which they consider rather a proof of talent than dishonesty, are thus appropriated. A poor man who only gains eightpence or tenpence a day, frequently pays regularly two or three shillings a week; and instances have come to my knowledge of respectably dressed persons begging in the street for the means to procure a ticket, on which they felt convinced their future prosperity depended. terno, which is the greatest possible prize in the complicated game; he desired him to go instantly, and use every effort to purchase the tickets, and the only reward for which he stipulated, was a quarter of the enormous gain that would result from their possession. The poor man, who well knew that the predictions of the monk had on several similar occasions been crowned with success, though to a smaller amount of gain, hurried off to obey his injunctions. His endeavours, however, to obtain the lucky numbers, and his loudly expressed confidence in their success, attracted attention. Inquiries were instituted, the instigator of his purchase was discovered, and the monk was on the following day banished for ever from the city. It is scarcely necessary to add, that none of the numbers he had named were amongst those drawn from the box in the hall of the Vicaria; though whether the priest betrayed a secret ar It is truly frightful to think of the enormous sums which are thus wrung even from the most miserable of the people to enrich an avaricious government, at the expense of the morals and the happiness of its subjects, nay even of their daily bread. It is a detestable and shameful tax, even if all the circumstances of its collection are conducted with the strictest honesty; but we must confess, that notwithstanding the presence of priests and judges, and minister of police, the drawing of the tickets, as we witnessed it, appears to afford an easy and ready means for deception and cheat-rangement for the deception of the public, in which ing. There is a story current amongst the people, that a few years ago a monk belonging to one of the monasteries of the city, gave a poor man of his acquaintance, a list of five numbers of the lottery, assuring him that they would infallibly win a quin he was an actor, or his prediction was the mere NEW NOVELS.* THE two works of fiction which, out of the mass of the month, we select as the subject of a few cursory remarks, are as opposite in character as the antipodes; so that the same readers, how catholic soever may be their sympathies, cannot, we imagine, relish the hard, dry, and matter-of-fact exposition of the opinions of the faith and practice of the modern Romanism, nicknamed Puseyism, and the "dream of the sweet South," which Mrs. Howitt has found an exotic blooming strangely in a Northern soil, and transplanted, as a wilding of rare beauty, into the garden of English literature. The flower is worthy of the place which the taste and care of the lady has assigned to it. A priori, it may be imagined, that from a Danish novelist, English readers would wish to hear chiefly of the manners and character of Denmark; but the author of The Improvisatore is by temperament a poet; and the true poet is a cosmopolite wherever he may chance to be born. The character and history of Hans Christian Andersen is, indeed, as full of interest as that of his imaginary hero. The book and its author mutually illustrate each other; and in reading The Improvisatore, we feel that we are reading, if not a genuine autobiography, then a work in which a man of genius has unfolded his finest experiences, given utterance to the deepest feelings, the most passionate impulses of his own heart, and traced a vivid record of the impressions burned into a highly poetical mind by the first sight of the noblest monuments of art, and the most primitive habits of life which Italy | still offers to the eye of the stranger from the North of Europe. The traveller in this instance was no ordinary character; and those who may not care to look at Italy and Italian manners through the coloured glass of a Dane, may yet take a warm interest in the individual. Hans Andersen was born with a vocation for Art, if ever any man had a right to claim this distinction as his birthright. But the true vocation may not always measure the degree of the artist's future powers and attainments. Of Andersen, we can only say that he has produced one beautiful work, which his countrymen have received with delight as the earnest of the after performances of a man who, in his probationary period, has known all those vicissitudes of fortune which seem more requisite to the training of the poet, than books, schools, or colleges. Hans Andersen, born in 1805, was the son of a very poor, imprudent, and half-crazy or romantic shoemaker of Odensee, who read plays, and made puppets for his child, and whose habits must have given an early impulse to the character of the boy. The shoemaker enlisted when Denmark became inextricably involved in the general war, and when the patriotism of its sons was kindled into a flame of indignation by the capture of its fleet and the bombardment of its capital. Little Hans was thus left to the care of a hard-working mother, and to the affection and training of the paternal grandmother, a humble matron, but of dignified character, who cherished the remem * The Improvisatore; or, Life in Italy. From the Danish of Hans Christian Andersen Translated by Mary Howitt. Two vols. post octavo. Hawkstone: A Tale of and for England in 184—. Two vols. foolscap octavo. NEW NOVELS. And now we must quote one extract from the Life, for which Mrs. Howitt is indebted to Marmier : On the anniversary of the day on which Andersen, fourteen years before, a stranger and friendless, had entered the gate of Copenhagen, he wandered over the Simplon into that beautiful land which was to open to him a new spiritual world, and call forth the noblest He went through Milan, characteristics of his soul. Genoa, and Florence, on to Rome, where Thorwaldsen and all his countrymen there, received him with the greatest affection. brances of “gentle ancestry," and whose conversa- in Switzerland. They have very primitive notions tion and manners had a happy if silent influence of hospitality, those Northern wanderers; and it is on the little vagrant, who grew up at random, alleged, that in our own country, some of those without education, without clothing, and among sent forth on their honourable missions, and for the meanest and scantiest appliances of civilized whose records of travel we are still looking forlife. The boyhood of Burns, when he describes ward with interest, fell into a very different mishimself with both extremities exposed to the take from that of Don Quixote, and mistook our severity of the seasons, was more cared for than manses and halls for inns. the destitute childhood of Hans Andersen, whose first pair of boots were put on when he was to engage in the rite of confirmation. How he escaped moral contamination is only to be accounted for by the sanctity which surrounds the childhood of genius, the purity and innate refinement of his heart, and the fountain of love which it enshrined. His highest destiny was the tailor's board; but he had already begun to write dramas, and, like Goethe, to model puppet actors; and being allowed to read to the widow of a poet, he discovered what a poet meant, and began to have some faint intimations, that he was formed for something different from a fashioner of garments. His passion was the stage; for which, however, he appeared to have so little talent, that his astonishing perseverance and enthusiasm for this profession were not rewarded by even the appointment of a scene-shifter. Nature had endowed him with a beautiful voice; and, until it failed as he grew older, by means of his patrons he obtained a kind of living as a chorister, and a prospect for the future. The poor lad had now been for some years hanging on about Copenhagen, supported by the casual benefactions of many small patrons. His early career is more consonant with the singlehearted simplicity which often accompanies genius, than with its fiery pride and stern independence. Hans Andersen cannot be reckoned among those proud spirits who like Samuel Johnson, would indignantly kick away the new shoes delicately placed at their chamber door, in shoeless extremity. But though Andersen had no internal struggles with the jealous pride which is often the attribute of a high intellect, he appears to have had trials enough to endure from the contempt and rivalry of the minor literati, who probably envied even the scanty measure of success obtained by the uneducated intruder, who in several pieces began to display powers that would not be sneered down; and who, in the simple good faith which his rivals might have regarded as meanness, sought and found patrons. His residence in Rome began like a sunshiny summer day; but while it yet was morning, clouds arose; the poem which he had sent to Copenhagen, and which he hoped would warm the hearts of his countrymen towards him, was quite overlooked: a new young poet had just wrote to him of all these things, and candidly told him arisen, who was the star of the moment. His friends that they, like every one else, thought that he was past his best; another letter brought him the sad intelligence of the death of his mother, the last of his family connexions. Andersen felt her death severely ; and many of his mind. Spite, however, of sadness and untoward poems which he wrote at that time express the dejection events, the glorious treasures of art around him, and the fine country, within which he was a sojourner, with its With that intense love for Italy, which is peculiar to the bright southern life, operated beneficially on his spirit. most spiritual-minded inhabitants of the cold North, and, in some cases, has amounted to a passion like the attachment of the Swiss to their mountains, Andersen entered into the spirit of the life of the people, and has reflected all back to us with the most beautiful colouring in his " Improvisatore." Thorwaldsen gratified the poet by the warmest admiration of his last unfortunate production, “ Agnes and the Waterman ;" and from the great sculptor he received the utmost kindness. Thorwaldsen told him how poor he also had been, and how, in his early artist-career, he had had to contend against envy, and how he also had been misunderstood. In the following year Andersen returned home through Venice, Vienna, and Munich, making in the two and artists. Immediately after his return he published last cities the acquaintance of the first German poets his novel, "The Improvisatore," which was received with universal' applause which was read, and re-read, and which the public never tired of reading. That a work of such singular originality and beauty was universally admired, was not at all remarkable; but an extraordinary It is well known, though the fact does not ap- effect was produced which, it seems to me, tells greatly pear in the Life of Andersen, that the Crown to the honour of the Danish heart. Not only did AnderPrince of Denmark zealously fostered and encou-sen's friends, and the public generally, acknowledge the raged genius among his young countrymen; and, merit of his work, but they who had treated the poet at the public expense, sent several of them forth with severity, came now forward and offered him the hand of congratulation, and among them was the rector to travel through the different countries of Europe, of the school, the hard-hearted teacher of the poor youth, whose observations on men and manners, civil who had taken all possible means to crush into the dust polity, art, science, and literature, have since en- the talent which God had given him. He now came riched their native land. Of this chosen number, forward, acknowledged his fault, and deplored it, which Andersen appears to have had the good fortune to touched the good heart of Andersen not a little. have been one; others were antiquaries, historians, economists, and men of exact science. He had displayed the eye of an artist, and much of the heart and the training of a poet; and his destination was Italy. Previously to this, he had spent some time in Paris, and lived with some of his casual patrons VOL. XII.-NO. CXXXVI. We have now to tell of the work so rapturously received in its native country; which, though it may not sustain an equally high reputation in England, will, we are persuaded, find the "fit audience" which it merits, not less from the beautiful genius it unfolds, than from its moral deli U cacy and purity. With much of the enchantment, it has nothing of the revolting characters and details which make a large class of English readers shrink from the finest of the romances of Victor Hugo and of George Sand; and it depictures Italian life as only a poet born, whose childhood and youth had been familiar with the hidden depths of society, could have done. The Improvisatore was, like Andersen himself, a poor boy, the son of a widow, who gained her living in Rome, much as the mother of Hans might have done at Odensee; and who was affectionate, pious, and of unshaken faith in her religion, and in her spiritual guide, Fra Martino. How much must the recollections of Hans have aided the early part of the Confessions of The Improvisatore, who tells his own tale, and thus opens it :Whoever has been in Rome is well acquainted with the Piazza Barberina, in the great square, with the beautiful fountain, where the Tritons empty the spouting conch-shell, from which the water springs upwards many feet. Whoever has not been there, knows it, at all events, from copperplate engravings; only it is a pity, that in these the house at the corner of the Via Felice is not given, that tall corner-house, where the water pours through three pipes out of the wall down into a stone basin. That house has a peculiar interest for me; it was there that I was born. One of my earliest recollections points thereto. I was turned six years old, and was playing in the neighbourhood of the church of the Capuchins, with some other children, who were all younger than myself. There was fastened on the church door a little cross of metal; it was fastened about the middle of the door, and I could just reach it with my hand. Always when our mothers had passed by with us they had lifted us up that we might kiss the holy sign. One day, when we children were playing, one of the youngest of them inquired, "Why the child Jesus did not come down and play with us?" I assumed an air of wisdom, and replied, that he was really bound upon the cross. We went to the church-door, and, although we found no one, we wished, as our mothers had taught us, to kiss him, but we could not reach up to it; one, therefore lifted up the other: but just as the lips were pointed for the kiss, that one who lifted the other lost his strength, and the kissing one fell down just when his lips were about to touch the invisible child Jesus. At that moment my mother came by, and, when she saw our child's-play, she folded her hands, and said, "You are actually some of God's angels! And thou art mine own angel!" added she, and kissed me. I heard her repeat to a neighbour what an innocent angel I was, and it pleased me greatly, but it lessened my innocence the mustard-seed of vanity drank in therefrom the first sunbeams. The Capuchin monk, Fra Martino, was my mother's confessor, and she related to him what a pious child I was. I also knew several prayers very nicely by heart, although I did not understand one of them. He made very much of me, and gave me a picture of the Virgin weeping great tears, which fell, like rain-drops, down into the burning flames of hell, where the damned caught this draught of refreshment. Antonio was more horrified than pleased by the wonders which he saw on his visit to the convent. He found a friend in a person very different from the Capuchin; in a young painter, a Dane, the lodger of his mother, who had come to Rome to study his art He was a life-enjoying, brisk young man, who came from a far, far country, where they knew nothing about the Madonna and the child Jesus, my mother said. He was from Denmark. I had at that time no idea that there existed more languages than one, and I believed, therefore, that he was deaf when he did not understand me, and, for that reason, I spoke to him as loud as I could; he laughed at me, often brought me fruit, and 66 indeed, very honest people, who never do any thing These traits do not belong to the finest passages in The Improvisatore; but they afford a key to one aspect of the work, and to that education of circumstances, and of the heart, which trained the poetic child into the poet-man. The good mother would sigh, and the boy weep, when the priest thus dealt out damnation to the painter, who was so good, though a heretic. Our next extract exhibits the book in two of its highest modes: its actual representation of life, and that Italian life, and its poetic character : hood's life, was Uncle Peppo, commonly called "Wicked A third person who played a great part in my childPeppo," or " The King of the Spanish Steps," where he had his daily residence. Born with two withered legs, which lay crossed under him, he had had from his earliest childhood an extraordinary facility in moving himself forwards with his hands. These he stuck under a frame which was fastened at both ends to a board, and, by the help of this, he could move himself forward almost as easily as any other person with healthy and strong feet. He sat daily, as has been said, upon the Spanish Steps, smile, to every passer-by," Bon giorno!" and that even never indeed begging, but exclaiming, with a crafty after the sun was gone down. My mother did not like him much, nay, indeed, she she often told me, she kept up a friendship with him. was ashamed of the relationship; but for my sake, as He had that in his chest which we others must look after; and if I kept good friends with him, I should be had also, after his own way, a sort of liking for me, yet his only heir if he did not give it to the church. He I never felt myself quite happy in his neighbourhood. Once I was the witness of a scene which awoke in me fear of him, and also exhibited his own disposition. Upon one of the lowest flights of stairs sat an old blind beggar, and rattled with his little leaden box, that people might drop a bajocco therein. Many people and the wavings of his hat. The blind man gained passed by my uncle without noticing his crafty smile, more by his silence: they gave to him. Three had gone by; and now came the fourth, and threw him a small coin. Peppo could no longer contain himself. I blind man in his face, so that he lost both money and saw how he crept down like a snake, and struck the stick. "Thou thief!" cried my uncle, "wilt thou steal money from me! -thou who art not even a regular cripple? Cannot see!--that is all his infirmity,-and so he will take my bread from my mouth!" I neither heard nor saw more, but hastened home with the flask of wine which I had been sent to purchase. On the great festival days I was always obliged to go with my mother to visit him at his own house. We took with us one kind of present or other, either fine grapes or preserved golden pippins, which were his greatest luxury. I was then obliged to kiss his hand and call him uncle: then he smiled so strangely, and gave me a half-bajocco, always adding the exhortation, that I should keep it to look at, not spend it in cakes; for when these were eaten I had nothing left, but that if I kept my coin I should always have something. His dwelling was dark and dirty. In one little room there was no window at all, and in the other it was almost up to the ceiling with broken and patched-up panes. Of furniture there was not one article, except a great wide chest, which served him for a bed, and two tubs, in which he kept his clothes. I always cried when I had to go there and true it is, however much my mother persuaded me to be very affectionate towards him, yet she always made use of him as a bugbear when she would punish me. She said then that she would send me to my dirty uncle; that I should sit and sing beside him upon the stairs, and thus do something useful, and earn a bajocco. But I knew that she never meant so ill by me: I was the apple of her eye. On the house of our opposite neighbour there was an image of the Virgin, before which a lamp was always burning. Every evening when the bell rang the Ave Maria, I and the neighbours' children knelt before it, and sang in honour of the Mother of God, and the pretty child Jesus, which they had adorned with ribands, beads, and silver hearts. By the wavering lamp-light it often seemed to me as if both mother and child moved, and smiled upon us. I sang with a high, clear voice; and people said that I sang beautifully. Once there stood an English family and listened to us; and, when we rose up from our knees, the gentleman gave me a silver piece. "It was," my mother said, "because of my fine voice." But how much distraction did this afterwards cause me ! I thought no longer alone on the Madonna when I sung before her image: no! I thought, did any one listen to my beautiful singing; but always when I thought so, there succeeded a burning remorse. afraid that she would be angry with me; and I prayed right innocently that she would look down upon me, poor child! I was The evening-song was, in the meantime, the only point of union between me and the other neighbours' children. I lived quietly, entirely in my own self-created dreamworld. I lay for hours upon my back, with my face to the open window, looking out into the wonderful, gloriously blue, Italian heaven, into the play of colours at the going down of the sun, when the clouds hung with their violet-hued edges upon a golden ground. Often I wished that I could fly far beyond the Quirinal and the houses, to the great pine-trees which stood like black shadow-figures against the fire-red horizon. The little incidents of daily life, which formed or developed the character of the boy, are delicately touched; and the history is completely that of a poetic child, shy, meditative, dreamy, and with a kindly, though suppressed, social vanity, and latent ambition for fame. Antonio became a chorister. The Roman Catholic Church has a happy tact in enlisting the earliest associations of childhood with its observances. Already had Antonio acted his little part in its ceremonies, and a higher path was opening to him; for, after being haunted for a time with mysterious dreams, he swooned one day during the service, overcome by the spectacle, and was set down as one having visions, as a chosen child of God. At nine years of age, Antonio had been thus favoured, and he had the delight of being made a chorister, and had to make a public appearance; for now his vanity was awakened by his being called upon to make a solemn appearance in the Church : The happy Christmas approached. Pifferari-shepherds from the mountains-came in their short cloaks, with ribands around their pointed hats, and announced with the bagpipe, before every house where there stood an image of the Virgin, that the time was at hand in which the Saviour was born. I was awoke every morning by these monotonous, melancholy tones, and my first occupation then was to read over my lesson; for I was one of the children selected, "boys and girls," who, between Christmas and New-year, were to preach in the church ara coli, before the image of Jesus. It was not I alone, my mother, and Mariuccia, who rejoiced that I, the boy of nine, should make a speech, but also the painter Federigo, before whom I, without their knowledge, had had a rehearsal, standing upon a table. It would be upon such a one-only that a carpet would be laid over it-that we children should be placed in the church, where we, before the assembled multitudes, must repeat the speech, which we had learned by rote, about the bleeding heart of the Madonna, and the beauty of the child Jesus. I knew nothing of fear; it was only with joy that my heart beat so violently as I stepped forward, and saw all eyes directed to me. That 1, of all the children, gave most delight, seemed decided; but now there was lifted up a little girl, who was of so exquisitely delicate a form, and who had, at the same time, so wonderfully bright a countenance, and such a melodious voice, that all exclaimed aloud that she was a little angelic child. Even my mother, who would gladly have awarded to me the palm, declared aloud that she was just like one of the angels in the great altar-piece. The wonderfully dark eyes, the raven-black hair, the childlike, and yet so wise expression of countenance, the exquisitely small hands, nay, it seemed to me that my mother said too much of all these, although she added that I also was an angel of God. This last In order now to keep my public in good humour, I undertook, out of my own head, to make a new speech. But this was rather a description of the festival in the church, than a regular Christmas speech. Federigo was the first who heard it; and, although he laughed, it flattered me still, when he said that my speech was, in every way, as good as that which Fra Martino had taught me, and that a poet lay hidden in me. remark gave me much to think about, because I could not understand it; yet, thought I to myself, it must be a good angel, perhaps the same which shows to me the charming dreams, and so many beautiful things when I sleep. For the first time during the summer, chance gave me a clear notion of a poet, and awoke new ideas in my own soul-world. Thus we have the first glimpse of the beautiful heroine of the tale. And it has other heroines, noble, lofty, gifted; formed to kindle the imagination, and also one to fix the pure heart of the poet. The annual Flower-Feast at Genzano arrived; and the mother of Antonio, who enjoyed such holidays, with the zest of all Italians, resolved to attend it, with her little son and her friend Mariuccia. It was a heavenly day, and a beautiful scene is beautifully described. But fate was at hand; the kind mother was crushed to death in the procession, and Antonio was left an orphan. He had received a purse from a compassionate stranger. What was to be done with the poor boy?— Whilst Fra Martino counselled with himself in the convent, my uncle Peppo came stumping upon his wooden clogs. He had heard of my mother's death, and that twenty scudi had fallen to me; and for this reason he as he was the only relative I had in the world, he should also now came to give his opinion. He declared, that take me to himself; that I was to follow him, and that every thing which the house contained was his, as well zeal that she and Fra Martino had already arranged as the twenty scudi. Mariuccia maintained with great every thing for the best, and gave him to understand that he, a cripple and a beggar, had enough to do with himself, and could not have any voice in the matter. Federigo left the room, and the two who remained reproached each other mutually with the selfish ground of their regard for me. Uncle Peppo spit forth all his venom, and Mariuccia stood like a Fury before him. She would, she said, have nothing to do with him, nor with the boy; she would have nothing to do with any thing. She said he might take me and get me a pair of wooden crutches made, and so like a cripple I could help to fill his bag! Peppo made good his point, and the boy was consigned to a wretched life, led for a time in the haunts of the beggars. This part of the story abounds in fine and picturesque descriptions of the wanderings of the poor boy in the Campagna; and nights spent by the houseless orphan in the Coliseum, give as much scope to the poetic power as could the happiest circumstances. Antonio found noble patrons. His childhood ended, and his school-life began. In his early years he had improvised on trivial themes, yet Federigo the Dane had said he was a poet; but now he studied Petrarch and Dante,-and became the confidant of the enthusiastic passion of his friend Bernardo, though his own heart had slept until he was in the theatre to witness the opera of Dido; in which the principal part was sustained by a singer who had set all Naples in flames. life. This expression I found again in Annunciata. Had I been a sculptor, I should have designed her in marble, and the world would have called the statue Innocent Joy. Higher and yet higher, in wild dissonances, stormed the orchestra: the composer and prima donna accompanied them. "Glorious!" they now exclaimed. "The overture is at an end; let the curtain rise!" And so it falls, and the farce was ended; but, as on the preceding night, Annunciata must again come forth, and garlands, and flowers, and poems, with fluttering ribands, flew towards her. Several young men of my age, some of whom I knew, had arranged that night to give her a serenade: I was to be one of them. It was an age since I had sung. An hour after the play, when she had arrived at home, musicians were stationed under the balcony, where we our little band advanced to the Piazza Colonna. The still saw light behind the long curtains. My whole soul was in agitation. I thought only on her. My song mingled itself fearlessly with the others: I sung also a solo-aria. I felt all that which I breathed forth. Every thing in the world passed away from me. My voice had My companions could not restrain a faint bravo, but yet a power, a softness which I had never imagined before. sufficient to make me attentive to my own song. A wondrous joy stole into my soul,-I felt the god which moved within me,--and when Annunciata showed herself upon the balcony, bowed deeply, and thanked us, it seemed to me that it was alone with reference to me. I heard my voice distinctly above that of the others, and it seemed like the soul of the great harmony. I returned home in a whirl of enthusiasm: my vain mind dreamed only of Annunciata's delight in my singing. I had indeed astonished myself. Now came forth Dido. As soon as she showed herself upon the boards, a deep silence spread itself over the house. Her whole appearance; her queenly and yet easy, charming carriage seized upon all,-me also: and yet she was not such a one as I had imagined Dido to be. She stood there, a delicate, graceful creature, infinitely beautiful and intellectual, as only Raphael can represent woman. Black as ebony lay her hair upon the exquisite arched forehead: the dark eye was full of expression. A loud outbreak of applause was heard: it was to Beauty, and Beauty alone, that the homage was given, for as yet she had sung not a note. I saw plainly a crimson pass over her brow: she bowed to the admir-impossible to me. They besought me, and Bernardo ing crowd, who now followed with deep silence her beautiful accentuation of the recitative. 66 Antonio," said Bernardo, half aloud, to me, and seized my arm," it is she! I must have lost my senses, or it is she-my flown bird! Yes, yes, I cannot be wrong. The voice also is hers-I remember it only too well!" "Who do you mean?" I inquired. The next day I paid her a visit, and found Bernardo and several acquaintances with her. She was in raptures with the delicious tenor voice which she had heard in the serenade. I crimsoned deeply. One of the persons present suggested that I might be the singer; on which she drew me to the piano, and desired that I would sing a duet with her. I stood there like one about to be condemned, and assured them that it was scolded because I thus deprived them of the pleasure of hearing the signora. She took me by the hand, and I was a captive bird; it mattered but little that I fluttered my wings, I must sing. The duet was one with which I was acquainted. Annunciata struck up and raised her voice. With a tremulous tone I began my adagio. Her eye rested upon me as if she would say, "Courage! courage! follow me into my world of melody!" and I thought and dreamed only on this and Annunciata. My fear vanished, and I boldly ended the song. A storm of applause saluted us both, and even the old silent woman nodded to me kindly. "The Jewish maiden from Ghetto," replied he; " and yet it seems impossible: she cannot really be the same!" He was silent, and lost himself in the contemplation of the wonderfully lovely, sylph-like being. She sang the happiness of her love. It was a heart which breathed forth in melody, the deep, pure emotion which, upon the "My good fellow," whispered Bernardo to me, “you wings of melodious sounds, escapes from the human have amazed me!" and then he told them all that I breast. A strange sadness seized upon my soul: it was possessed yet another gift equally glorious - I was an as if those tones would call up in me the deepest earthly Improvisatore also, and that I must delight them by remembrances. I also was about to exclaim, with Ber-giving them a proof of it. My whole soul was in excitenardo, It is she! Yes, she whom I, for these many ment. Flattered on account of my singing, and toleyears, had not thought or dreamed of, stood now with rably secure of my own power, there needed only that wonderful vividness before me; she with whom I, as a Annunciata should express the wish for me, for the first child, had preached at Christmas, in the church ara cali; time, as a youth, to have boldness enough to improvise. that singularly delicate little girl, with the remarkably sweet voice, who had won the prize from me. I thought of her; and the more I saw and heard this evening, the more firmly was it impressed on my mind, "It is sheshe, and no other!" Ánd with this maiden was Antonio's friend in love. She, Annunciata,— Was a wild, wilful child, but most loveable in her wilfulness. Her song burst forth like the wild dithyrambics of the Bacchantes: even in gaiety I could not follow her. Her wilfulness was spiritual, beautiful, and great; and, as I looked at her, I could not but think on Guido Reni's glorious ceiling-painting of Aurora, where the Hours dance before the chariot of the Sun. One of these has a wonderful resemblance to the portrait of Beatrice Cenci, but as one must see in the gayest time of her I seized her guitar; she gave me the word "Immortality." I rapidly thought over the rich subject, struck a few chords, and then began my poem as it was born in my soul. My genius led me over the sulphur-blue Mediterranean to the wildly fertile valleys of Greece. Athens lay in ruins; the wild fig-tree grew above the broken capitals, and the spirit heaved a sigh; then onwards to the days of Pericles, when a rejoicing crowd was in motion under the proud arches. It was the festival of beauty; women, enchanting as Lais, danced with garlands through the streets, and poets sang aloud that beauty and joy should never pass away. This, and much that follows, if it should remind the reader too closely of Corinne, is nevertheless beautiful. And the passion of this gifted pair, as |