The confidential freed-man made his appearance, not without a
slight smile, which his patron's good nature emboldened him to
hazard, at perceiving the beautiful Athenian.

"Arm my slaves, Endymion; there are reasons for precaution. Let
them relieve each other on guard during the night. Zoe, my love,
my preserver, why are your cheeks so pale? Let me kiss some
bloom into them. How you tremble! Endymion, a flask of Samian
and some fruit. Bring them to my apartments. This way, my sweet
Zoe."

...


ON THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF LITERATURE.

(June 1823.)

This is the age of societies. There is scarcely one Englishman
in ten who has not belonged to some association for distributing
books, or for prosecuting them; for sending invalids to the
hospital, or beggars to the treadmill; for giving plate to the
rich, or blankets to the poor. To be the most absurd institution
among so many institutions is no small distinction; it seems,
however, to belong indisputably to the Royal Society of
Literature. At the first establishment of that ridiculous
academy, every sensible man predicted that, in spite of regal
patronage and episcopal management, it would do nothing, or do
harm. And it will scarcely be denied that those expectations
have hitherto been fulfilled.