t on acquiring. The life he led was like the
realization of a glorious dream,--the calm repose, the perfect stillness
of the spot, the boundless stores that lay about him; the growing
sense of power, as day by day his intellect expanded; new vistas opened
themselves before him, and new and unproved sources of pleasure sprang
up in his nature. The never-ending variety gave a zest, too, to his
labors that averted all weariness; and at last he divided his time
ingeniously, alternating grave and difficult subjects with lighter
topics,--making, as he said himself, "Aristophanes digest Plato."

And what of young Massy all this while? His life was a dream, too,
but of another and very different kind. Visions of a glorious future
alternated with sad and depressing thoughts; high darings, and hopeless
views of what lay before him, came and went, and went and came again.
The Duke, who had just taken his departure for some watering-place in
Germany, gave him an order for certain statues, the models for which
were to be ready by his return,--at least, in that sketchy state of
which clay is even more susceptible than canvas. The young artist chafed
and fretted under the restraint of an assigned task. It was gall to his
haughty nature to be told that his genius should accept dictation, and
his fancy be fettered by the suggestions of another. If he tried to
combat this rebellious spirit, and addressed himself steadily to labor,
he found that his imagination grew sluggish, and his mind uncreative.
The sense of servitude oppressed him; and though he essayed to subdue
himself to the condition of an humble artist, the old pride still
rankled in his heart, and spirited him to a haughty resistance. His days
thus passed over in vain attempts to work, or still more unprofitable
lethargy. He lounged through the deserted garden, or lay, half-dreamily,
in the long, deep grass, listening to the cicala, or watching the
emerald-backed lizards as they lay basking in the sun. He drank in all
the soft voluptuous influences of a climate which steeps the senses in
a luxurious stupor, making the commonest existence a toil, but giving to
mere indolence all the zest of a rich enjoyment. Sometimes he wandered
into the library, and noiselessly drew nigh the spot where Billy sat
deeply busied in his books. He would gaze silently, half curiously,
at the poor fellow, and then steal noiselessly away, pondering on the
blessings of that poor peasant's nature, and w