AEschylus did so order himself; but his life is not of that inspiriting kind that can be won through fighting the good fight only--or being believed to have fought it. His voice is the echo of a drone, drone-begotten and drone-sustained. It is not a tone that a man must utter or die--nay, even though he die; and likely enough half the allusions and hard passages in AEschylus of which we can make neither head nor tail are in reality only puffs of some of the literary leaders of his time. The lady above referred to told me more about her parrots. She was like a Nasmyth's hammer going slow--very gentle, but irresistible. She always read the newspaper to them. What was the use of having a newspaper if one did not read it to one's parrots? "And have you divined," I asked, "to which side they incline in politics?" "They do not like Mr. Gladstone," was the somewhat freezing answer; "this is the only point on which we disagree, for I adore him. Don't ask more about this, it is a great grief to me. I tell them everything," she continued, "and hide no secret from them." "But can any parrot be trusted to keep a secret?" "Mine can." "And on Sundays do you give them the same course of reading as on a week-day, or do you make a difference?" "On Sundays I always read them a genealogical chapter from the Old or New Testament, for I can thus introduce their names without profanity. I always keep tea by me in case they should ask for it in the night, and I have an Etna to warm it for them; they take milk and sugar. The old white-headed clergyman came to see them last night; it was very painful, for Jocko reminded him so strongly of his late . . . " I thought she was going to say "wife," but it proved to have been only of a parrot that he had once known and loved.