those that fade in our vases, so it is the secret of worldly wisdom to replace by fresn friendships those that fade from our path."
"True philosophy," exclaimed the Prince. "'Not to admire' was the Roman's maxim; never to mourn is mine. There is nothing in life to grieve for, save, indeed, Signer Zicci, when some beauty on whom we have set our heart, slips from our grasp. In such a moment we have need of all our wisdom not to succumb to despair and shake hands with death. What say you, signor? You smile. Such never could be your lot. Pledge me in a sentiment 'Long life to the fortunate lover—a quick release to the baffled suitor.'"
"I pledge you," said Zicci. And as the fatal wine was poured into his glass, he repeated, fixing his eyes on the Prince, "I pledge you even in this wine!"
He lifted the glass to his lips. The Prince seemed ghastly pale, while the gaze of the Corsican bent upon him with an intent and stern brightness that the conscience-stricken host cowered and quailed beneath. Not till he had drained the draught, and replaced the glass upon the board, did Zicci turn his eyes from the Prince; and he then said, "Your wine has been kept too long it has lost its virtues. It might disagree with many; but do not fear—it will not harm me, Prince. Signor Mascari, you are a judge of the grape—will you favour us with your opinion?"
"Nay," answered Mascari, with well-affected composure, "I like not the wines of Cyprus—they are heating. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have the same distaste. The English are said to love their potations warm and pungent."
"Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, Prince?" said Zicci. " Recollect all cannot drink it with the same impunity as myself."
"No," said the Prince, hastily; " if you do not recommend the wine, Heaven forbid that we should constrain our guests! My Lord Duke," turning to one of the Frenchmen, "yours is the true soil of Bacchus. What think you of this cask from Burgundy? has it borne the journey?"
"Ah!" said Zicci, "let us change both the wine and the theme." With that the Corsican grew more animated and brilliant. Never did wit more sparkling, airy, exhilarating, flash from the lips of reveller. His spirits fascinated all present—even the Prince himself—even Glyndon—with a strange and wild contagion. The former, indeed, whom the words and gaze of Zicci, when he drained the poison, had filled with fearful misgivings, now hailed in the brilliant eloquence of his wit a certain sign of the operation of the
