so happened that a stranger praised the poem, he would let fall the remark, that there were a few sparkles of his own wit which had polished away the rough, etc., etc.

My poem on Dante, which was now Bernardo's, he never

saw.

At length the day came. The carriages rolled up to the gate; the old cardinals, in their red cloaks with long trains, came in, and took their places in the stately arm-chairs. Tickets, on which our names were inscribed, in the languages in which we were to write our poems, were handed about. Habbas Dahdah made the opening oration, and now followed poems in Syriac, Chaldaic, Coptic, nay, even in Sanskrit, English, and other strange tongues, nay, the more outlandish and odd the language sounded, the greater were the applause and bravos, and clapping of hands, mingled with the heartiest laughter.

With a beating heart I came forward, and spoke a few strophes of my "Italy." Repeated acclamations saluted me; the old cardinals clapped their hands in token of applause, and Habbas Dahdah smiled as kindly as it was possible for him to do, and moved prophetically the garland between his hands; for, in Italian, Bernardo only followed me, and it was not to be imagined that the English poem which succeeded him would win any laurels.

Now stepped Bernardo before the chair. My eye and ear followed him with uneasiness. Boldly and proudly he recited my poem on Dante; a deep silence reigned in the hall. The wonderful force which he gave it seemed to seize upon every one. I knew every word of it; but it sounded to me like the song of the poet when it is raised on the wings of music: the most unanimous applause was awarded to him. The cardinals arose - all was at an end; the garland was given to Bernardo, for although, for order's sake, the succeeding poem was listened to, and received also its applause, people immediately afterwards turned again to the beauty and the spirit of the poem on Dante.

My cheeks burned like fire, my breast heaved, I felt an infinite, unspeakable happiness, my whole soul drank in the incense which was offered to Bernardo. I looked at him; he

was become quite other than I had ever seen him before. Pale as death, with his eyes riveted to the ground, he stood there like a criminal- he, who otherwise had looked so unabashedly into every one's face. Habbas Dahdah seemed just like a companion piece to him, and appeared ready to pluck the garland to pieces in his abstraction, when one of the cardinals took it from him and placed it on the head of Bernardo, who bent his knee, and bowed his face into both his hands. After the festival I sought out Bernardo. "To-morrow!" he exclaimed, and tore himself loose from me.

On the following day, I observed that he shunned me; and it grieved me, for my heart was infinitely attached to him; it needed one trusty soul in this world, and it had selected him.

Two evenings passed; he then threw himself on my neck, pressed my hand, and said, "Antonio, I must speak with you; I cannot bear it any longer, and will not, either. When they pressed the garland on my head, it was as if they had pressed in a thousand thorns. The acclamations sounded like jeering! It was to you that the honor belonged! I saw the joy in your eye, and, do you know, I hated you! you were to me no longer that which you had been. That is a wicked feeling, I pray you for forgiveness; but we must now part, I am no longer at home here. I will hence, and not for the next year be the jest of the others when they find that I have not the stolen plumes. My uncle shall and must provide for me.

I have told him so- -I have besought it from him - I have done that which is repugnant to my nature; and it seems to me as if you were the cause of it all! I feel a bitterness towards you, which wounds me to the soul! We can only be friends under entirely new circumstances! — and we will be so, promise me, Antonio?”

"You are unjust to me," said I, "unjust to yourself! Do not let us think any more about that miserable poem, or anything connected with it. Give me your hand, Bernardo, and do not distress me with such strange talk."

"We will always be friends," said he, and left me. It was late in the evening before he came to his chamber; and the next morning it was announced that he had left the school to follow another profession.

"He is gone like a falling star," observed Habbas Dahdah, ironically; "he vanished as soon as one noticed the brightness! The whole was a crack — and so was the poem, too. I shall manage, indeed, that this treasure is preserved ? Then, Holy Virgin! when one looks closely at it, what is it? Is it poetry, that which runs in and out, without shape or consistency? At first, I thought it was a vase, then a French wine-glass, or a Median sabre; but, when I turned it and drew it, there came out the self-same unmeaning, cut and dried shape. In three places there is a foot too many; there are horrible hiatuses; and five-and-twenty times has he used the word 'divina,' as if a poem became divine by the repetition of this word. Feeling, and feeling! that is not all which makes the poet! What a combating with fancies, now one is here! now one is there! Neither is it thought, no, discretion, golden discretion! The poet must not let himself be run away with by his subject. He must be cold-ice-cold, must rend to pieces the child of his heart, that he may understand every single portion of it; it is only thus that a work of art can be put together. Not with all this driving and chasing, and all this wild inspiration! And then they set a garland on such a lad! Flogged he should have been for his historical errors, his hiatuses, his miserable work! I have vexed myself, and that does not suit my constitution! The abominable Bernardo !"

Such probably was Habbas Dahdah's speech of praise.

if all was empty and deserted around me: I could not enjoy my books; there were dissonances in my soul which I could not even silence; music alone brought a momentary harmony. In the tones of the world, my life and my whole endeavors first received clearness. Here I found more than any poet, than even Dante had expressed; not merely the feelings comprehended from the soul-breathing picture, but the sensitive part, the ear, drank in from living existence. Every evening, before the image of the Madonna on the wall, children's voices sang to me remembrances from my own childhood, which sounded like a cradle-song from the melancholy bagpipe of the Pifferari. I heard, indeed, in them the monotonous song of the muffled corpse-bearers who carried the coffin of my mother. I began to think about the past and of that which was to come. My heart seemed so strangely to want room; I felt as if I must sing; old melodies intoned within me, and the words came aloud from my lips; yes, too much aloud, for they disturbed Habbas Dahdah, at several rooms' distance, who sent to inform me that this was neither an opera-house nor a singing-school, and that there could be no quavering in the school of the Jesuits, excepting such as was in honor of the Virgin. Silently I laid my head against the window-frame and looked into the street, but with my thoughts introverted.

"Felicissima notte, Antonio!"1 reached my ear. A hand

1 The inhabitants of the north wish each other "Good night; sleep well!" The Italians wish "The happiest night!" The nights of the south have more than dreams. - Author's Note.

some, proud horse was prancing under the window, and then sprang forward with his proud rider. It was a papal officer; with youthful rapidity he bowed himself to his horse, waved his hand again and again till he was out of sight; but I had recognized him- it was Bernardo, the fortunate Bernardo ! How different had his life been to mine! No! I could not think of it! I drew my hat deeply over my brows, and, as if pursued by an evil spirit, hastened out, and forth wherever the wind would carry me. I thought not then how it was a regulation that no scholar in the Jesuits' school, Propaganda, or any establishment of learning in the Papal States, should go out of the building without being accompanied by a fellow-student of equal or superior age, and might never show themselves alone without an especial permission. Such a universally known law as this was never inculcated upon us. I forgot that my freedom in this way was circumscribed, and from this cause went out quite calmly. The old custodian thought perhaps that I had obtained permission.

"Bon

The Corso was crowded with equipages. A succession of carriages, filled with the natives of Rome and strangers, followed each other; they were taking their evening drive. People stood in throngs around the print-sellers' windows looking at the engravings, and beggars came up to them craving for a bajocco. It was difficult to make one's way through, unless one would venture among the carriages. I had just slipped through in this manner, when a hand took fast hold of my dress, and I heard a well-known horrible voice whisper, giorno, Antonio ! I looked down: there sat my uncle, the horrible Peppo, with the two withered legs fastened up to his sides, and with the wooden frame on which he shoved himself onwards. We had never been for many years so near to each other. I had always made great circuits to escape him — had avoided the Spanish Steps, where he sat and when I had been obliged to pass by him in a procession, or with the other scholars, I had always used my utmost endeavors to conceal my face.

"Antonio, my own blood!" said he holding fast by my coat, "dost thou not know thy own mother's brother, Peppo?