottage). Three weeks hence unbury _Thicksides_ and _hairy_ Aldrich. But the Tutor inquired, the grave man, nick-named Adam, Who are they that go, and when do they promise returning? And a silence ensued, and the Tutor himself continued, Airlie remains, I presume, he continued, and Hobbes and Hewson. Answer was made him by Philip, the poet, the eloquent speaker: Airlie remains, I presume, was the answer, and Hobbes, peradventure; Tarry let Airlie May-fairly, and Hobbes, brief-kilted hero, Tarry let Hobbes in kilt, and Airlie ‘abide in his breeches;’ Tarry let these, and read, four Pindars apiece an’ it like them! Weary of reading am I, and weary of walks prescribed us; Weary of Ethic and Logic, of Rhetoric yet more weary, Eager to range over heather unfettered of gillie and marquis, I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal classics. And to the Tutor rejoining, Be mindful; you go up at Easter, This was the answer returned by Philip, the Pugin of women. Good are the Ethics I wis; good absolute, not for me, though; Good, too, Logic, of course; in itself, but not in fine weather. Three weeks hence, with the rain, to Prudence, Temperance, Justice, Virtues Moral and Mental, with Latin prose included; Three weeks hence we return to cares of classes and classics. I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal classics. But the Tutor inquired, the grave man, nick-named Adam, Where do you mean to go, and whom do you mean to visit?