Crowded in the glassy bay were the vessels of commerce and the gilded
galleys for the pleasures of the rich citizens. The boats of the
fishermen glided rapidly to and fro; and afar off you saw the tall masts
of the fleet under the command of Pliny. Upon the shore sat a Sicilian
who, with vehement gestures and flexile features, was narrating to a
group of fishermen and peasants a strange tale of shipwrecked mariners
and friendly dolphins--just as at this day, in the modern neighborhood,
you may hear upon the Mole of Naples.

Drawing his comrade from the crowd, the Greek bent his steps towards a
solitary part of the beach, and the two friends, seated on a small crag
which rose amidst the smooth pebbles, inhaled the voluptuous and cooling
breeze, which dancing over the waters, kept music with its invisible
feet. There was, perhaps, something in the scene that invited them to
silence and reverie. Clodius, shading his eyes from the burning sky,
was calculating the gains of the last week; and the Greek, leaning upon
his hand, and shrinking not from that sun--his nation's tutelary
deity--with whose fluent light of poesy, and joy, and love, his own
veins were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, and envied, perhaps,
every wind that bent its pinions towards the shores of Greece.

'Tell me, Clodius,' said the Greek at last, 'hast thou ever been in
love?'

'Yes, very often.'

'He who has loved often,' answered Glaucus, 'has loved never. There is
but one Eros, though there are many counterfeits of him.'

'The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the whole,' answered