cy, and will
probably never be surpassed. This painter's violation of costume is,
in fact, only a defect in the eyes of antiquarians. The great mass of
society overlook it, and care only for what gratifies the eye and the
imagination. Nevertheless I would recommend to artists generally the
avoidance of subjects borrowed from ancient history. It is far easier
to excel in the folds and colourings of modern drapery, than to
delineate the light garb and native elegance of Grecian forms. Nor
could any painters, but those who lived in the times of Pericles and
Aspasia, do justice to those most classical and graceful of all
subjects. Oh! how I burn with impatient ardour to behold the storied
isles and continent of Greece! Their ancient splendour is no more, but
their pure and temperate clime still develops the noblest specimens of
the human race."

"Had our acquaintance commenced some years sooner," said I,
interrupting him, "I could have gratified your wish. I accompanied my
father, who went to Greece on a mission from the republic, and I
remained three years on the classic soil of Homer and Sophocles. I was
too young to make the most of my opportunities, but I succeeded in my
attempts to master the modern language, and at the same time greatly
improved my knowledge of ancient Greek."

At these words my companion started impetuously from his chair, and
strained me in a vehement embrace.

"Oh! rare and fortunate incident!" he exclaimed; "you are the
companion I have so long and vainly sought. A man so distinguished by
nobility of mind and person, and yet so young, it has never been my
good fortune to meet with. You will, you must be, the chosen friend of
my soul!"

I could not but suspect that some mystery was involved in this abrupt
and somewhat premature tender of his friendship; but I returned his
embrace with grateful ardour. It was impossible to resist the
contagion of his impassioned and headlong feelings. I trembled with
emotion, and vainly endeavoured to express in connected language how
greatly I valued his good opinion. It was midnight when he left me,
promising a long and early visit on the succeeding day.

I retired to bed in a state of excitement which banished sleep. To
subdue the vivid impression made upon me by the events of the day and
evening was impossible. I had, perhaps too unwarily, given a pledge of
fervent and enduring friendship to a man whose name and connections
were a mystery, and of whose ch