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drinking. It is not a gift of nature, but acquired, therefore an art, if the schoolmen be right in their technical distinctions. It is also most practical, which is the essence of a perfect art: other arts may exist in their possessor in posse, yet be seldom or never in operation; whereas this must be always at work—for when the parasite ceases to get his dinners, there is an end, not only of the art, but of the artificer. It excels all other arts also in this,—that whereas most arts require toil and discipline, and even threats and stripes, in order to be learnt thoroughly—which things are manifestly contrary to our nature—this art can be studied pleasantly and cheerfully without any of these disagreeable accompaniments. "Who ever yet returned in tears from a feast, as many scholars do from their masters? Who that is going to a good dinner ever looks pale and melancholy, as those do who frequent the Schools?" Other arts we pay to learn, this we are paid for learning; others require a master, this may he learnt without. Other systems seem vague; all give different definitions of wisdom and happiness—and that which is so indefinite can have no real existence at all; whereas the end and object of Parasitism is distinct and obvious. And in this alone of all systems the practice of the school agrees with its professions. And whereas no parasite was ever known to desert his art and turn philosopher, many philosophers have turned parasites, and do so to this day. Euripides became the dependant of Archelaus of Macedon; and even Plato was content to sit at the table of the tyrant Dionysius. If the testimony