Clorinda, whose palace was always open to genius, and who delighted in the society of men who had discovered planets, excavated primeval mounds, painted pictures on new principles, or composed immortal poems which no human being could either scan or construe, but which she delighted in as “subtle” and full of secret melody, came leaning on the arms of a celebrated plenipotentiary, and beaming with sympathy on every subject, and with the consciousness of her universal charms. And the accomplished Sir Francis was there, and several R. A. s of eminence, for Phoebus was a true artist, and loved the brotherhood, and always placed them in the post of honor. No language can describe the fascinating costume of Madame Phoebus and her glittering sister. “They are habited as sylvans,” the great artist deigned to observe, if any of his guests could not refrain from admiring the dresses; which he had himself devised. As for the venerable patron of art in Britain, he smiled when he met the lady of the house, and sighed when he glanced at Euphrosyne; but the first gave him a beautiful flower, and the other fastened it in his button-hole. He looked like a victim bedecked by the priestesses of some old fane of Hellenic loveliness, and proud of his impending fate. What could the Psalmist mean in the immortal passage? Three-score-and-ten, at the present day, is the period of romantic passions. As for our enamoured sexagenarians, they avenge the theories of our cold-hearted youth. Mr. Phoebus was an eminent host. It delighted him to see people pleased, and pleased under his influence. He had a belief, not without foundation, that every thing was done better under his roof than under that of any other person. The banquet in the air on the present occasion could only be done justice to by the courtly painters of the reign of Louis XV. Vanloo, and Watteau, and Lancres, would have caught the graceful group and the well-arranged colors, and the faces, some pretty, some a little affected; the ladies on fantastic chairs of wicker-work, gilt and curiously painted; the gentlemen reclining on the turf, or bending behind them with watchful care. The little tables all different, the soups in delicate cups of Sevres, the wines in golden glass of Venice, the ortolans, the Italian confectionery, the endless bouquets, were worthy of the soft and invisible music that resounded from the pavilion, only varied by the coquettish scream of some macaw, jealous, amid all this novelty and excitement, of not being noticed. “It is a scene of enchantment,” whispered the chief patron of British art to Madame Phoebus. “I always think luncheon in the air rather jolly,” said Madame Phoebus. “It is perfect romance!” murmured the chief patron of British art to Euphrosyne. “With a due admixture of reality,” she said, helping him to an enormous truffle, which she extracted from its napkin. “You know you must eat it with butter.”