"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 can honour merit, even in an Italian." "You hear the truth, and it will amuse you, at least, to see our eminent men. They will receive you most hospitably. Let me assist you as a cicerone." "Oh, your /valuable/ time!" "Is at your disposal: but where are you going?" "It is Sunday, and I have had my curiosity excited to hear a celebrated preacher--Mr. ------, who they tell me, is now more talked of than /any author/ in London." "They tell you truly--I will go with you--I myself have not yet heard him, but proposed to do so this very day." "Are you not jealous of a man so much spoken of?" "Jealous!--why, I never set up for a popular preacher!--/ce n'est pas mon metier/." "If I were a /successful/ author, I should be jealous if the dancing-dogs were talked of." "No, my dear Cesarini, I am sure you would not. You are a little irritated at present by natural disappointment; but the man who has as much success as he deserves is never morbidly jealous, even of a rival in his own line. Want of success sours us; but a little sunshine smiles away the vapours. Come, we have no time to lose."