illed, gazed upon the broad expanse, and envied, perhaps,
every wind that bent its pinions towards the shores of Greece.

'Tell me, Clodius,' said the Greek at last, 'hast thou ever been in
love?'

'Yes, very often.'

'He who has loved often,' answered Glaucus, 'has loved never. There is
but one Eros, though there are many counterfeits of him.'

'The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the whole,' answered
Clodius.

'I agree with you,' returned the Greek. 'I adore even the shadow of
Love; but I adore himself yet more.'

'Art thou, then, soberly and honestly in love? Hast thou that feeling
which the poets describe--a feeling that makes us neglect our suppers,
forswear the theatre, and write elegies? I should never have thought
it. You dissemble well.'

'I am not far gone enough for that,' returned Glaucus, smiling, 'or
rather I say with Tibullus--

He whom love rules, where'er his path may be, Walks safe and sacred.

In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there were but occasion to
see the object. Eros would light his torch, but the priests have given
him no oil.'

'Shall I guess the object?--Is it not Diomed's daughter? She adores
you, and does not affect to conceal it; and, by Hercules, I say again
and again, she is both handsome and rich. She will bind the door-posts
of her husband with golden fillets.'

'No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed's daughter is handsome, I
grant: and at one time, had she not been the grandchild of a freedman, I
might have... Yet no--she carries all her beauty in her face; her
manners are not maiden-like, and her mind knows no culture save that of
pleasure.'

'You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate virgin?'

'You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago I was sojourning at
Neapolis, a city utterly to my own heart, for it still retains the
manners and stamp of its Grecian origin--and it yet merits the name of
Parthenope, from its delicious air and its beautiful shores. One day I
entered the temple of Minerva, to offer up my prayers, not for myself
more than for the city on which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was
empty and deserted. The recollections of Athens crowded fast and
meltingly upon me: imagining myself still alone in the temple, and
absorbed in the earnestness of my devotion, my prayer gushed from my
heart to my lips, and I wept as I prayed. I was startled in the midst of
my devotions, however, by a deep sigh; I