to that of art, for if the guest lift the heavy silk curtains and look through the porphyry-framed windows, he sees the striking panorama of Buda and Pest; below him the Danube, like a silver ribbon dotted with green islets; to the right the hills, and to the left the wide-stretching plain. Then, if he look around him in the hall, he sees beautifully carved tables, glass cases filled with treasures dear to the heart of the connoisseur, Venetian mirrors, golden statues, old bronzes, medals; in one corner a Roman couch covered with brocade; farther on, antique tripod chairs "like those at Delphi." Along the walls are carved bookcases with crimson silk draperies. On the shelves, the literary works of classical antiquity stand side by side with those of the new revival, all of them bound in silk, white the workmanship of their silver clasps and corners is as worthy of admiration as the miniatures to be found inside, which display the rich imagination of the Renaissance blended with that of antiquity—graceful garlands of flowers and fruit, Cupids riding on fawns or playing with rainbow-coloured butterflies, Tritons and nymphs sporting, and, as a border, antique gems, and delicate climbing plants with golden flowers.
Seated in one of the Grecian chairs we see the royal host, King Matthias, the centre and soul of the gathering. His long fair hair falls over his shoulders, his cheeks are ruddy, his forehead high, and his large shining eyes betoken a great mind and a passionate temperament. Near him stands a tall and remarkably handsome ecclesiastic, the King's favourite, and the best Latin poet of the century, Janus Pannonius (John Csezmiczey) (1434–1472). The sadness of this young man's future has not yet cast its shadow upon him; he is
