No More Learning

_Zeus_. Well, if he does not stop the hole--if the leak is more than
temporary--you will run out in no time, and he can find his
smock-frock and spade again in the dregs of the cask. Now go along,
both of you, and make the man rich. And, Hermes, on your way back,
remember to bring the Cyclopes with you from Etna; my thunderbolt
wants the grindstone; and I have work for it as soon as it is sharp.

_Her_. Come along, Plutus. Hullo! limping? My good man, I did not know
you were lame as well as blind.

_Pl_. No, it is intermittent. As sure as Zeus sends me _to_ any one, a
sort of lethargy comes over me, my legs are like lead, and I can
hardly get to my journey's end; my destined host is sometimes an old
man before I reach him. As a parting guest, on the other hand, you may
see me wing my way swifter than any dream. 'Are you ready? ' and almost
before 'Go' has sounded, up goes my name as winner; I have flashed
round the course absolutely unseen sometimes.

_Her_. You are not quite keeping to the truth; I could name you plenty
of people who yesterday had not the price of a halter to hang
themselves with, and to-day have developed into lavish men of fortune;
they drive their pair of high-steppers, whereas a donkey would have
been beyond their means before. They go about in purple raiment with
jewelled fingers, hardly convinced yet that their wealth is not all a
dream.

_Pl_. Ah, those are special cases, Hermes. I do not go on my own feet
on those occasions, and it is not Zeus who sends me, but Pluto, who
has his own ways of conferring wealth and making presents; Pluto and
Plutus are not unconnected, you see. When I am to flit from one house
to another, they lay me on parchment, seal me up carefully, make a
parcel of me and take me round. The dead man lies in some dark corner,
shrouded from the knees upward in an old sheet, with the cats fighting
for possession of him, while those who have expectations wait for me
in the public place, gaping as wide as young swallows that scream for
their mother's return.

Then the seal is taken off, the string cut, the parchment opened, and
my new owner's name made known. It is a relation, or a parasite, or
perhaps a domestic minion, whose value lay in his vices and his smooth
cheeks; he has continued to supply his master with all sorts of
unnatural pleasures beyond the years which might excuse such service,
and now the fine fellow is richly rewarded. But whoever it is, he
snatches me up, parchment included, and is off with me in a flash; he
used to be called Pyrrhias or Dromo or Tibius, but now he is Megacles,
Megabyzus, or Protarchus; off he goes, leaving the disappointed ones
staring at each other in very genuine mourning-over the fine fish
which has jumped out of the landing-net after swallowing their good
bait.

The fellow who _has_ pounced on me has neither taste nor feeling; the
sight of fetters still gives him a start; crack a whip in his
neighbourhood, and his ears tingle; the treadmill is an abode of awe
to him. He is now insufferable--insults his new equals, and whips his
old fellows to see what that side of the transaction feels like. He
ends by finding a mistress, or taking to the turf, or being cajoled by
parasites; these have only to swear he is handsomer than Nireus,
nobler than Cecrops or Codrus, wiser than Odysseus, richer than a
dozen Croesuses rolled into one; and so the poor wretch disperses in a
moment what cost so many perjuries, robberies, and swindles to amass.

_Her_. A very fair picture. But when you go on your own feet, how can
a blind man like you find the way? Zeus sends you to people who he
thinks deserve riches; but how do you distinguish them?

_Pl_. Do you suppose I do find them? not much. I should scarcely have
passed Aristides by, and gone to Hipponicus, Callias, and any number
of other Athenians whose merits could have been valued in copper.

_Her_. Well, but what do you do when he sends you?

_Pl_. I just wander up and down till I come across some one; the first
comer takes me off home with him, and thanks--whom but the God of
windfalls, yourself?

_Her_. So Zeus is in error, and you do not enrich deserving persons
according to his pleasure?

_Pl_. My dear fellow, how can he expect it? He knows I am blind, and
he sends me groping about for a thing so hard to detect, and so nearly
extinct this long time, that a Lynceus would have his work cut out
spying for its dubious remains. So you see, as the good are few, and
cities are crowded with multitudes of the bad, I am much more likely
to come upon the latter in my rambles, and they keep me in their nets.

_Her_. But when you are leaving them, how do you find escape so easy?
you do not know the way.

_Pl_. Ah, there is just one occasion which brings me quickness of eye
and foot; and that is flight.

_Her_. Yet another question. You are not only blind (excuse my
frankness), but pallid and decrepit; how comes it, then, that you have
so many lovers? All men's looks are for you; if they get possession of
you, they count themselves happy men; if they miss you, life is not
worth living. Why, I have known not a few so sick for love of you that
they have scaled some sky-pointing crag, and thence hurled themselves
to unplumbed ocean depths [Footnote: See Apology for 'The Dependent
Scholar,'], when they thought they were scorned by you, because you
would not acknowledge their first salute. I am sure you know yourself
well enough to confess that they must be lunatics, to rave about such
charms as yours.

_Pl_. Why, you do not suppose they see me in my true shape, lame,
blind, and so forth?

_Her_. How else, unless they are all as blind themselves?

_Pl_. They are not blind, my dear boy; but the ignorant misconceptions
now so prevalent obscure their vision. And then I contribute; not to
be an absolute fright when they see me, I put on a charming mask, all
gilt and jewels, and dress myself up. They take the mask for my face,
fall in love with its beauty, and are dying to possess it. If any one
were to strip and show me to them naked, they would doubtless reproach
themselves for their blindness in being captivated by such an ugly
misshapen creature,

_Her_. How about fruition, then? When they are rich, and have put the
mask on themselves, they are still deluded; if any one tries to take
it off, they would sooner part with their heads than with it; and it
is not likely they do not know by that time that the beauty is
adventitious, now that they have an inside view. _Pl_. There too I
have powerful allies.

_Her_. Namely--?

_Pl_. When a man makes my acquaintance, and opens the door to let me
in, there enter unseen by my side Arrogance, Folly, Vainglory,
Effeminacy, Insolence, Deceit, and a goodly company more. These
possess his soul; he begins to admire mean things, pursues what he
should abhor, reveres me amid my bodyguard of the insinuating vices
which I have begotten, and would consent to anything sooner than part
with me.

_Her_. What a smooth, slippery, unstable, evasive fellow you are,
Plutus! there is no getting a firm hold of you; you wriggle through
one's fingers somehow, like an eel or a snake. Poverty is so
different--sticky, clinging, all over hooks; any one who comes near
her is caught directly, and finds it no simple matter to get clear.
But all this gossip has put business out of our heads.

_Pl_. Business? What business?

_Her_. We have forgotten to bring Thesaurus, and we cannot do without
him.

_Pl_. Oh, never mind him. When I come up to see you, I leave him on
earth, with strict orders to stay indoors, and open to no one unless
he hears my voice.

_Her_. Then we may make our way into Attica; hold on to my cloak till
I find Timon's retreat.

_Pl_. It is just as well to keep touch; if you let me drop behind, I
am as likely as not to be snapped up by Hyperbolus or Cleon. But what
is that noise? it sounds like iron on stone.

_Her_. Ah, here is Timon close to us; what a steep stony little plot
he has got to dig! Good gracious, I see Poverty and Toil in
attendance, Endurance, Wisdom, Courage, and Hunger's whole company in
full force--much more efficient than your guards, Plutus.

_Pl_. Oh dear, let us make the best of our way home, Hermes. We shall
never produce any impression on a man surrounded by such troops.

_Her_. Zeus thought otherwise; so no cowardice.

_Pov_. Slayer of Argus, whither away, you two hand in hand?

_Her_. Zeus has sent us to Timon here.

_Pov_. Now? What has Plutus to do with Timon now? I found him
suffering under Luxury's treatment, put him in the charge of Wisdom
and Toil (whom you see here), and made a good worthy man of him. Do
you take me for such a contemptible helpless creature that you can rob
me of my little all? have I perfected him in virtue, only to see
Plutus take him, trust him to Insolence and Arrogance, make him as
soft and limp and silly as before, and return him to me a worn-out rag
again?

_Her_. It is Zeus's will.

_Pov_. I am off, then. Toil, Wisdom, and the rest of you, quick march!
Well, he will realize his loss before long; he had a good help meet in
me, and a true teacher; with me he was healthy in body and vigorous in
spirit; he lived the life of a man, and could be independent, and see
the thousand and one needless refinements in all their absurdity.

_Her_. There they go, Plutus; let us come to him.

_Tim_. Who are you, villains? What do you want here, interrupting a
hired labourer? You shall have something to take with you, confound
you all! These clods and stones shall provide you with a broken head
or two.

_Her_. Stop, Timon, don't throw. We are not men; I am Hermes, and this
is Plutus; Zeus has sent us in answer to your prayers. So knock off
work, take your fortune, and much good may it do you!

_Tim_. I dare say you _are_ Gods; that shall not save you. I hate
every one, man or God; and as for this blind fellow, whoever he may
be, I am going to give him one over the head with my spade.

_Pl_. For God's sake, Hermes, let us get out of this! the man is
melancholy-mad, I believe; he will do me a mischief before I get off.

_Her_. Now don't be foolish, Timon; cease overdoing the ill-tempered
boor, hold out your hands, take your luck, and be a rich man again.
Have Athens at your feet, and from your solitary eminence you can
forget ingratitude.

_Tim_. I have no use for you; leave me in peace; my spade is riches
enough for me; for the rest, I am perfectly happy if people will let
me alone.

_Her_. My dear sir--so unsociable?

So stiff and stubborn a reply to Zeus?

A misanthrope you may well be, after the way men have treated you; but
with the Gods so thoughtful for you, you need not be a misotheist.

_Tim_. Very well, Hermes; I am extremely obliged to you and Zeus for
your thoughtfulness--there; but I will not have Plutus.

_Her_. Why, pray?

_Tim_. He brought me countless troubles long ago--put me in the power
of flatterers, set designing persons on me, stirred up ill-feeling,
corrupted me with indulgence, exposed me to envy, and wound up with
treacherously deserting me at a moment's notice. Then the excellent
Poverty gave me a drilling in manly labour, conversed with me in all
frankness and sincerity, rewarded my exertions with a sufficiency, and
taught me to despise superfluities; all hopes of a livelihood were to
depend on myself, and I was to know my true wealth, unassailable by
parasites' flattery or informers' threats, hasty legislatures or
decree-mongering legislators, and which even the tyrant's machinations
cannot touch.

So, toil-hardened, working with a will at this bit of ground, my eyes
rid of city offences, I get bread enough and to spare out of my spade.
Go your ways, then, Hermes, and take Plutus back to Zeus. I am quite
content to let every man of them go hang.

_Her_. Oh, that would be a pity; they are not all hanging-ripe. Don't
make a passionate child of yourself, but admit Plutus. Zeus's gifts
are too good to be thrown away.

_Pl_. Will you condescend to argue with me, Timon? or does my voice
provoke you?

_Tim_. Oh, talk away; but be brief; no rascally lawyer's 'opening the
case. ' I can put up with a few words from you, for Hermes' sake.

_Pl_. A speech of some length might seem to be needed, considering the
number of your charges; however, just examine your imputations of
injustice. It was I that gave you those great objects of desire--
consideration, precedence, honours, and every delight; all eyes and
tongues and attentions were yours--my gifts; and if flatterers abused
you, I am not responsible for that. It is I who should rather
complain; you prostituted me vilely to scoundrels, whose laudations
and cajolery of you were only samples of their designs upon me. As to
your saying that I wound up by betraying you, you have things
topsy-turvy again; _I_ may complain; you took every method to estrange
me, and finally kicked me out neck and crop. That is why your revered
Dame Poverty has supplied you with a smock-frock to replace your soft
raiment. Why, I begged and prayed Zeus (and Hermes heard me) that I
might be excused from revisiting a person who had been so unfriendly
to me as you.

_Her_. But you see how he is changed, Plutus; you need not be afraid
to live with him now. Just go on digging, Timon; and you, Plutus, put
Thesaurus in position; he will come at your call.

_Tim_. I must obey, and be a rich man again, Hermes; what can one do,
when Gods insist? But reflect what troubles you are bringing on my
luckless head; I have had a blissful life of late, and now for no
fault of my own I am to have my hands full of gold and care again.

_Her_. Hard, intolerable fate! yet endure for my sake, if only that
the flatterers may burst themselves with envy. And now for heaven, via
Etna.

_Pl_. He is off, I suppose, from the beating of his wings. Now, you
stay where you are, while I go and fetch Thesaurus to you; or rather,
dig hard. Here, Gold! Thesaurus I say! answer Timon's summons and let
him unearth you. Now, Timon, with a will; a deep stroke or two. I will
leave you together.

_Tim_. Come, spade, show your mettle; stick to it; invite Thesaurus to
step up from his retreat. . . . O God of Wonders! O mystic priests! O
lucky Hermes! whence this flood of gold? Sure, 'tis all a dream;
methinks 'twill be ashes when I wake.
And yet--coined gold, ruddy and
heavy, a feast of delight!

O gold, the fairest gift to mortal eyes!
be it night, or be it day,
Thou dost outshine all else like living fire.

Come to me, my own, my beloved. I doubt the tale no longer; well might
Zeus take the shape of gold; where is the maid that would not open her
bosom to receive so fair a lover gliding through the roof?

Talk of Midas, Croesus, Delphic treasures! they were all nothing to
Timon and his wealth; why, the Persian King could not match it. My
spade, my dearest smock-frock, you must hang, a votive offering to
Pan. And now I will buy up this desert corner, and build a tiny castle
for my treasure, big enough for me to live in all alone, and, when I
am dead, to lie in. And be the rule and law of my remaining days to
shun all men, be blind to all men, scorn all men. Friendship,
hospitality, society, compassion--vain words all. To be moved by
another's tears, to assist another's need--be such things illegal and
immoral. Let me live apart like a wolf; be Timon's one friend--Timon.

All others are my foes and ill-wishers; to hold communion with them is
pollution; to set eyes upon one of them marks the day unholy; let them
be to me even as images of bronze or stone. I will receive no herald
from them, keep with them no truce; the bounds of my desert are the
line they may not cross. Cousin and kinsman, neighbour and
countryman--these are dead useless names, wherein fools may find a
meaning. Let Timon keep his wealth to himself, scorn all men, and live
in solitary luxury, quit of flattery and vulgar praise; let him
sacrifice and feast alone, his own associate and neighbour, far from
[Footnote: Reading, with Dindorf, _hekas o`n_ for _ekseio`n_. ] the
world. Yea, when his last day comes, let there be none to close his
eyes and lay him out, but himself alone.

Be the name he loves Misanthropus, and the marks whereby he may be
known peevishness and spleen, wrath and rudeness and abhorrence. If
ever one burning to death should call for help against the flames, let
me help--with pitch and oil. If another be swept past me by a winter
torrent, and stretch out his hands for aid, then let mine press him
down head under, that he never rise again. So shall they receive as
they have given. Mover of this resolution--Timon, son of Echecratides
of Collytus. Presiding officer--the same Timon. The ayes have it. Let
it be law, and duly observed.

All the same, I would give a good deal to have the fact of my enormous
wealth generally known; they would all be fit to hang themselves over
it. . . . Why, what is this? Well, that is quick work. Here they come
running from every point of the compass, all dusty and panting; they
have smelt out the gold somehow or other. Now, shall I get on top of
this knoll, keep up a galling fire of stones from my point of vantage,
and get rid of them that way? Or shall I make an exception to my law
by parleying with them for once? contempt might hit harder than
stones. Yes, I think that is better; I will stay where I am, and
receive them. Let us see, who is this in front? Ah, Gnathonides the
flatterer; when I asked an alms of him the other day, he offered me a
halter; many a cask of my wine has he made a beast of himself over. I
congratulate him on his speed; first come, first served.

_Gna_. What did I tell them? --Timon was too good a man to be abandoned
by Providence. How are you, Timon? as good-looking and good-tempered,
as good a fellow, as ever?

_Tim_. And you, Gnathonides, still teaching vultures rapacity, and men
cunning?

_Gna_. Ah, he always liked his little joke. But where do you dine? I
have brought a new song with me, a march out of the last musical thing
on.

_Tim_. It will be a funeral march, then, and a very touching one, with
spade _obbligato_.

_Gna_. What means this? This is assault, Timon; just let me find a
witness! . . . Oh, my God, my God! . . . I'll have you before the
Areopagus for assault and battery.

_Tim_. You'd better not wait much longer, or you'll have to make it
murder.

_Gna_. Mercy, mercy! . . . Now, a little gold ointment to heal the
wound; it is a first-rate styptic.

_Tim_. What! you _won't_ go, won't you?

_Gna_. Oh, I am going. But you shall repent this. Alas, so genial
once, and now so rude!

_Tim_. Now who is this with the bald crown? Why, it is Philiades; if
there is a loathsome flatterer, it is he. When I sang that song that
nobody else would applaud, he lauded me to the skies, and swore no
dying swan could be more tuneful; his reward was one of my farms, and
a 500 pounds portion for his daughter. And then when he found I was
ill, and had come to him for assistance, his generous aid took the
form of blows.

_Phil_. You shameless creatures! yes, yes, _now_ you know Timon's
merits! _now_ Gnathonides would be his friend and boon-companion!
well, he has the right reward of ingratitude. Some of us were his
familiars and playmates and neighbours; but _we_ hold back a little;
we would not seem to thrust ourselves upon him. Greeting, lord Timon;
pray let me warn you against these abominable flatterers; they are
your humble servants during meal-times, and else about as useful as
carrion crows. Perfidy is the order of the day; everywhere ingratitude
and vileness. I was just bringing a couple of hundred pounds, for your
immediate necessities, and was nearly here before I heard of your
splendid fortune. So I just came on to give you this word of caution;
though indeed you are wise enough (I would take your advice before
Nestor's myself) to need none of my counsel.

_Tim_. Quite so, Philiades. But come near, will you not, and receive
my--spade!

_Phil_. Help, help! this thankless brute has broken my head, for
giving him good counsel.

_Tim_. Now for number three. Lawyer Demeas--my cousin, as he calls
himself, with a decree in his hand. Between three and four thousand it
was that I paid in to the Treasury in ready money for him; he had been
fined that amount and imprisoned in default, and I took pity on him.
Well, the other day he was distributing-officer of the festival money
[Footnote: Every citizen had the right to receive from the State the
small sum which would pay for his admission to theatrical or other
festival entertainments. ]; when I applied for my share, he pretended I
was not a citizen.

_Dem_. Hail, Timon, ornament of our race, pillar of Athens, shield of
Hellas! The Assembly and both Councils are met, and expect your
appearance. But first hear the decree which I have proposed in your
honour. 'WHEREAS Timon son of Echecratides of Collytus who adds to
high position and character a sagacity unmatched in Greece is a
consistent and indefatigable promoter of his country's good and
Whereas he has been victorious at Olympia on one day in boxing
wrestling and running as well as in the two and the four-horse chariot
races--'

_Tim_. Why, I was never so much as a spectator at Olympia.

_Dem_. What does that matter? you will be some day. It looks better to
have a good deal of that sort in--'and Whereas he fought with
distinction last year at Acharnae cutting two Peloponnesian companies
to pieces--'

_Tim_. Good work that, considering that my name was not on the
muster-rolls, because I could not afford a suit of armour.

_Dem_. Ah, you are modest; but it would be ingratitude in us to forget
your services--'and Whereas by political measures and responsible
advice and military action he has conferred great benefits on his
country Now for all these reasons it is the pleasure of the Assembly
and the Council the ten divisions of the High Court and the Borough
Councils individually and collectively THAT a golden statue of the
said Timon be placed on the Acropolis alongside of Athene with a
thunderbolt in the hand and a seven-rayed aureole on the head Further
that golden garlands be conferred on him and proclaimed this day at
the New Tragedies [Footnote: See _Dionysia_ in Notes] the said day
being kept in his honour as the Dionysia. Mover of the Decree Demeas
the pleader the said Timon's near relation and disciple the said Timon
being as distinguished in pleading as in all else wherein it pleases
him to excel. '

So runs the decree. I had designed also to present to you my son, whom
I have named Timon after you.

_Tim_. Why, I thought you were a bachelor, Demeas.

_Dem_. Ah, but I intend to marry next year; my child--which is to be a
boy--I hereby name Timon.

_Tim_. I doubt whether you will feel like marrying, my man, when I
have given you--this!

_Dem_. Oh Lord! what is that for? . . . You are plotting a _coup
d'etat_, you Timon; you assault free men, and you are neither a free
man nor a citizen yourself. You shall soon be called to account for
your crimes; it was you set fire to the Acropolis, for one thing.

_Tim_. Why, you scoundrel, the Acropolis has not been set on fire; you
are a common blackmailer.

_Dem_. You got your gold by breaking into the Treasury.

_Tim_. It has not been broken into, either; you are not even
plausible.

_Dem_. There is time for the burglary yet; meantime, you are in
possession of the treasures.

_Tim_. Well, here is another for you, anyhow.

_Dem_. Oh! oh! my back!

_Tim_. Don't make such a noise, if you don't want a third. It would be
too absurd, you know, if I could cut two companies of Spartans to
pieces without my armour, and not be able to give a single little
scoundrel his deserts. My Olympic boxing and wrestling victories would
be thrown away.

Whom have we now? is this Thrasycles the philosopher? sure enough it
is. A halo of beard, eyebrows an inch above their place, superiority
in his air, a look that might storm heaven, locks waving to the wind--
'tis a very Boreas or Triton from Zeuxis' pencil. This hero of the
careful get-up, the solemn gait, the plain attire--in the morning he
will utter a thousand maxims, expounding Virtue, arraigning self-
indulgence, lauding simplicity; and then, when he gets to dinner after
his bath, his servant fills him a bumper (he prefers it neat), and
draining this Lethe-draught he proceeds to turn his morning maxima
inside out; he swoops like a hawk on dainty dishes, elbows his
neighbour aside, fouls his beard with trickling sauce, laps like a
dog, with his nose in his plate, as if he expected to find Virtue
there, and runs his finger all round the bowl, not to lose a drop of
the gravy. Let him monopolize pastry or joint, he will still criticize
the carving--that is all the satisfaction his ravenous greed brings
him--; when the wine is in, singing and dancing are delights not
fierce enough; he must brawl and rave. He has plenty to say in his
cups--he is then at his best in that kind--upon temperance and
decorum; he is full of these when his potations have reduced him to
ridiculous stuttering. Next the wine disagrees with him, and at last
he is carried out of the room, holding on with all his might to the
flute-girl. Take him sober, for that matter, and you will hardly find
his match at lying, effrontery or avarice. He is _facile princeps_ of
flatterers, perjury sits on his tongue-tip, imposture goes before him,
and shamelessness is his good comrade; oh, he is a most ingenious
piece of work, finished at all points, a _multum in parvo_. I am
afraid his kind heart will be grieved presently. Why, how is this,
Thrasycles? I must say, you have taken your time about coming.

_Thr_. Ah, Timon, I am not come like the rest of the crowd; _they_ are
dazzled by your wealth; they are gathered together with an eye to gold
and silver and high living; they will soon be showing their servile
tricks before your unsuspicious, generous self. As for me, you know a
crust is all the dinner I care for; the relish I like best is a bit of
thyme or cress; on festal days I may go as far as a sprinkling of
salt. My drink is the crystal spring; and this threadbare cloak is
better than your gay robes. Gold--I value it no higher than pebbles on
the beach. What brought _me_ was concern for you; I would not have you
ruined by this same pestilent wealth, this temptation for plunderers;
many is the man it has sunk in helpless misery. Take my advice, and
fling it bodily into the sea; a good man, to whom the wealth of
philosophy is revealed, has no need of the other. It does not matter
about deep water, my good sir; wade in up to your waist when the tide
is near flood, and _let no one see you but me_. Or if that is not
satisfactory, here is another plan even better. Get it all out of the
house as quick as you can, not reserving a penny for yourself, and
distribute it to the poor five shillings to one, five pounds to
another, a hundred to a third; philosophy might constitute a claim to
a double or triple share. For my part--and I do not ask for myself,
only to divide it among my needy friends--I should be quite content
with as much as my scrip would hold; it is something short of two
standard bushels; if one professes philosophy, one must be moderate
and have few needs--none that go beyond the capacity of a scrip.

_Tim_. Very right, Thrasycles. But instead of a mere scripful, pray
take a whole headful of clouts, standard measure by the spade.

_Thr_. Land of liberty, equality, legality! protect me against this
ruffian!

_Tim_. What is your grievance, my good man? is the measure short? here
is a pint or two extra, then, to put it right.

Why, what now? here comes a crowd; friend Blepsias, Laches, Gniphon;
their name is legion; they shall howl soon. I had better get up on the
rock; my poor tired spade wants a little rest; I will collect all the
stones I can lay hands on, and pepper them at long range.

_Bl_. Don't throw, Timon; we are going.

_Tim_. Whether the retreat will be bloodless, however, is another
question.

H.




PROMETHEUS ON CAUCASUS

_Hermes. Hephaestus. Prometheus. _


_Her_.