rnished
with great luxury and some taste. A Venus of Titian's was placed over
the chimney-piece, in all the gorgeous voluptuousness of her unveiled
beauty--the pouting lip, not silent though shut--the eloquent lid
drooping over the eye, whose reveille you could so easily imagine--the
arms--the limbs--the attitude, so composed, yet so redolent of life--all
seemed to indicate that sleep was not forgetfulness, and that the dreams
of the goddess were not wholly inharmonious with the waking realities
in which it was her gentle prerogative to indulge. On either side, was
a picture of the delicate and golden hues of Claude; these were the only
landscapes in the room; the remaining pictures were more suitable to
the Venus of the luxurious Italian. Here was one of the beauties of Sir
Peter Lely; there was an admirable copy of the Hero and Leander. On
the table lay the Basia of Johannes Secundus, and a few French works on
Gastronomy.

As for the genius loci--you must imagine a middle-sized, middle-aged
man, with an air rather of delicate than florid health. But little of
the effects of his good cheer were apparent in the external man. His
cheeks were neither swollen nor inflated--his person, though not thin,
was of no unwieldy obesity--the tip of his nasal organ was, it is true,
of a more ruby tinge than the rest, and one carbuncle, of tender age
and gentle dyes, diffused its mellow and moonlight influence over the
physiognomical scenery--his forehead was high and bald, and the few
locks which still rose above it, were carefully and gracefully curled a
l'antique: Beneath a pair of grey shaggy brows, (which their noble owner
had a strange habit of raising and depressing, according to the nature
of his remarks,) rolled two very small, piercing, arch, restless orbs,
of a tender green; and the mouth, which was wide and thick-lipped, was
expressive of great sensuality, and curved upwards in a perpetual smile.

Such was Lord Guloseton. To my surprise no other guest but myself
appeared.

"A new friend," said he, as we descended into the dining-room, "is like
a new dish--one must have him all to oneself, thoroughly to enjoy and
rightly to understand him."

"A noble precept," said I, with enthusiasm. "Of all vices,
indiscriminate hospitality is the most pernicious. It allows us neither
conversation nor dinner, and realizing the mythological fable of
Tantalus, gives us starvation in the midst of plenty."

"You are right," said Gulose