a friend more cruel than Lycurgus!" But at that very instant, as I was telling my troubles to the winds, a white-haired old man entered the picture-gallery; his face was care-worn, and he seemed, I know not why, to give promise of something great, although he bestowed so little care upon his dress that it was easily apparent that he belonged to that class of literati which the wealthy hold in contempt. "I am a poet," he remarked, when he had approached me and stood at my side, "and one of no mean ability, I hope, that is, if anything is to be inferred from the crowns which gratitude can place even upon the heads of the unworthy! Then why, you demand, are you dressed so shabbily? For that very reason; love or art never yet made anyone rich." The trader trusts his fortune to the sea and takes his gains, The warrior, for his deeds, is girt with gold; The wily sycophant lies drunk on purple counterpanes, Young wives must pay debauchees or they're cold. But solitary, shivering, in tatters Genius stands Invoking a neglected art, for succor at its hands. CHAPTER THE EIGHTY-FOURTH. "It is certainly true that a man is hated when he declares himself an enemy to all vice, and begins to follow the right road in life, because, in the first place, his habits are different from those of other people; for who ever approved of anything to which he took exceptions? Then, they whose only ambition is to pile up riches, don't want to believe that men can possess anything better than that which they have themselves; therefore, they use every means in their power to so buffet the lovers of literature that they will seem in their proper place--below the moneybags." "I know not why it should be so," (I said with a sigh), "but Poverty is the sister of Genius." ("You have good reason," the old man replied, "to deplore the status of men of letters." "No," I answered, "that was not the reason for my sigh, there is another and far weightier cause for my grief." Then, in accordance with the human propensity of pouring one's personal troubles into another's ears, I explained my misfortune to him, and dwelt particularly upon Ascyltos' perfidy.) "Oh how I wish that this enemy who is the cause of my enforced continence could be mollified," (I cried, with many a groan,) "but he is an old hand at robbery, and more cunning than the pimps themselves!" (My frankness pleased the old man, who attempted to comfort me and, to beguile my sorrow, he related the particulars of an amorous intrigue in which he himself had played a part.) CHAPTER THE EIGHTY-FIFTH.