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 Clodius.
'I agree with you,' returned the Greek.

'I adore even the shadow of Love; but I adore himself yet more.' 'Art thou, then, soberly and honestly in love?
Hast thou that feeling which the poets describe--a feeling that makes us neglect our suppers, forswear the theatre, and write elegies?
I should never have thought it.