The archæological party, however, on their arrival, were not long content to remain in the more convenient locality; but, determining to explore the site of the ancient city, soon proceeded to climb the rocky height, rising from the other side of the modern road ; and they were well rewarded for their toil by the magnificent view, which thence unfolds itself, over land and sea.

Towards the edge of the cliff, they perceived a large, red umbrella, supported by a peasant girl, in the picturesque costume of the district; and just below, appeared something—a black object—that might have been some animal, sleeping in the grateful shadow of the red umbrella-or, as probably, a man's hat, worn by a person seated at the declivity of the ridge, which concealed the rest of the figure from the eye of a person standing in the position of the present observers. It was not till they approached the edge of the precipice, and advanced close to the girl holding the red umbrella, that they perceived that the black substance was really a hat, and that it belonged to the figure of an artist, seated upon a ledge of rock below, his canvas shaded from the vertical rays of a mid-day sun by the red umbrella, supported by the young peasant. The disturbed painter raised his head at the sound of approaching footsteps, and they at once recognised the familiar features of the long-absent member of their society, Robert Endsleigh. He, too, recognised his

friends, and springing to the spot where they were standing, with the agility of a born mountaineer, was soon in earnest conversation with the friends who had assisted to make his artistic sojourn in Naples so charming; and, giving a papetto to the pretty shade-bearer, he took charge himself of his painting materials and red umbrella, and strolled down to the inn with the archæological party; chatting and laughing with the light-hearted gaiety that had always rendered his society so desirable at their old Neapolitan meetings.

One of the party joked him rather smartly upon the charms of his parasol-bearer; but he laughed at the carica, parrying it with a genial retort, such as he always seemed to have ready; and then said, turning to another member of the society, "You will hardly believe that I am seriously engaged,' in the ' matrimonial' sense, at last, and that my intended is the handsomest woman in the world."

All declared their want of credit in the final termination of the Endsleigh romance, as they termed it; but of course expressed entire belief in the peerless beauty of the present innamorata.

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"Well, well!" replied Endsleigh, with a smile, you shall hear my story first, and give your verdict afterwards. It shall be told over our supper at the inn: I will tell you all about it while we sip our wine." "This is the inn of Terracina, you know," continued Endsleigh; "the scene of Auber's Fra Diavolo;

and, as there is no active romance going on here just now, you shall have a substitute. But do not raise your expectations; it will be but a short story, and will only last just long enough for us each to finish our fiaschetto of Orvieto-that delicious champagne of the Romans-which they are so fond of here; but which is only like sipping a kind of delicious vapour: it is so light-so slight-that I doubt whether we shall not all require a second flask,—and perhaps a third." And then Endsleigh, who seemed to understand so well the luxuries and modes of life of the region, was requested to superintend the arrangement of the frugal supper; and, while it was preparing, they all lounged at the window opening towards the sea, and in the soft moonlight, before the lamp, of quaint antique form, was placed upon the table, chatted away about old times and old friends, and old crockery, and old coins; and so passed one of the most charming half-hours of their lives.

Then came the smoking uccellini, and the ricotta, and the rich brown bread, and, not least, the promised flasks of the delicately aromatic Orvieto; and during the homely and simple repast, Endsleigh told the tale of his last love, which it was agreed should be accepted as the story of the meeting.

10

THE STUDENT OF THE VATICAN.

INSTEAD, said the narrator, of remaining some time in Greece, as I intended when I left Calabria early in the summer, I found that Athens had become a very unpleasant residence for an Englishman, in consequence of the prevalence of Russian intrigue; for the influence of the Czar was predominant in the Greek court, and English and French residents were subjected to every kind of annoyance that an ingenious police could suggest (and the modern Greeks are excessively ingenious in such matters, if they have no other good quality). I am inclined to think that, as a nation, they have fewer estimable traits of character than any other people I have known; and I say this having traversed both Europe and Western Asia from one end to the other. But I shall never get to the end of my story, if I dwell upon all the varieties of intrigue and treachery of which I could find apt illustrations in the character of these modern Greeks.

As nothing shackled my course, and finding Athens uncomfortable, I came again to Italy, for I have always loved Italy; and after a wild ramble in Calabria, some anecdotes of which I will tell you at another meeting, I passed from Reggio to Civita Vecchia by sea, and took up my quarters in Rome. I had deter

mined to study very hard during my residence there, having finally decided that historical painting was my fort; and I was determined to imbibe, as far as my inferior nature would allow, the inspiration that still emanates from the works of the divine Raphael, whose only real chef-d'œuvres are there. Other great masters of Italian art have their peculiar charm, each in its highest degree-Veronese is gorgeous, Parmegiano elegant, Titian manly, Michael Angelo titanic,—but Raphael is divine. No other painter has achieved that elevation of style or that elegant refinement of art, which lifts you above the level of earth. It is true there is something superhuman in the huge grandeur of the figures of Buonarotti; but it is the hugeness of giants, not the grandeur, the repose, of gods. That divine repose is a height in art that none have scaled but Raphael.

Before working at my own easel, I was each morning in that solitary gallery of the Vatican, containing a few, very few, pictures; but those few, the glories of the Italian school; most of which had been carried to the Louvre by the French, during the regime of the first Napoleon.

One morning, in front of the masterpiece of masterpieces, the last inspired work of Raphael, before which he died ere the last touches were dry, I perceived a young girl, seated with her painting materials, making a conscientious study of the head of the St. Peter.