Agaso, the painter, was a smart dapper little bandy-legged man of Verona, dressed in a Grecian mantle, and endeavouring to look as much as possible like a Greek. Had Xerophrastes not gone off with his brother of Ionia, I have no doubt this man would have made his presence a sufficient excuse for speaking nothing but Greek to us; but, even as it was, his conversation was interlarded with an abundant intermixture of that noble tongue. Nothing could be spoken of which Agaso did not think fit to illustrate, either by the narration of something he himself had seen or heard during his residence at Athens, or, at least, by some quotation from the Grecian poets. To judge from the square, and somewhat ponderous formation of the man’s features, Nature had not designed him for any of the most mercurial specimens of her workmanship; but he contrived, notwithstanding, by perpetual shrugging and grimacing, and, above all, by keeping his eyes and eyebrows continually in motion, to give himself an air of no inconsiderable life and vivacity.

Hopping before us with much alacrity, this artist conducted our steps through eight or ten galleries, until at length a curtain being withdrawn, which had covered [pg 189]the space between two pilasters, we found ourselves in a spacious apartment, which, from the courteousness wherewith he bowed us into it, there could be no difficulty in perceiving to be the customary sphere of his own exertions. It was not altogether deserted even when we entered, but the removal of the curtain attracted more of the loungers of the baths, and ere Sextus was fairly fixed before the table of the painter, the modest youth had the mortification to find himself surrounded with a very crowd of knowing and curious physiognomies. The presence of these, however, appeared not unwelcome to the master. On the contrary, there arose between the little man, as he was preparing his brushes, and those who had come to survey him at his work, such a gabble of compliments, remarks, and disquisitions, that it seemed to me as if he would have been disappointed had he not been favoured with their attendance.

“How noble,” cries one, “is that portrait you have just been finishing of Rupilius!—Heavens! with what felicity you have caught the air! Methinks I see him about to enter the Basilica, when he knows that some great cause is awaiting his decision. What solemnity in his aspect! what grandeur in the gown!—How finely the purple of the laticlave is made to harmonize with the colouring of the cheeks and chin! What beautiful handling about the fingers with which he grasps his tablets!—As for the head of the stylus, it is the very eye of the picture.”—“Exquisite indeed,” quoth another; “but who can look at it, or at any thing else, in the same room with this little jewel?—Heavens! what a beauty! who can it be? for I never [pg 190]saw her either at the Circus or the Amphitheatre. What an inimitable modesty!”

The painter heard this last piece of eulogy with an air of some embarrassment, and at the same time looked very cunningly towards the person who had uttered it. But the Lady Rubellia tossed her head, and whispered to me, “Pretty she may be, though I cannot say that style of dressing the hair is at all adapted for such features; but for modesty! hem. I asked Agaso two or three days ago who it was, and he told me—guess!—it is a little Spanish girl, whom that august-looking person, with the grand laticlave, and the purple cheeks and chin, and the glittering stylus, thought fit to bring home with him when he was relieved from the hard duties of the Pro-prætorship. I dare say, he takes care she shall not be seen either at Circus or Amphitheatre; and, indeed, I think it is sufficient impudence to shew her likeness in the company of so many portraits of respectability.”

“My dear lady,” quoth the painter, who overheard somewhat, “for the sake of all that is sacred, no word of this again! Wait, at least, till the canvass for the Augurship be over. There are always so many to exaggerate and misrepresent.”—“Exaggerate, indeed! I think Rupilius ought to be ashamed of himself; and at his time of life too. I think you said he was just the same age with my uncle?”—“Yes,” says the painter, “he must be of that standing; and I think he went to Spain just about the period of your marriage.”—“Filthy old fellow,” quoth she, very quickly; “and this is the treasure he has brought home with him! I have a great mind to tell his wife.”—“Hush, hush,” [pg 191]said Agaso, “this is the very day Rupilius spoke of bringing her to see his own portrait; and, indeed, I am sure that is the Senator’s cough. I rely on your prudence.”

And the portly original of the laticlaved portrait walked into the room, having his gown and every part of his dress arranged as represented in the picture; although in the living countenance it was easy to discover a few lines and spots which had been omitted in the copy. By his side moved a short woman, arrayed in the extremity of costly attire, whose swarthy complexion did not, in spite of cosmeticism, harmonize very well with the bright golden ringlets of her Sicambrian peruque; while behind the pair came a thin damsel, whose lineaments exhibited a sort of faint shadow of the same visage, the rudiments of which had been so abundantly filled up in that of the rubicund magistrate. The ex-pro-prætor, after saluting Agaso, stood still with dignity in the midst of the apartment, while the fond daughter, rushing close up to his picture, could with difficulty affix any limits to her expressions of satisfaction:—“O Jupiter! look at the ring. It is the very ring he wears!—the very images are engraved upon it; one can see the three Graces. I never saw such a picture—when will it be brought home?”—“Hush, hush, now, Primula,” quoth the mother. “It is certainly a likeness; but why will artists, now-a-days, always paint people older than they are? And besides, it wants something of his expression. Don’t you think so yourself, sir?” (turning to the painter) “Rupilius has surely been looking very gloomily when he sat.”

[pg 192]

On this the painter, leaving Sextus, advanced to her side, and after a pause of some moments, spent in contemplating alternately his own work and the original, said, with a courteous simper, “How much am I indebted to you, most noble lady, for this visit, and these judicious remarks! I only wish you had accompanied the senator, for then, without question, his countenance would have worn the look you desiderate; and I perhaps might have more easily succeeded in catching it, being aided by your suggestions. I hope it may yet be amended.”—“How modest he is!” ejaculated the spouse. “A single sitting will suffice, I am sure. We shall come some day when you are quite alone, and I will sit by you, and talk to Rupilius all the while.”—“Delightful!” replied the artist; “how happy shall I be in such an opportunity of improving both the picture and myself! We must positively prevail on the senator to give us this one sitting more.”—“Never ask his consent,” quoth the matron, smiling upon her lord; “leave the whole matter to me. The picture is for me. And besides, if he were to refuse, I know how I should be certain to overcome him; for he has asked me to sit to you myself, and you know if I were to persist in sitting with my gloomy face, as he has with his, we should soon bring him to his right reason.”—“Your gloomy face, noble lady!” replied the artist, strutting back a pace or two. “I am afraid, if that is the charm by which alone he is to be softened, we must give up all our hopes.”—“I protest,” says the lady, “I believe you will keep me laughing all the time I sit. And pray now, what dress do you think I should wear? Prima says, I ought certainly to be in green; [pg 193]but I was thinking, that perhaps a yellow byssine would suit me better. But I shall send over half a dozen robes, and then we can choose whichever seems to be the best. One thing only I am quite resolved upon, and that is, that I shall have my golden chain, with the miniature of the Pro-prætor—the Senator, I mean—at the end of it.”—“Nothing could be in finer taste,” he made answer; “and if my lady should think of green, or purple, or any dark colour for the gown, the rings of the chain and the setting of the miniature would have the richest effect.”—“And do, my dear mother,” interrupted Prima; “and do have on the sapphire tiara when you sit to Agaso. Or what would you think of having your own hair simply like this lady here? What a beauty!”—“A smart little girl, indeed,” quoth the mother. “I think I should know that face. Is she Roman, Agaso?”—“No, not a Roman,” answered the artist; “nor do I think my lady can ever have met with her. But perhaps my Lord Rupilius may, for she is a Spaniard.”

Agaso turned with a smile to the Senator; but he, scarcely appearing to look at the picture, answered, with great gravity, “I think I have seen the countenance before; and perhaps it was in my province. The face is certainly a pretty one; but nothing so very extraordinary.”—“They may say what they like,” observed the spouse, drawing herself up; “but there is no such thing as a really urbane air to be got out of Rome.”

Meantime, in another part of the room, some other picture appeared to be exciting a scarcely inferior measure of curiosity. On approaching the party, I perceived that this was a sketch, in chalk only, of the head [pg 194]and shoulders of an old man; and when I had gained an opportunity of more nearly surveying it, I recognized without difficulty the features of Tisias of Antioch. The greater number of those who were looking on it, seemed also to have been present at his death; for I heard pointed out by them with exactness the parts in which the resemblance had been most successfully taken. The beauty of the old man’s lineaments, and the serenity of his aspect, they all admired; and while they were loud in praising these, Agaso himself also joined them, saying, “Oh, so you have found out my old Christian! How did you get hold of him? for I meant it not to be seen till I had lain on a little of the colour. But is it not a fine study?—is it not a noble head? I think I shall introduce it in the picture I am painting for Pliny. The subject is the sacrifice of Iphigenia. I went to the Amphitheatre,” he continued, “rather late, without expecting any thing particular; but it immediately struck me that he might be turned to some account. I made several little sketches of him, for it was a long time ere it was over; and this is from the one I took just after he had made his oration. His hands and feet were singularly fine, I thought. Here,” said he, turning over the leaves of his tablets—“here you have him in a variety of shapes!—the muscles shewed powerfully when he knelt;—there, again, you have his fingers as they were folded on his breast—not much flesh, but the lines good—veins well expressed.”

But about this time the great bell rung in the tower above the Baths, and the greater part of the young loungers soon dispersed themselves; some to fence or wrestle—others to play in the tennis-court—others to [pg 195]ride in the Hippodrome, in preparation for the bath. So Agaso, being left alone with Sextus, Rubellia, and myself, had at length leisure to proceed with his portrait of the youth.

Much did the lady and the painter discourse, and many merry things were said by them both; but all they said could not entirely remove the embarrassment fixed on the countenance of Sextus; nor, of a truth, did he present himself with much advantage before the artist. Rubellia, nevertheless, sate over against him with looks of no severe criticism; and I doubt not she would have remained to the end of the sitting, had not one of her household come with a message, which, as it seemed, rendered necessary her departure. It struck me, that the messenger answered very well to Dromo’s description of the fat Calabrian with whom he and Boto had been drinking; but of this I said nothing to Sextus.

It was near the hour of supper before we were dismissed, and we found Licinius already about to enter his eating chamber.

[pg 196]