is final?  Haven’t you and I, for instance, lamented the present rottenness of smart society?  Why, when kings by the name of George sat on the throne of England, society was just as drunken, just as dissolute!  Then a decent queen came, and society behaved itself; and now, here we come round again to the Georges, only with the name changed!  There’s nothing final.  So, when things are as you don’t like them, remember that and bear them; and when they’re as you do like them, remember it and make the most of them—­and keep a good sleeve handy!”

“Have you got any creed at all?” he demanded.

“Certanly; but I don’t live up to it.”

“That’s not expected.  May I ask what it is?”

“It’s in Latin.”

“Well, I can probably bear it.  Aunt Eliza had a classical tutor for me.”

I always relish a chance to recite my favorite poet, and I began accordingly:—­

          “Laetus in praesens animus quod ultra est
          Oderit curare et—­”

“I know that one!” he exclaimed, interrupting me.  “The tutor made me put it into English verse.  I had the severest sort of a time.  I ran away from it twice to a deer-hunt.”  And he, in his turn, recited:—­

          “Who hails each present hour with zest
          Hates fretting what may be the rest,
          Makes bitter sweet with lazy jest;
          Naught is in every portion blest.”

I complimented him, in spite of my slight annoyance at being deprived by him of the chance to declaim Latin poetry, which is an exercise that I approve and enjoy; but of course, to go on with it, after he had intervened with his translation, would have been flat.

“You have written good English, and very close to the Latin, too,” I told him, “particularly in the last line.”  And I picked up from the bridge which we were crossing, an oyster-shell, and sent it skimming over the smooth water that stretched between the low shores, wide, blue, and vacant.

“I suppose you wonder why we call this the ‘New Bridge,’” he remarked.

“I did wonder when I first came,” I replied.

He smiled.  “You’re getting used to us!”

This long structure wore, in truth, no appearance of yesterday.  It was newer than the “New Bridge” which it had replaced some fifteen years ago, and which for forty years had borne the same title.  Spanning the broad river upon a legion of piles, this wooden causeway lies low against the face of the water, joining the town with a serene and pensive country of pines and live oaks and level opens, where glimpses of cabin and plantation serve to increase the silence and the soft, mysterious loneliness.  Into this the road from the bridge goes straight and among the purple vagueness gently dissolves away.