'Lucullus sups with Lucullus to-night!' Conqueror of Asia! victor of Mithridates! you were worthy of your glory! First, imagine a noble hall, of that fine blue which the walls of Portici yet preserve, supported by Corinthian pillars of the purest Parian marble; scatter round a few pieces of exquisite sculpture—a Venus, of beauty as ideal as its dream—a nymph, only less lovely—an Apollo, the personification of the genius which first imagined, and then bodied forth his likeness—a few busts, each one a history of the immortal mind—and in the distance a huge portal unfolds, whence are issuing slaves, in all the gorgeous variety of Eastern costume, approaching a table bright with purple grapes—the ruby cherries, his own present of peace to Italy—flasks of wine, like imprisoned sunbeams, whether touched with the golden light of noon, or the crimson hues of sunset—goblets of crystal, vases of gold and silver, or the finely-formed Etruscan; and above, a silver lamp, like an earthly moon. There are two windows—in the one a violet-coloured curtain, waved back by the wind, just discovers a group of Ionian girls; their black hair wreathed with flowers, and holding lutes, whose sweet chorus is making musical the air
