consecrated neighbourhood, he might have passed for the genius of
aesthetic hospitality--if the genius of aesthetic hospitality were not
commonly some shabby little custode, flourishing a calico
pocket-handkerchief and openly resentful of the divided franc. This
analogy was made none the less complete by the brilliant tirade with
which he greeted my embarrassed silence.

"I have known Florence long, sir, but I have never known her so lovely as
tonight. It's as if the ghosts of her past were abroad in the empty
streets. The present is sleeping; the past hovers about us like a dream
made visible. Fancy the old Florentines strolling up in couples to pass
judgment on the last performance of Michael, of Benvenuto! We should
come in for a precious lesson if we might overhear what they say. The
plainest burgher of them, in his cap and gown, had a taste in the matter!
That was the prime of art, sir. The sun stood high in heaven, and his
broad and equal blaze made the darkest places bright and the dullest eyes
clear. We live in the evening of time! We grope in the gray dusk,
carrying each our poor little taper of selfish and painful wisdom,
holding it up to the great models and to the dim idea, and seeing nothing
but overwhelming greatness and dimness. The days of illumination are
gone! But do you know I fancy--I fancy"--and he grew suddenly almost
familiar in this visionary fervour--"I fancy the light of that time rests
upon us here for an hour! I have never seen the David so grand, the
Perseus so fair! Even the inferior productions of John of Bologna and of
Baccio Bandinelli seem to realise the artist's dream. I feel as if the
moonlit air were charged with the secrets of the masters, and as if,
standing here in religious attention, we might--we might witness a
revelation!" Perceiving at this moment, I suppose, my halting
comprehension reflected in my puzzled face, this interesting rhapsodist
paused and blushed. Then with a melancholy smile, "You think me a