“Then you persuaded her first that she was a clever girl, and she thought her comprehension would confirm the idea. I will wager a beauty against a bottle, or a haunch of venison against a page of rhyme, or ‘The Pleasures of Hope’ against ‘The Excursion,’ or any other boundless odds which you like to suggest, that with the same object in view she shall admire the Iliad or dote upon the Koran.” “There is no answer to such an argument. All I know is, that Amelia found nothing difficult in the poem.” “What! she told you so, I suppose.” “No; her eyes did.” “Then her eyes lied confoundedly. Never, my dear Davenant--never, while you live, believe in the language of the eyes. I would rather believe in the miracles of Apollonius, or the infallibility of the Pope of Rome, or the invincibility of the French army. I believed a pretty piercing pair once, which told me the wearer was very fond of a particular person, and I cultivated my whiskers accordingly, and did double duty at my glass. By Paphos and its patroness, she went off in a month with a tall captain of fusiliers, and left me to despondency and the new novel.” “And you longed to be so deceived again,” said Davenant. “No; it was very fatiguing. Never, while you live, believe in the language of the eyes. But you will, because you were born to be a fool, and you must fulfil your destiny. As Rousseau says--he is somewhere about the room----” “I have him in my hand,” said Davenant; “what a delightful little book! I dote upon the size, and the binding, and the type, and the----” “Yes; he was of great service to me a fortnight ago, when my hurt was rather annoying at night. My people prescribed opium, and I used to take Jean Jacques instead. But this way is my treasure-house of reading: _eh! le voici!_” And he led us up to a bookcase where was conspicuously placed an immense edition of Voltaire, and began taking down the volumes and expressing the dotage of his delight with wonderful rapidity. “Ah! Alzire! charming--and Merope; you are going to talk about Shakespeare, Davenant. Hold your tongue!--a noisy, gross, fatiguing--no, no: the French stage for me!--_Eh! ma belle Zaïre!_--the French stage for me!--_tout dort, tout est tranquille, et_--and Candide! oh! I could laugh for a century. _Et puis--la Pucelle! oh, pour le coup_----” And _le coup_ came with a vengeance; for Davenant, who hates a French play worse than poison, had just found something overpoweringly ridiculous in the woes of “L’Orphelin de la Chine,” and bursting into an ungovernable shriek of laughter, dropped some six or seven quarto volumes upon the wounded foot of our unfortunate stoic. He fell on the floor, in agony, and almost in a passion.