s so deeply versed in its greater and lesser
memories, so imbued with the local genius, that he was an altogether
ideal _valet de place_, and I was glad enough to leave my Murray at home,
and gather facts and opinions alike from his gossiping commentary. He
talked of Florence like a lover, and admitted that it was a very old
affair; he had lost his heart to her at first sight. "It's the fashion
to talk of all cities as feminine," he said, "but, as a rule, it's a
monstrous mistake. Is Florence of the same sex as New York, as Chicago?
She is the sole perfect lady of them all; one feels towards her as a lad
in his teens feels to some beautiful older woman with a 'history.' She
fills you with a sort of aspiring gallantry." This disinterested passion
seemed to stand my friend in stead of the common social ties; he led a
lonely life, and cared for nothing but his work. I was duly flattered by
his having taken my frivolous self into his favour, and by his generous
sacrifice of precious hours to my society. We spent many of these hours
among those early paintings in which Florence is so rich, returning ever
and anon, with restless sympathies, to wonder whether these tender
blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance and savour more precious than
the full-fruited knowledge of the later works. We lingered often in the
sepulchral chapel of San Lorenzo, and watched Michael Angelo's
dim-visaged warrior sitting there like some awful Genius of Doubt and
brooding behind his eternal mask upon the mysteries of life. We stood
more than once in the little convent chambers where Fra Angelico wrought
as if an angel indeed had held his hand, and gathered that sense of
scattered dews and early bird-notes which makes an hour among his relics
seem like a morning stroll in some monkish garden. We did all this and
much more--wandered into dark chapels, damp courts, and dusty
palace-rooms, in quest of lingering hints of fresco and lurking treasures
of carving.

I was more and more impressed with my companion's remarkable singleness
of purpose. Everything was a pretext for some wildly idealistic rhapsody
or reverie. Nothing could be seen or said that did not lead him sooner
or later to a glowing discourse on the true, the beautiful, and the good.
If my friend was not a genius, he was certainly a monomaniac; and I found
as great a fascination in watching the odd lights and shades of his
character as if he had been a creature from another pla