He lives, they say, in two dirty little rooms--knowing what is fit for him.

The patriarch's house?
Its antipodes, my young friend--that is, if such beings have a cosmic existence, on which point Hypatia has her doubts.

This is the temple of art and beauty; the Delphic tripod of poetic inspiration; the solace of the earthworn drudge; in a word, the theatre; which your patriarch, if he could, would convert to-morrow into a--but the philosopher must not revile.

Ah! I see the prefect's apparitors at the gate.

He is making the polity, as we call it here; the dispositions; settling, in short, the bill of fare for the day, in compliance with the public palate.