ck, in the haughty virginal expression, the Psyche is
not unlike the Diana of the Louvre--and the Diana of the Louvre we have
said was like a certain young lady.

"After all," continues Clive, looking up at the great knotted legs of
that clumsy caricatured porter which Glykon the Athenian sculptured
in bad times of art surely,--"she could not write otherwise than she
did--don't you see? Her letter is quite kind and affectionate. You see
she says she shall always hear of me with pleasure: hopes I'll come back
soon, and bring some good pictures with me, since pictures I will do.
She thinks small beer of painters, J. J.--well, we don't think small
beer of ourselves, my noble friend. I--I suppose it must be over by this
time, and I may write to her as the Countess of Kew." The custode of
the apartment had seen admiration and wonder expressed by hundreds of
visitors to his marble Giant: but he had never known Hercules occasion
emotion before, as in the case of the young stranger; who, after staring
a while at the statue, dashed his hand across his forehead with a groan,
and walked away from before the graven image of the huge Strongman, who
had himself been made such a fool by women.

"My father wants me to go and see James and Madame de Florac," says
Clive, as they stride down the street to the Toledo.

J. J. puts his arm through his companion's, which is deep the pocket
of his velvet paletot. "You must not go home till you hear it is over,
Clive," whispers J. J.

"Of course not, old boy," says the other, blowing tobacco out of his
shaking head.

Not very long after their arrival, we may be sure they went to Pompeii,
of which place, as this is not an Italian tour, but a history of Clive
Newcome, Esquire, and his most respectable family, we shall offer
to give no description. The young man had read Sir Bulwer Lytton's
delightful story, which has become the history of Pompeii, before they
came thither, and Pliny's description, apud the Guide-Book. Admiring the
wonderful ingenuity with which the English writer had illustrated the
place by his text, as if the houses were so many pictures to which he
had appended a story, Clive, the wag, who was always indulging his vein
for caricature, was proposing that that they should take the same place,
names, people, and make a burlesque story: "What would be a better
figure," says he, "than Pliny's mother, whom the historian describes as
exceedingly corpulent, and walking away from