am to blame for any neglect which your work experienced. Your publisher
can tell you that I was more anxious about your book than I have ever
been about my own."

"And the proof is that forty-nine copies were sold!"

"Sit down, Castruccio; sit down, and listen to reason;" and Maltravers
proceeded to explain, and soothe, and console. He reminded the poor
poet that his verses were written in a foreign tongue--that even English
poets of great fame enjoyed but a limited sale for their works--that it
was impossible to make the avaricious public purchase what the stupid
public would not take an interest in--in short, he used all those
arguments which naturally suggested themselves as best calculated to
convince and soften Castruccio; and he did this with so much evident
sympathy and kindness, that at length the Italian could no longer
justify his own resentment. A reconciliation took place, sincere on the
part of Maltravers, hollow on the part of Cesarini; for the disappointed
author could not forgive the successful one.

"And how long shall you stay in London?"

"Some months."

"Send for your luggage, and be my guest."

"No; I have taken lodgings that suit me. I am formed for solitude."

"While you stay here, you will, however, go into the world."

"Yes, I have some letters of introduction, and I hear that the English