And now, the example set, and the praises of the fair hostess exciting general emulation, the guitar circled from hand to hand, and each of the Italians performed his part: -you might have fancied yourself at one of the old Greek feasts, with the lyre and the myrtle-branch going the round.

But both the Italians and the Englishman felt the entertainment would be incomplete, without hearing the celebrated vocalist and improvvisatrice, who presided over the little banquet; and Madame de Montaigne with a woman's tact, divined the general wish, and anticipated the request that was sure to be made. So she took the guitar from the last singer, and turning to Maltravers, said, "You have heard, of course, some of our more eminent improvvisatori, and therefore if I ask you for a subject it will only be to prove to you that the talent is not general amongst the Italians."

"Ah," said Maltravers, "I have heard, indeed, some ugly old gentlemen with immense whiskers, and gestures of the most alarming ferocity, pour out their vehement impromptus; but I have never yet listened to a young and a handsome lady. I shall only believe the inspiration when I hear it direct from the Muse."

"Well, I will do my best to deserve your compliments -you must give me the theme."

Maltravers paused a moment, and suggested the Influence of Praise on Genius.

The improvvisatrice nodded assent, and after a short prelude broke forth into a wild and varied strain of verse, in a voice so exquisitely sweet, with a taste so accurate, and a feeling so deep, that the poetry sounded to the enchanted listeners like the language that Armida might have uttered. Yet the verses themselves, like all extemporaneous effusions, were of a nature both to pass from the memory and to defy transcription.

When Madame de Montaigne's song ceased, no rapturous plaudits followed-the Italians were too affected by the science, Maltravers by the feeling, for the coarseness of ready praise ;-and ere that delighted silence which made the first impulse was broken, a new-comer, descending

from the groves that clothed the ascent behind the house, was in the midst of the party.

"Ah, my dear-brother," cried Madame de Montaigne, starting up, and hanging fondly on the arm of the stranger, why have you lingered so long in the wood? You, so delicate! And how are you? How pale you seem!"

"It is but the reflection of the moonlight, Teresa," said the intruder. "I feel well." So saying, he scowled on the merry party, and turned as if to slink away.

'No, no," whispered Teresa, "you must stay a moment, and be presented to my guests: there is an Englishman here whom you will like-who will interest you."

With that she almost dragged him forward, and introduced him to her guests. Signor Cesarini returned their salutations with a mixture of bashfulness and hauteur, half-awkward and half-graceful, and muttering some inaudible greeting, sank into a seat and appeared instantly lost in revery. Maltravers gazed upon him, and was pleased with his aspect which, if not handsome, was strange and peculiar. He was extremely slight and thin-his cheeks hollow and colourless, with a profusion of black silken ringlets that almost descended to his shoulders. His eyes, deeply sunk into his head, were large and intensely brilliant, and a thin moustache, curling downward, gave an additional austerity to his mouth, which was closed with gloomy and half-sarcastic firmness. He was not dressed as people dress in general; but wore a frock of dark camlet, with a large shirt-collar turned down, and a narrow slip of black silk twisted rather than tied round his throat-his nether garment fitted tight to his limbs, and a pair of halfhessians completed his costume. It was evident that the young man (and he was very young-perhaps about nineteen or twenty) indulged that coxeombry of the Picturesque which is the sign of a vainer mind than is the commoner coxcombry of the Mode.

It is astonishing how frequently it happens, that the introduction of a single intruder upon a social party is sufficient to destroy all the familiar harmony that existed there before. We see it even when the intruder is agreeable and communicative-but in the present instance, a

ghost could scarcely have been a more unwelcoming or unwelcome visitor. The presence of this shy, speechless, supercilious-looking man, threw a damp over the whole group. The gay Tirabaloschi immediately discovered that it was time to depart,-it had not struck any one before, but it certainly was late. The Italians began to bustle about, to collect their music, to make fine speeches and fine professions to bow and to smile to scramble into their boat, and to push off towards the inn at Como, where they had engaged their quarters for the night. As the boat glided away, and while two of them were employed at the oar, the remaining four took up their instruments and sang a parting glee. It was quite midnight -the hush of all things around had grown more intense and profound-there was a wonderful might of silence in the shining air and amidst the shadows thrown by the near banks and the distant hills over the water. So that as the music chiming in with the oars grew fainter and fainter, it is impossible to describe the thrilling and magical effect it produced.

The party ashore did not speak; there was a moisture, a grateful one, in the bright eyes of Teresa, as she leant upon the manly form of De Montaigne, for whom her attachment was, perhaps, yet more deep and pure for the difference of their ages. A girl who once loves a man, not indeed old, but much older than herself, loves him with such a looking up and venerating love! Maltravers stood a little apart from the couple, on the edge of the shelving bank, with folded arms and thoughtful countenance. "How is it," said he, unconscious that he was speaking half aloud, "that the commonest beings of the world should be able to give us a pleasure so unworldly? What a contrast between those musicians and this music! At this distance, their forms so dimly seen, one might almost fancy the creators of those sweet sounds to be of another mould from us. Perhaps even thus the poetry of the Past rings on our ears -the deeper and the diviner, because removed from the clay which made the poets. O Art, Art! how dost thou beautify and exalt us! what is Nature without thee!"

"You are a poet, Signor," said a soft clear voice, beside

the soliloquist; and Maltravers started to find that he had had, unknowingly, a listener in the young Cesarini.

"No," said Maltravers; "I cull the flowers, I do not cultivate the soil."

"And why not?" said Cesarini, with abrupt energy; "you are an Englishman-you have a public-you have a country-you have a living stage, a breathing audience; we, Italians, have nothing but the Dead."

As he looked on the young man, Maltravers was surprised to see the sudden animation which glowed upon his pale features.

"You asked me a question I would fain put to you," said the Englishman, after a pause. "You, methinks, are a poet?"

"I have fancied that I might be one. But poetry with us, is a bird in the wilderness-it sings from an impulse -the song dies without a listener. Oh that I belonged to a living country,-France, England, Germany, America, -and not to the corruption of a dead giantess-for such is now the land of the ancient lyre."

"Let us meet again, and soon," said Maltravers, holding out his hand.

Cesarini hesitated a moment, and then accepted and returned the proffered salutation. Reserved as he was, something in Maltravers attracted him; and, indeed, there was that in Ernest which fascinated most of those unhappy eccentrics who do not move in the common orbit of the world.

In a few moments more the Englishman had said farewell to the owners of the villa, and his light boat skimmed rapidly over the tide.

"What do you think of the Inglese ?" said Madame de Montaigne to her husband, as they turned towards the house. (They said not a word about the Milanese.)

"He has a noble bearing for one so young," said the Frenchman, "and seems to have seen the world, and both to have profited and to have suffered by it."

"He will prove an acquisition to our society here," returned Teresa; "he interests me; and you, Castruccio ?" turning to seek for her brother; but Cesarini had already,

with his usual noiseless step, disappeared within the house.

"Alas, my poor brother !" she replied, "I cannot comprehend him. What does he desire ?"

"Fame!" replied De Montaigne, calmly. "It is a vain shadow; no wonder that he disquiets himself in vain."

CHAPTER II.

"Alas! what boots it with incessant care,
To strictly meditate the thankless Muse;
Were it not better done as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?"-MILTON's Lycidas:

THERE is nothing more salutary to active men than occasional intervals of repose,-when we look within, instead of without, and examine almost insensibly-(for I hold strict and conscious self-scrutiny a thing much rarer than we suspect)-what we have done what we are capable of doing. It is settling, as it were, a debtor and creditor account with the Past, before we plunge into new speculations. Such an interval of repose did Maltravers now enjoy. In utter solitude, so far as familiar companionship is concerned, he had for several weeks been making himself acquainted with his own character and mind. He read and thought much, but without any exact or defined object. I think it is Montaigne who says somewhere"People talk about thinking-but for my part I never think, except when I sit down to write." I believe this is not a very common case, for people who don't write think as well as people who do; but connected, severe, welldeveloped thought, in contradistinction to vague meditation, must be connected with some tangible plan or object ; and therefore we must be either writing men or acting men, if we desire to test the logic, and unfold the symmetrical and fused colours, of our reasoning faculty. Maltravers did not yet feel this, but he was sensible of some intellectual want. His ideas, his memories, his