Far away though he stands to the left
of the good host, he has yet something in common with that third
person discernible on the right--that speck yonder, which I believe to
be Lucullus. Nothing that we know of Lucullus suggests that he was
less inhuman than the churl of Arden. It does not appear that he had a
single friend, nor that he wished for one. His lavishness was
indiscriminate except in that he entertained only the rich. One would
have liked to dine with him, but not even in the act of digestion
could one have felt that he had a heart. One would have acknowledged
that in all the material resources of his art he was a master, and
also that he practised his art for sheer love of it, wishing to be
admired for nothing but his mastery, and cocking no eye on any of
those ulterior objects but for which some of the most prominent hosts
would not entertain at all. But the very fact that he was an artist is
repulsive. When hospitality becomes an art it loses its very soul.
With this reflection I look away from Lucullus and, fixing my gaze on
the middle ground, am the better able to appreciate the excellence of
the figure that stands before me--the figure of Old Wardle. Some pride
and egoism in that capacious breast, yes, but a great heart full of
kindness, and ever a warm spontaneous welcome to the stranger in need,
and to all old friends and young.
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