Nor had he now sat long upon his stone, heedless of the world's preparations for winter, before he began repeating to himself the poet's Æquam memento rebus in arduis, which he had been trying much, but with small success, to reproduce in similar English cadences, moved thereto in part by the success of Tennyson in his O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies--a thing as yet alone in the language, so far as I know. It was perhaps a little strange that the curate should draw the strength of which he was most conscious from the pages of a poet whose hereafter was chiefly servicable to him-- in virtue of its unsubstantiality and poverty, the dreamlike thinness of its reality--in enhancing the pleasures of the world of sun and air, cooling shade and songful streams, the world of wine and jest, of forms that melted more slowly from encircling arms, and eyes that did not so swiftly fade and vanish in the distance. Yet when one reflects but for a moment on the poverty-stricken expectations of Christians from their hereafter, I cease to wonder at Wingfold; for human sympathy is lovely and pleasant, and if a Christian priest and a pagan poet feel much in the same tone concerning the affairs of a universe, why should they not comfort each other by sitting down together in the dust? "No hair it boots thee whether from Inachus Ancient descended, or, of the poorest born, Thy being drags, all bare and roofless-- Victim the same to the heartless Orcus. All are on one road driven; for each of us The urn is tossed, and, later or earlier, The lot will drop and all be sentenced Into the boat of eternal exile." Having thus far succeeded with these two stanzas, Wingfold rose, a little pleased with himself, and climbed the bank above him, wading through mingled sun and wind and ferns--so careless of their shivering beauty and their coming exile, that a watcher might have said the prospect of one day leaving behind him the shows of this upper world could have no part in the curate's sympathy with Horace. CHAPTER III. THE DINERS.