realise the artist’s dream.  I feel as if the moonlit air were charged with the secrets of the masters, and as if, standing here in religious attention, we might—­we might witness a revelation!” Perceiving at this moment, I suppose, my halting comprehension reflected in my puzzled face, this interesting rhapsodist paused and blushed.  Then with a melancholy smile, “You think me a moonstruck charlatan, I suppose.  It’s not my habit to bang about the piazza and pounce upon innocent tourists.  But tonight, I confess, I am under the charm.  And then, somehow, I fancied you too were an artist!”

“I am not an artist, I am sorry to say, as you must understand the term.  But pray make no apologies.  I am also under the charm; your eloquent remarks have only deepened it.”

“If you are not an artist you are worthy to be one!” he rejoined, with an expressive smile.  “A young man who arrives at Florence late in the evening, and, instead of going prosaically to bed, or hanging over the traveller’s book at his hotel, walks forth without loss of time to pay his devoirs to the beautiful, is a young man after my own heart!”

The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American!  He must have been, to take the picturesque so prodigiously to heart.  “None the less so, I trust,” I answered, “if the young man is a sordid New Yorker.”

“New Yorkers have been munificent patrons of art!” he answered, urbanely.

For a moment I was alarmed.  Was this midnight reverie mere Yankee enterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who had posted himself here to extort an “order” from a sauntering tourist?  But I was not called to defend myself.  A great brazen note broke suddenly from the far-off summit of the bell-tower above us, and sounded the first stroke of midnight.  My companion started, apologised for detaining me, and prepared to retire.  But he seemed to offer so lively a promise of further entertainment that I was indisposed to part with him, and suggested that we should stroll homeward together.  He cordially assented; so we turned out of the Piazza, passed down before the statued arcade of the Uffizi, and came out upon the Arno.  What course we took I hardly remember, but we roamed slowly about for an hour, my companion delivering by snatches a sort of moon-touched aesthetic lecture.  I listened in puzzled fascination, and wondered who the deuce he was.  He confessed with a melancholy but all-respectful head-shake to his American origin.

“We are the disinherited of Art!” he cried.  “We are condemned to be superficial!  We are excluded from the magic circle.  The soil of American perception is a poor little barren artificial deposit.  Yes! we are wedded to imperfection.  An American, to excel, has just ten times as much to learn as a European.  We lack the deeper sense.  We have neither taste, nor tact, nor power.  How should we have them?  Our crude and garish climate, our silent past, our deafening present, the constant pressure about us of unlovely circumstance, are as void of all that nourishes and prompts and inspires the artist, as my sad heart is void of bitterness in saying so!  We poor aspirants must live in perpetual exile.”