had many a midnight carouse afterward at the Maison Dore.  Nor had our time always been unprofitably spent.  Toward Easter we journeyed together to Rome, and stood side by side before the masterpieces of Raphael and Domenichino in the Vatican, strolled by moonlight amid the ruins of the Coliseum, and drank out of the same cup from the Fountain of Trevi; often visited Crawford’s studio, where then stood the famous group which now adorns the frieze of the Capitol at Washington, and by actual observation agreed in thinking his Indian not unworthy of comparison with the famous statue of the Dying Gladiator.  We stood together on the Tarpeian Rock, and, looking down upon the mutilated Column of Trajan and all the ruins of ancient Rome, read out of the same copy of Horace the famous ode beginning, “Exegi monumentum aere perennius.”  We were both passionately fond of sculpture and of painting, and often sat for hours before the glorious Descent from the Cross of Daniel da Volterra in the Chiesa della Trinita dei Monti, the principal figure in which is said to have been sketched by Michael Angelo, and which, although less widely known, appeared to our minds equal in execution and superior in grandeur to any other painting in the world.

After our return to this country I happened to go South one winter, and spent a month with my friend on his plantation in the low country of Carolina.  It seemed to be our fate to meet amid the ruins of the past.  But the war had not then occurred, and we had many a hunt together, in which, after a glorious burst of the hounds through the open savannas, I brought down more than one noble buck.  On other days we would drive with the ladies along the broad beach upon which stood the summer residences of the neighboring planters.  And sometimes we would stroll lazily about the lanes of his estate, basking in the mellow sunshine in the midst of February, and chatting of Capri and Sorrento in a climate equal to that of Italy.

And we met again the other day in the streets of a Northern city.  He looked older certainly, and very careworn, but his eye was as bright as ever and his voice as cheery.

“Come and dine with me,” he said after we had given each other a hurried account of our present abodes and occupations.  “You will find me in rather modest and decidedly airy lodgings, and I cannot offer you either wild-ducks or venison.  A rasher of bacon and a glass of madeira as we chat over old times:  what say you to the bill-of fare?  You remember the old French adage, ’Quand on n’a pas ce que l’on aime, faut bien aimer ce que l’on a.’”

“A quelle heure, mon ami?”

“Four o’clock.”

And at five that afternoon we were seated together, the remnants of our frugal repast removed, and on the scrupulously polished old mahogany table which separated us stood a cut-glass decanter of old Carolina madeira, the bouquet of which filled the room with its fragrance.