e last time. Orpheus lets his lyre sink, his head
drooping towards her--_multa volens dicere_--and holds her veil,
speechless. Eurydice, her head slightly bent, raises her eyes full
upon him. In that look is her last long farewell:--

Jamque vale, feror ingenti circumdata nocte,
Invalidas tibi tendens, heu! non tua, palmas.

Behind Eurydice stands Hermes, the sad, though youthful messenger of
the dead. He gently takes her hand; it is time; he would fain stay and
let the parting be delayed for ever, but he cannot. Come, we must go.
Eurydice feels it; she is looking for the last time at Orpheus, her
head and step are prepared to turn away--_jamque vale_. Truly this sad,
sympathising messenger of Hades is a beautiful thought, softening the
horror of the return to death.

And we look up again at the bas-relief, the whole story of Orpheus
laying firmer hold of our imagination; but as our eyes wander wistfully
over the marble, they fall, for the first time, upon a scrap of paper
pasted at the bottom of it, a wretched, unsightly, scarce legible rag,
such as insult some of the antiques in this gallery, and on it is
written:--"Antiope coi figli Anfione e Zeto." A sudden, perplexed wonder
fills our mind--wonder succeeded by amusement. The bunglers, why, they
must have glued the wrong label on the bas-relief. Of course! and we
turn out the number of the piece in the catalogue, the solemn, portly
catalogue--full of references to Fea, and Visconti, and Winckelmann.
Number--yes, here it is, here it is. What, again?

"Antiope urging her sons, Amphion and Zethus, to avenge her by the
murder of Dirce."

We put down the catalogue in considerable disgust. What, they don't see
that that is Orpheus and Eurydice! They dare, those soulless pedants,
to call _that_ Antiope with Amphion and Zethus! Ah!--and with smothered
indignation we leave the gallery. Passing through the little ilex copse
near the villa, the colossal bust of Winckelmann meets our eyes, the
heavy, clear-featured, strong-browed head of him who first revealed the
world of ancient art. And such profanation goes on, as it were, under
his eyes, in that very Villa Albani which he so loved, where he first
grew intimate with the antique! What would he have said to such
heartless obtuseness?

We have his great work, the work which no amount of additional learning
can ever supersede, because no amount of additional learning will ever
enable us to feel antique beauty more kee