“I perceive,” resumed Kenelm, “that my observations surprise you: the surprise will vanish on reflection. It has been said by another poet, more reflective than Ovid, that ‘the world is governed by love and hunger.’ But hunger certainly has the lion’s share of the government; and if a poet is really to do what he pretends to do,--namely, represent nature,--the greater part of his lays should be addressed to the stomach.” Here, warming with his subject, Kenelm familiarly laid his hand on the musician’s shoulder, and his voice took a tone bordering on enthusiasm. “You will allow that a man in the normal condition of health does not fall in love every day. But in the normal condition of health he is hungry every day. Nay, in those early years when you poets say he is most prone to love, he is so especially disposed to hunger that less than three meals a day can scarcely satisfy his appetite. You may imprison a man for months, for years, nay, for his whole life,--from infancy to any age which Sir Cornewall Lewis may allow him to attain,--without letting him be in love at all. But if you shut him up for a week without putting something into his stomach, you will find him at the end of it as dead as a door-nail.” Here the singer, who had gradually retreated before the energetic advance of the orator, sank into the seat by the elm-tree and said pathetically, “Sir, you have fairly argued me down. Will you please to come to the conclusion which you deduce from your premises?” “Simply this, that where you find one human being who cares about love, you will find a thousand susceptible to the charms of a dinner; and if you wish to be the popular minne-singer or troubadour of the age, appeal to nature, sir,--appeal to nature; drop all hackneyed rhapsodies about a rosy cheek, and strike your lyre to the theme of a beefsteak.” The dog had for some minutes regained his master’s side, standing on his hind legs, with the tray, tolerably well filled with copper coins, between his teeth; and now, justly aggrieved by the inattention which detained him in that artificial attitude, dropped the tray and growled at Kenelm. At the same time there came an impatient sound from the audience in the tea-garden. They wanted another song for their money. The singer rose, obedient to the summons. “Excuse me, sir; but I am called upon to--” “To sing again?” “Yes.” “And on the subject I suggest?” “No, indeed.” “What! love, again?” “I am afraid so.” “I wish you good evening then. You seem a well-educated man,--more shame to you. Perhaps we may meet once more in our rambles, when the question can be properly argued out.” Kenelm lifted his hat, and turned on his heel. Before he reached the street, the sweet voice of the singer again smote his ears; but the only word distinguishable in the distance, ringing out at the close of the refrain, was “love.” “Fiddle-de-dee,” said Kenelm. CHAPTER VI.