order ourselves that we may be of the number of them that enter into
life--although we know it not.

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