an angry and disdainful look at the formalist,-"it is but a word—a sound. Speak!" Lelia's dry, white lips had unclosed to obey, when the gate of the little court was wrenched open by one who was apparently too much in haste to find the latch, and a man rushed into the midst of the circle. "Speak not!" he shouted, "I forbid!" Lelia sprung towards him with a stifled cry, and would have thrown herself into his arms, had she not been suddenly caught midway by her father. "What is this?" demanded he sternly, but in rising alarm; "ruffian -drunkard-madman! — what would you here?" "You cannot provoke me, Niccoli," said the intruder, "were you to spit upon me! I come to demand your daughter in marriage." "You!" shouted the enraged father. "You!" repeated the relations, in tones of wonder, scorn, rage, or ridicule, according to the temperament of the individual. 66 66 There needeth no more of this," said the same cold, cautious voice that had spoken before; a wedding begun in a brawl will never end in a bedding. To demand a girl in legitimate marriage is neither sin nor shame; let the young man be answered even by the maiden herself, and then depart in peace." "He hath spoken well," said the more cautious among the old men; 66 speak, daughter; answer, and let the man be gone!" Lelia grew pale, and then red. She made a step forwardhesitated-looked at her father timidly -and then stood as still as a statue, pressing her clasped hands upon her bosom, as if to silence the throbbings that disturbed her reason. "Girl," said old Niccoli, in a voice of suppressed passion, as he seized her by the arm, 66 do you know that man? -did you ever see him before? Answer, can you tell me his name?" "No!" She had reached the stranger, who did not move from where he stood; and, as the ill-omened name met her ear, she fainted in his arms. The confusion that ensued was indescribable. Lelia was carried senseless into the house; and it required the efforts of half the party to hold back the father, who would have grappled with the mineralo upon the spot. Francesco stood for some time with folded arms, in mournful and moody silence; but when at length the voice of cursing, which Niccoli continued to pour forth against him, had sunk in exhaustion, he advanced and confronted him. "I can bear those names," said he, "from you. Some of them, you know well, are undeserved; and if others fit, it is more my misfortune than my fault. If to chastise insults, and render back scorn for scorn, is to be a ruffian, I am one; but no man can be called a vagabond who resides in the habitation and follows the trade of his ancestors. These things, however, are trifles - at best they are only words. Your real objection to me is that I am poor. It is a strong one. If I chose to take your daughter without a dowry, I would take her in spite of you all; but I will leave her-even to that thing without a soul rather than subject so gentle and fragile a being to the privations and vicissitudes of a life like mine. I'demand, therefore, not simply your daughter, but a dowry, if only a small one; and you have the right to require that on my part I shall not be empty-handed. She is young, and there can be, and ought to be, no hurry with her marriage: but give me only a year-a single year; name a reasonable sum; and if by the appointed time I cannot tell the money into your hand, I hereby engage to relinquish every claim, which her generous preference has given me, upon your daughter's hand." "It is well put," replied the cold and cautious voice in the assembly. "A year, at any rate, would have elapsed between the present betrothing and the damsel's marriage. If the young man, before the bells of twelve, on this night twelvemonth, layeth down upon the table, either in coined money, or in gold, or golden ore, the same sum which we were here ready to guarantee on the part of my grandson, why I, for one, shall not object to the maiden's whim-provided it continues s› longbeing consulted, in the disposal of her hand, in preference to her father's judgment and desires. The sum is only three thousand livres!" A laugh of scorn and derision arose among the relations. "Yes, yes," said they, "it is but just. Let the mineralo produce three thousand livres, and he shall have his bride. Neighbour Niccoli, it is a fair proposal; allow us to intercede for Francesco, and beg your assent!" "Sirs," said Francesco, in perplexity mingled with anger, "the sum of three thousand livres-" He was interrupted by another forced laugh of derision. "It is a fair proposal," repeated the relations; "agree, neighbour Niccoli, agree!" "I agree," said Niccoli, disdainfully. "It is agreed!" said Francesco, in a burst of haughty indignation; and with a swelling heart he withdrew. To be continued. DREAMS OF THE ARTS.-No. 1. THE STATUE OF THE GRECIAN For the Olio. It is a lovely shape! Or Cytherea's Hunter love? to each Undying glow of youthful beauty shed seems To show the chace has lost all charms for ELLISTON was, in his day, the Napoleon of Drury-lane, but, like the conqueror of Austerlitz, he suffered his declensions, and the Surrey became to him a St. Helena. However, once an eagle always an eagle; and Robert William was no less aquiline in the day of adversity than in his palmy time of patent prosperity. He was born to carry things with a high hand, and he but fulfilled his destiny. The anecdote which we are about to relate, is one of the ten thousand instances of his lordly bearing. When, the season before last, no effects" was written over the treasury-door of Covent-garden theatre, it will be remembered that several actors proffered their services gratis, in aid of the then humble, but now, arrogant and persecuting establishment. Among these patriots was Mr. T. P. Cooke--(it was just after his As long as flowers shall bloom or young hearts' promotion to the honorary rank of Ad him : The sandal, and the fillet, and the flow love Songs of the olden days-unchanged thou art 66 miral of the Blue). The Covent-garden managers jumped at the offer of the actor, who was in due time announced as having, in the true play-bill style, "most generously volunteered his services for six nights!" Cooke was advertised for William; Elliston having "most generously lent [N.B. this was not put in the bill] his musical score of Black-Eyed Susan, together with the identical captains' coats, worn at a hundred and fifty courts-martial at the Surrey Theatre.!" Cooke the score -the coats, were all accepted, and made the most of by the now prosecuting managers of Covent-garden, who cleared out of the said Cooke, score, and coats, one thousand pounds at halfprice on the first six nights of their exhibition. This is a fact; nay, we lately heard it stated, that all the sum was specially banked, to be used in a future war against the minors. Cooke was then engaged for twelve more nights, at ten pounds per night-a hackneycoach bringing him each night, hot from the Surrey stage, where he had previously made bargemen weep, and thrown nursery-maids into convulsions. Well, time drove on, and Cooke drove into the country. Elliston, who was always classical, having a due veneration for that divine "creature" Shakspeare, announced, on the anniversary of the poet's birth-day, a representation of the Stratford Jubilee. The wardrobe was ransacked, the property-man was on the alert; and, after much preparation, every thing was in readiness for the imposing spectacle.No! There was one thing forgottenone important "property!" Bottom A must be 66 a feature" in the procession, and there was no ass's head! It would not do for the acting manager to apologize for the absence of the head-no, he could not have the face to do it. head must be procured! Every one was in doubt and trepidation, when hope sounded in the clarion-like voice of Robert William. "Ben!" exclaimed Elliston, "take pen, ink, and paper, and write as follow!" Ben (Mr. Benjamin Fairbrother, the late manager's most trusty secretary) sat, "all ear," and Elliston, with finger on nether lip, proceeded: My dear Charles, "I am about to represent, with entirely new dresses, scenery, and decorations,' the Stratford Jubilee, in honour of the sweet swan of Avon. My scene-painter is the finest artist (except your Grieve) in Europe-my tailor is no less a genius, and I lately raised the salary of my property-man. This will give you some idea of the capabilities of the Surrey Theatre. However, in the hurry of 'getting up,' we have forgotten one property - every thing is well with us but our Bottom, and he wants a head. As it is too late to manufacture, not but that my property-man is the cleverest in the world (except the property-man of Covent garden), can you lend me an ass's head, and believe me, my dear Charles, "Your's ever truly, "R. W. ELLISTON." "P.S. I had forgotten to acknowledge the return of the Black-Eyed Susan score, and coats. You were most welcome to them." The letter was dispatched to Coventgarden Theatre, and in a brief time the bearer returned with the following answer : "My dear Robert, "It is with the most acute pain that I am compelled to refuse your trifling request. You are aware, my dear Sir, of the unfortunate situation of Coventgarden Theatre; it being at the present moment, with all the 6 dresses, scenery, and decorations,' in the Court of Chancery, I cannot exercise that power which my friendship would dictate. I have spoken to Bartley, and he agrees with me (indeed, he always does), that I cannot lend you an ass's head-he is an authority on such a subject-without risking a reprimand from the Lord High Chancellor. Trusting to your generosity, and to your liberal construction of my refusal-and hoping that it will in no way interrupt that mutually cordial friendship that has ever subsisted between us, "Believe me, ever your's, "CHARLES Kemble." "P.S. When I next see you advertised for Rover, I intend to leave myself out of the bill to come and see it." long unanswered. Ben was again in requisition, and the following was the Of course this letter did not remain result of his labours : "Dear Charles, "I regret the situation of Coventgarden Theatre-I also, for your sake, deeply regret that the law does not permit you to send me the 'property in question. I knew that law alone could prevent you; for were it not for the vigilance of Equity, such is my opinion of the management of Covent-garden, that I am convinced, if left to the dictates of its own judgment, it would be enabled to spare asses' heads,not to the Surrey alone, but to every theatre in Christendom. "Your's ever truly, "R W. ELLISTON." "P.S. My wardrobe-keeper informs me that there are no less than seven buttons missing from the captains' coats. However, I have ordered their places to be instantaneously filled by reach mine; the latter was my favourite others." TIME itself had a commencement; the world had a beginning; every one of us had an infancy; we all delighted our mammas or nurses with our first steps. Poets of all calibres, from Homer downwards, rhymed for the first time; and so, kind reader, did I. In order that the importance of this era in my life may be fully appreciated, it is necessary to be known, that I was debarred from my earliest infancy from intermingling with scenes that might create a poetic vein of feeling within me. The green fields-the balmy air -the meandering rivulet-the shady forest--the spreading ocean--the bound ing cascade, and the extended plainthese, and a thousand other beauties which Nature lavishes upon us, with their innumerable associations of pure enjoyment, were out of my reach. I was born within the sound of Bow-bell, and seldom indeed was I permitted beyond its range. Some half-dozen visits, of a week's continuance, to one or other relative in the country did fall to my lot, and, "few and far between" as they were, they sufficed to realize in my bosom a love of the grand and the beautiful in Nature, which the mud and smoke of London has never eradicated. Books too-those magicians of the closet-that will raise before you the most distant prospects, and the most remote events-that can almost thrill the soul with extacy, or make the heart burst with sympathy-were not for me! All the poetry that came before me, while attending for seven long years an academy in Aldersgate-street, were "Pope's Translation of Homer,' ," "Milton's Paradise Lost, " and "Tomkins' Selection from the English Poets;" of the two former it is sufficient to state, that, beautiful as they are, their beauty is not of a nature to reach the heart of a child, and it certainly did not then school-book, and my tasks in it were "a pleasant toil;" and often have I longed to wander amid scenes therein described, and as often repined at my fate- a prisoner in London - that masterpiece of man's manufacture*. If it were to my purpose, I could declaim at great length against this "first city in the world," and against all other cities too. Give to me the quiet village, with God's undisguised creation around it, where every operation of Nature partakes of the beautiful or the sublime, and leads the mind involuntarily to gaze upon the mysteries of existence, and to adore their great First Cause! But in London, brickbounded London, where, if the sun shines, it shines but upon one side of the way, and does not smile upon you with that full refulgence that glows over the corn-field and the lake; and where, in a storm, you might almost imagine the lightning to be ejected from the house-tops, and the thunder to be the rumbling of some heavily laden waggon, instead of being awe-struck with the solemnity of the one, and having your mind as well as eye-sight dazzled with the brilliancy of the other in London, Nature herself seems to be in an ill-humour; or, if she smiles, it is with the ghastly smile of sickness, such as a fond and dying mother might bestow upon a wayward child. Well, here I found myself at fourteen years of age, a fixture for seven years more in a stationer's shop: whether it was the constant presence of pen, ink, and paper, that engendered in my heart a desire to put them to their legitimate employment, I know not; but, it was then that the thought of becoming an author first occurred to me. Poetry seemed to be the most difficult branch of the art of composition, and therefore it was that I chose in preference to prose: the reasons which influenced my choice may not appear very obvious, but they were such as, I doubt not, would influence nineteen lads out of twenty, who might form similar resolutions of aspiring to the laurel of literary fame-the greatest geniuses had been poets, and poetry had immortalized their names-and how could I doubt that I was a great genius, and that poetry would immortalize me? its composition might be difficult to the multi *God made the country, and man made the town.-CowPER. tude, but to me a mere exercise of the fancy. In short, I believed that I was capable of rivalling Homer, and to rival him I was therefore resolved. But there was one small difficulty I had yet to overcome, and that was, the want of a subject upon which to employ my rhyming propensities: innumerable were the objects, both animate and inanimate, which I endeavoured to glorify, in what I could not but consider was to be my "immortal verse;" but I could not satisfy myself. I tried a Sonnet to the Moon," but stuck fast in the fourth line: I then began a "Hymn to Silence," but something, I suppose it was the subject, stopped my eloquence: my next attempt was, an "Heroic Ode," subject-the Battle of Waterloo! but I could not at all manage to keep 'o the rhyme; I contrived to end one line with roar," and the next with "door," and the word "rattle" came to my assistance just as I was going to dash the pen through "battle;" but I presently had a line ending with trumpet," and, as I could not find any words to sound similarly except "strumpet" and " crumpet," "neither of which appeared to me to have any thing heroic about them, I was obliged to consider the "trumpet" line as hors de combat; this spoilt my ode: I was then fain to fancy myself in love, and wrote "Lines to Mary;" the four first of which I considered to have but one fault, which was, that they had no apparent connection with each other. All my attempts were abortions, and I almost began to despair of success. 66 66 But Death was kind enough to step in to my relief. Belonging to the family with whom I was domesticated, was a tame squirrel, which happened, most opportunely, to die one day when I was most lamenting my unsuccessful attempts; the Muse immediately inspired me; and my First Rhyme, consisting of six stanzas, was an 'elegy' upon the poor animal's death. Of the worth of my composition, it will be sufficient to mention, that it was consigned to the flames by my own hands, within one year after its birth, and I could now, no more present the reader with two lines of it from memory, than with the whole of that chapter of hard names-the first of St. Matthew's Gospel; but, I can recollect, that I was so extremely liberal in calling upon rocks, woods, and ocean; sun, moon, and stars; comets, cauliflowers, cabbages, and the whole paraphernalia of nature; that if I did not reach the sub lime, I, at least, went a step beyond it, for I certainly (I confess it honestly) got into the ridiculous. But I had loftier notions of my "First Rhyme" then. My 'poem,' as I called it, was speedily handed round the little circle of my acquaintance, in the hope of obtaining that applause which it appeared to me to deserve; but, our most reasonable expectations are but too often disappointed, and mine, upon this point, were doomed to the same fate. Every one could point out what he termed the 'bad' parts of my verse, and only one, single, solitary voice, said any thing in its favour; true it is, that single approval was limited enough, being merely an admission that it certainly was rhyme, but still, it was, in its degree, praise, and it emboldened me to set my censurers at defiance. I doubted not, in my heart, that they were envious of my poetical talents, and jealous of the fame I was likely to acquire; and I resolved that my 'Elegy' should go forth to the world, and obtain that distinction which I conceived was its due. It happened, fortunately enough, for my purpose, that at the time of which I am writing, there were published in London, some fifteen or sixteen weekly publications, ostensibly, at least, devoted to literature; each of which had one corner set apart for Original Poetry;' and to the editors of each of them, I, one Monday morning, sent a copy of my poem,' with Elegy on the death of a Squirrel,' written in text hand at top, and a single letter of the alphabet as my signature at the bottom; each copy was accompanied by a request, that it might be inserted in the ensuing number of the work, to whose editors it was addressed; and, in anxious expectation, I awaited the result. Truly, in the whole course of my existence, I never imagined time to pass so slowly as during the four following days; at length, Saturday morning arrived, and with it the expected periodicals; more swiftly than thought did my eye glance over each of them, in search of the expected 'Elegy,' but no elegy was to be seen. I turned to the Notices to Correspondents,' fully anticipating a multitude of respectful acknowledgments, but I was again wofully disappointed; far different, in +A writer of considerable tact, has observed that one step beyond the sublime is the ridiculous, and one step beyond that is the sublime again.' |
