“That climax of all earthly ills,
    The inflammation of our weekly bills.”

In truth, his constant recurrence to the praise of avarice in Don Juan, and the humorous zest with which he delights to dwell on it, shows how new-fangled, as well as how far from serious, was his adoption of this “good old-gentlemanly vice.”  In the same spirit he had, a short time before my arrival at Venice, established a hoarding-box, with a slit in the lid, into which he occasionally put sequins, and, at stated periods, opened it to contemplate his treasures.  His own ascetic style of living enabled him, as far as himself was concerned, to gratify this taste for economy in no ordinary degree,—­his daily bill of fare, when the Margarita was his companion, consisting, I have been assured, of but four beccafichi, of which the Fornarina eat three, leaving even him hungry.

That his parsimony, however (if this new phasis of his ever-shifting character is to be called by such a name), was very far from being of that kind which Bacon condemns, as “withholding men from works of liberality,” is apparent from all that is known of his munificence, at this very period,—­some particulars of which, from a most authentic source, have just been cited, proving amply that while, for the indulgence of a whim, he kept one hand closed, he gave free course to his generous nature by dispensing lavishly from the other.  It should be remembered, too, that as long as money shall continue to be one of the great sources of power, so long will they who seek influence over their fellow-men attach value to it as an instrument; and the more lowly they are inclined to estimate the disinterestedness of the human heart, the more available and precious will they consider the talisman that gives such power over it.  Hence, certainly, it is not among those who have thought highest of mankind that the disposition to avarice has most generally displayed itself.  In Swift the love of money was strong and avowed; and to Voltaire the same propensity was also frequently imputed,—­on about as sufficient grounds, perhaps, as to Lord Byron.

On the day preceding that of my departure from Venice, my noble host, on arriving from La Mira to dinner, told me, with all the glee of a schoolboy who had been just granted a holiday, that, as this was my last evening, the Contessa had given him leave to “make a night of it,” and that accordingly he would not only accompany me to the opera, but we should sup together at some cafe (as in the old times) afterwards.  Observing a volume in his gondola, with a number of paper marks between the leaves, I enquired of him what it was?—­“Only a book,” he answered, “from which I am trying to crib, as I do wherever I can[52];—­and that’s the way I get the character of an original poet.”  On taking it up and looking into it, I exclaimed, “Ah, my old friend, Agathon!"[53]—­“What!” he cried, archly, “you have been beforehand with me there, have you?”