h each other at
the Theatre Francois, heard Mario, Grisi, Gratiano and Borghi Mamo in
Verdi's _Trovatore_ at the Opera Italien, danced with _les filles
de l'Opera_ at Cellarius's saloons, and 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. "Yo