autes," was my audible exclamation.

"There is something," resumed Guloseton, "in your countenance and
manner, at once so frank, lively, and ingenuous, that one is not only
prepossessed in your favour, but desirous of your friendship. I tell
you, therefore, in confidence, that nothing more amuses me than to see
the courtship I receive from each party. I laugh at all the unwise and
passionate contests in which others are engaged, and I would as soon
think of entering into the chivalry of Don Quixote, or attacking the
visionary enemies of the Bedlamite, as of taking part in the fury of
politicians. At present, looking afar off at their delirium, I can
ridicule it; were I to engage in it, I should be hurt by it. I have
no wish to become the weeping, instead of the laughing, philosopher. I
sleep well now--I have no desire to sleep ill. I eat well--why should I
lose my appetite? I am undisturbed and unattacked in the enjoyments best
suited to my taste--for what purpose should I be hurried into the abuse
of the journalists and the witticisms of pamphleteers? I can ask those
whom I like to my house--why should I be forced into asking those whom
I do not like? In fine, my good Pelham, why should I sour my temper
and shorten my life, put my green old age into flannel and physic,
and become, from the happiest of sages, the most miserable of fools?
Ambition reminds me of what Bacon says of anger--'It is like rain, it
breaks itself upon that which it falls on.' Pelham, my boy, taste the
Chateau Margot."

However hurt my vanity might be in having so ill succeeded in my
object, I could not help smiling with satisfaction at my entertainer's
principles of wisdom. My diplomatic honour, however, was concerned, and
I resolved yet to gain him. If, hereafter, I succeeded, it was by a very
different method than I had yet taken; meanwhile, I departed from the
house of this modern Apicius with a new insight into the great book of
mankind, and a new conclusion from its pages; viz. that no virtue can
make so perfect a philosopher as the senses; there is no content like
that of the epicure--no active code of morals so difficult to conquer
as the inertness of his indolence; he is the only being in the world for
whom the present has a supremer gratification than the future.

My cabriolet soon whirled me to Lady Roseville's door; the first person
I saw in the drawing-room, was Ellen. She lifted up her eyes with that
familiar sweetness with which t