BOOK III. "Not to all men Apollo shows himself-- Who sees him--/he/ is great!" CALLIM. /Ex Hymno in Apollinon/. CHAPTER I. "Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears--soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. " SHAKESPEARE. BOAT SONG ON THE LAKE OF COMO. I. The Beautiful Clime!--the Clime of Love! Thou beautiful Italy!Like a mother's eyes, the earnest skies Ever have smiles for thee!Not a flower that blows, not a beam that glows, But what is in love with thee! II. The beautiful lake, the Larian lake!* Soft lake like a silver sea, The Huntress Queen, with her nymphs of sheen, Never had bath like thee. See, the Lady of night and her maids of light, Even now are mid-deep in thee! * The ancient name of Como. III. Beautiful child of the lonely hills, Ever blest may thy slumbers be!No mourner should tread by thy dreamy bed, No life bring a care to thee--Nay, soft to thy bed, let the mourner tread-- And life be a dream like thee! Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now imperfectlytranslated--such were the notes that floated one lovely evening insummer along the lake of Como. The boat, from which came the song, drifted gently down the sparkling waters, towards the mossy banks of alawn, whence on a little eminence gleamed the white walls of a villa, backed by vineyards. On that lawn stood a young and handsome woman, leaning on the arm of her husband, and listening to the song. But herdelight was soon deepened into one of more personal interest, as theboatmen, nearing the banks, changed their measure, and she felt that theminstrelsy was in honour of herself. SERENADE TO THE SONGSTRESS. I. CHORUS. Softly--oh, soft! let us rest on the oar, And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore:--For sacred the spot where the starry waves meetWith the beach, where the breath of the citron is sweet. There's a spell on the waves that now waft us alongTo the last of our Muses, the Spirit of Song. RECITATIVE. The Eagle of old renown, And the Lombard's iron crownAnd Milan's mighty name are ours no more; But by this glassy water, Harmonia's youngest daughter, Still from the lightning saves one laurel to our shore. II. CHORUS. They heard thee, Teresa, the Teuton, the Gaul, Who have raised the rude thrones of the North on our fall;They heard thee, and bow'd to the might of thy song;Like love went thy steps o'er the hearts of the strong;As the moon to the air, as the soul to the clay, To the void of this earth was the breath of thy lay. RECITATIVE. Honour for aye to her The bright interpreterOf Art's great mysteries to the enchanted throng; While tyrants heard thy strains, Sad Rome forgot her chains;The world the sword had lost was conquer'd back by song! "Thou repentest, my Teresa, that thou hast renounced thy dazzling careerfor a dull home, and a husband old enough to be thy father, " said thehusband to the wife, with a smile that spoke confidence in the answer. "Ah, no! even this homage would have no music to me if thou didst nothear it. " She was a celebrated personage in Italy--the Signora Cesarini, nowMadame de Montaigne. Her earlier youth had been spent upon the stage, and her promise of vocal excellence had been most brilliant. But aftera brief though splendid career, she married a French gentleman of goodbirth and fortune, retired from the stage, and spent her lifealternately in the gay saloons of Paris and upon the banks of the dreamyComo, on which her husband had purchased a small but beautiful villa. She still, however, exercised in private her fascinating art; towhich--for she was a woman of singular accomplishment and talent--sheadded the gift of the improvvisatrice. She had just returned for thesummer to this lovely retreat, and a party of enthusiastic youths fromMilan had sought the lake of Como to welcome her arrival with thesuitable homage of song and music. It is a charming relic, that customof the brighter days of Italy; and I myself have listened, on the stillwaters of the same lake, to a similar greeting to a greater genius--thequeenlike and unrivalled Pasta--the Semiramis of Song! And while myboat paused, and I caught something of the enthusiasm of the serenaders, the boatman touched me, and, pointing to a part of the lake on which thesetting sun shed its rosiest smile, he said, "There, Signor, was drownedone of your countrymen 'bellissimo uomo! che fu bello!'"--yes, there, inthe pride of his promising youth, of his noble and almost godlikebeauty, before the very windows--the very eyes--of his bride--the waveswithout a frown had swept over the idol of many hearts--the graceful andgallant Locke. * And above his grave was the voluptuous sky, and over itfloated the triumphant music. It was as the moral of the Romanpoets--calling the living to a holiday over the oblivion of the dead. * Captain William Locke of the Life Guards (the only son of theaccomplished Mr. Locke of Norbury Park), distinguished by a characterthe most amiable, and by a personal beauty that certainly equalled, perhaps surpassed, the highest masterpiece of Grecian sculpture. He wasreturning in a boat from the town of Como to his villa on the banks ofthe lake, when the boat was upset by one of the mysteriousunder-currents to which the lake is dangerously subjected; and he wasdrowned in sight of his bride, who was watching his return from theterrace or balcony of their home. As the boat now touched the bank, Madame de Montaigne accosted themusicians, thanked them with a sweet and unaffected earnestness for thecompliment so delicately offered, and invited them ashore. TheMilanese, who were six in number, accepted the invitation, and mooredtheir boat to the jutting shore. It was then that Monsieur de Montaignepointed out to the notice of his wife a boat, that had lingered underthe shadow of a bank, tenanted by a young man, who had seemed to listenwith rapt attention to the music, and who had once joined in the chorus(as it was twice repeated), with a voice so exquisitely attuned, and sorich in its deep power, that it had awakened the admiration even of theserenaders themselves. "Does not that gentleman belong to your party?" De Montaigne asked ofthe Milanese. "No, Signor, we know him not, " was the answer; "his boat came unawaresupon us as we were singing. " While this question and answer were going on, the young man had quittedhis station, and his oars cut the glassy surface of the lake, justbefore the place where De Montaigne stood. With the courtesy of hiscountry, the Frenchman lifted his hat; and, by his gesture, arrested theeye and oar of the solitary rower. "Will you honour us, " he said, "byjoining our little party?" "It is a pleasure I covet too much to refuse, " replied the boatman, witha slight foreign accent, and in another moment he was on shore. He wasone of remarkable appearance. His long hair floated with a carelessgrace over a brow more calm and thoughtful than became his years; hismanner was unusually quiet and self-collected, and not without a certainstateliness, rendered more striking by the height of his stature, alordly contour of feature, and a serene but settled expression ofmelancholy in his eyes and smile. "You will easily believe, " said he, "that, cold as my countrymen are esteemed (for you must have discoveredalready that I am an Englishman), I could not but share in theenthusiasm of those about me, when loitering near the very ground sacredto the inspiration. For the rest, I am residing for the present inyonder villa, opposite to your own; my name is Maltravers, and I amenchanted to think that I am no longer a personal stranger to one whosefame has already reached me. " Madame de Montaigne was flattered bysomething in the manner and tone of the Englishman, which said a greatdeal more than his words; and in a few minutes, beneath the influence ofthe happy continental ease, the whole party seemed as if they had knowneach other for years. Wines, and fruits, and other simple andunpretending refreshments, were brought out and ranged on a rude tableupon the grass, round which the guests seated themselves with their hostand hostess, and the clear moon shone over them, and the lake sleptbelow in silver. It was a scene for a Boccaccio or a Claude. The conversation naturally fell upon music; it is almost the only thingwhich Italians in general can be said to know--and even that knowledgecomes to them, like Dogberry's reading and writing, by nature--for ofmusic, as an /art/, the unprofessional amateurs know but little. Asvain and arrogant of the last wreck of their national genius as theRomans of old were of the empire of all arts and arms, they look uponthe harmonies of other lands as barbarous; nor can they appreciate orunderstand appreciation of the mighty German music, which is the properminstrelsy of a nation of men--a music of philosophy, of heroism, of theintellect and the imagination; beside which, the strains of modern Italyare indeed effeminate, fantastic, and artificially feeble. Rossini isthe Canova of music, with much of the pretty, with nothing of the grand! The little party talked, however, of music, with an animation and gustothat charmed the melancholy Maltravers, who for weeks had known nocompanion save his own thoughts, and with whom, at all times, enthusiasmfor any art found a ready sympathy. He listened attentively, but saidlittle; and from time to time, whenever the conversation flagged, amusedhimself by examining his companions. The six Milanese had nothingremarkable in their countenances or in their talk; they possessed thecharacteristic energy and volubility of their countrymen, with somethingof the masculine dignity which distinguishes the Lombard from theSouthern, and a little of the French polish, which the inhabitants ofMilan seldom fail to contract. Their rank was evidently that of themiddle class; for Milan has a middle class, and one which promises greatresults hereafter. But they were noways distinguished from a thousandother Milanese whom Maltravers had met with in the walks and cafes oftheir noble city. The host was somewhat more interesting. He was atall, handsome man, of about eight-and-forty, with a high forehead, andfeatures strongly impressed with the sober character of thought. He hadbut little of the French vivacity in his manner; and without looking athis countenance, you would still have felt insensibly that he was theeldest of the party. His wife was at least twenty years younger thanhimself, mirthful and playful as a child, but with a certain feminineand fascinating softness in her unrestrained gestures and sparklinggaiety, which seemed to subdue her natural joyousness into the form andmethod of conventional elegance. Dark hair carelessly arranged, an openforehead, large black laughing eyes, a small straight nose, a complexionjust relieved from the olive by an evanescent, yet perpetually recurringblush; a round dimpled cheek, an exquisitely-shaped mouth with smallpearly teeth, and a light and delicate figure a little below theordinary standard, completed the picture of Madame de Montaigne. "Well, " said Signor Tirabaloschi, the most loquacious and sentimental ofthe guests, filling his glass, "these are hours to think of for the restof life. But we cannot hope the Signora will long remember what wenever can forget. Paris, says the French proverb, /est le paradis desfemmes/: and in Paradise, I take it for granted, we recollect verylittle of what happened on earth. " "Oh, " said Madame de Montaigne, with a pretty musical laugh, "in Parisit is the rage to despise the frivolous life of cities, and to affect/des sentimens romanesques/. This is precisely the scene which our fineladies and fine writers would die to talk of and to describe. Is it notso, /mon ami/?" and she turned affectionately to De Montaigne. "True, " replied he; "but you are not worthy of such a scene--you laughat sentiment and romance. " "Only at French sentiment and the romance of the Chaussee d'Antin. YouEnglish, " she continued, shaking her head at Maltravers, "have spoiledand corrupted us; we are not content to imitate you, we must excel you;we out-horror horror, and rush from the extravagant into the frantic!" "The ferment of the new school is, perhaps, better than the stagnationof the old, " said Maltravers. "Yet even you, " addressing himself to theItalians, "who first in Petrarch, in Tasso, and in Ariosto, set toEurope the example of the Sentimental and the Romantic; who built amongthe very ruins of the classic school, amidst its Corinthian columns andsweeping arches, the spires and battlements of the Gothic--even you aredeserting your old models and guiding literature into newer and wilderpaths. 'Tis the way of the world--eternal progress is eternal change. " "Very possibly, " said Signor Tirabaloschi, who understood nothing ofwhat was said. "Nay, it is extremely profound; on reflection, it isbeautiful--superb! you English are so--so--in short, it is admirable. Ugo Foscolo is a great genius--so is Monti; and as for Rossini, --youknow his last opera--/cosa stupenda/!" Madame de Montaigne glanced at Maltravers, clapped her little hands, andlaughed outright. Maltravers caught the contagion, and laughed also. But he hastened to repair the pedantic error he had committed of talkingover the heads of the company. He took up the guitar, which, amongtheir musical instruments, the serenaders had brought, and aftertouching its chords for a few moments, said: "After all, Madame, in yoursociety, and with this moonlit lake before us, we feel as if music wereour best medium of conversation. Let us prevail upon these gentlemen todelight us once more. " "You forestall what I was going to ask, " said the ex-singer; andMaltravers offered the guitar to Tirabaloschi, who was in fact dying toexhibit his powers again. He took the instrument with a slight grimaceof modesty, and then saying to Madame de Montaigne, "There is a songcomposed by a young friend of mine, which is much admired by the ladies;though to me it seems a little too sentimental, " sang the followingstanzas (as good singers are wont to do) with as much feeling as if hecould understand them! NIGHT AND LOVE. When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee;Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes! As stars look on the sea! For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest where they shine;Mine earthly love lies hushed in light Beneath the heaven of thine. There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch on men;When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep, -- Sweet spirit, meet me then. There is an hour when holy dreams Through slumber fairest glide;And in that mystic hour it seems Thou shouldst be by my side. The thoughts of thee too sacred are For daylight's common beam;--I can but know thee as my star, My angel, and my dream! And now, the example set, and the praises of the fair hostess excitinggeneral emulation, the guitar circled from hand to hand, and each of theItalians performed his part; you might have fancied yourself at one ofthe old Greek feasts, with the lyre and the myrtle-branch going theround. But both the Italians and the Englishman felt the entertainment would beincomplete without hearing the celebrated vocalist and improvvisatricewho presided over the little banquet; and Madame de Montaigne, with awoman's tact, divined the general wish, and anticipated the request thatwas sure to be made. She took the guitar from the last singer, andturning to Maltravers, said, "You have heard, of course, some of ourmore eminent improvvisatori, and therefore if I ask you for a subject itwill only be to prove to you that the talent is not general amongst theItalians. " "Ah, " said Maltravers, "I have heard, indeed, some ugly old gentlemenwith immense whiskers, and gestures of the most alarming ferocity, pourout their vehement impromptus; but I have never yet listened to a youngand a handsome lady. I shall only believe the inspiration when I hearit direct from the Muse. " "Well, I will do my best to deserve your compliments--you must give methe theme. " Maltravers paused a moment, and suggested the Influence of Praise onGenius. The improvvisatrice nodded assent, and after a short prelude broke forthinto 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 soundedto the enchanted listeners like the language that Armida might haveuttered. 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 plauditsfollowed--the Italians were too affected by the science, Maltravers bythe feeling, for the coarseness of ready praise;--and ere that delightedsilence which made the first impulse was broken, a new comer, descendingfrom the groves that clothed the ascent behind the house, was in themidst of the party. "Ah, my dear brother, " cried Madame Montaigne, starting up, and bangingfondly on the arm of the stranger, "why have you lingered so long in thewood? 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 asif to slink away. "No, no, " whispered Teresa, "you must stay a moment and be presented tomy 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 herguests. Signor Cesarini returned their salutations with a mixture ofbashfulness and /hauteur/, half-awkward and half-graceful, and mutteringsome inaudible greeting, sank into a seat and appeared instantly lost inreverie. Maltravers gazed upon him, and was pleased with hisaspect--which, if not handsome, was strange and peculiar. He wasextremely slight and thin--his cheeks hollow and colourless, with aprofusion of black silken ringlets that almost descended to hisshoulders. His eyes, deeply sunk into his head, were large andintensely brilliant; and a thin moustache, curling downwards, gave anadditional austerity to his mouth, which was closed with gloomy andhalf-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 histhroat; his nether garments fitted tight to his limbs, and a pair ofhalf-hessians completed his costume. It was evident that the young man(and he was very young--perhaps about nineteen or twenty) indulged thatcoxcombry of the Picturesque which is the sign of a vainer mind than isthe commoner coxcombry of the /Mode/. It is astonishing how frequently it happens, that the introduction of asingle intruder upon a social party is sufficient to destroy all thefamiliar harmony that existed there before. We see it even when theintruder is agreeable and communicative--but in the present instance, aghost could scarcely have been a more unwelcoming or unwelcome visitor. The presence of this shy, speechless, supercilious-looking man threw adamp over the whole group. The gay Tirabaloschi immediately discoveredthat it was time to depart--it had not struck any one before, but itcertainly /was/ late. The Italians began to bustle about, to collecttheir music, to make fine speeches and fine professions--to bow and tosmile--to scramble into their boat, and to push towards the inn at Como, where they had engaged their quarters for the night. As the boat glidedaway, and while two of them were employed at the oar, the remaining fourtook up their instruments and sang a parting glee. It was quitemidnight--the hush of all things around had grown more intense andprofound--there was a wonderful might of silence in the shining air andamidst the shadows thrown by the near banks and the distant hills overthe water. So that as the music chiming in with the oars grew fainterand fainter, it is impossible to describe the thrilling and magicaleffect it produced. The party ashore did not speak; there was a moisture, a grateful one, inthe bright eyes of Teresa, as she leant upon the manly form of DeMontaigne, for whom her attachment was, perhaps, yet more deep and purefor the difference of their ages. A girl who once loves a man, notindeed old, but much older than herself, loves him with such a /lookingup/ and venerating love! Maltravers stood a little apart from thecouple, on the edge of the shelving bank, with folded arms andthoughtful countenance. "How is it, " said he, unconscious that he wasspeaking half aloud, "that the commonest beings of the world should beable to give us a pleasure so unworldly? What a contrast between thosemusicians and this music. At this distance their forms are dimly seen, one might almost fancy the creators of those sweet sounds to be ofanother mould from us. Perhaps even thus the poetry of the Past ringson our ears--the deeper and the diviner, because removed from the claywhich 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 thesoliloquist; and Maltravers started to find that he had had unknowinglya listener in the young Cesarini. "No, " said Maltravers; "I cull the flowers, I do not cultivate thesoil. " "And why not?" said Cesarini, with abrupt energy; "you are anEnglishman--/you/ have a public--you have a country--you have a livingstage, a breathing audience; we, Italians, have nothing but the dead. " As he looked on the young man, Maltravers was surprised to see thesudden 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 inthe wilderness--it sings from an impulse--the song dies without alistener. Oh that I belonged to a /living/ country, --France, England, Germany, Arnerica, --and not to the corruption of a dead giantess--forsuch 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 theproffered salutation. Reserved as he was, something in Maltraversattracted him; and, indeed, there was that in Ernest which fascinatedmost of those unhappy eccentrics who do not move in the common orbit ofthe world. In a few moments more the Englishman had said farewell to the owner ofthe villa, and his light boat skimmed rapidly over the tide. "What do you think of the /Inglese/?" said Madame de Montaigne to herhusband, as they turned towards the house. (They said not a word aboutthe Milanese. ) "He has a noble bearing for one so young, " said the Frenchman; "andseems to have seen the world, and both to have profited and to havesuffered by it. " "He will prove an acquisition to our society here, " returned Teresa; "heinterests me; and you, Castruccio?" turning to seek for her brother; butCesarini had already, with his usual noiseless step, disappeared withinthe house. "Alas, my poor brother!" she said, "I cannot comprehend him. What doeshe desire?" "Fame!" replied De Montaigne, calmly. "It is a vain shadow; no wonderthat he disquiets himself in vain. " CHAPTER II. "Alas! what boots it with incessant care To strictly meditate the thankless Muse; Were I not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?" MILTON'S /Lycidas/. THERE is nothing more salutary to active men than occasional intervalsof repose, --when we look within, instead of without, and examine almost/insensibly/ (for I hold strict and conscious self-scrutiny a thing muchrarer 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 didMaltravers now enjoy. In utter solitude, so far as familiarcompanionship is concerned, he had for several weeks been making himselfacquainted with his own character and mind. He read and thought much, but without any exact or defined object. I think it is Montaigne whosays somewhere: "People talk about thinking--but for my part I neverthink, except when I sit down to write. " I believe this is not a verycommon case, for people who don't write think as well as people who do;but connected, severe, well-developed thought, in contradistinction tovague meditation, must be connected with some tangible plan or object;and therefore we must be either writing men or acting men, if we desireto test the logic, and unfold into symmetrical design the fused coloursof our reasoning faculty. Maltravers did not yet feel this, but he wassensible of some intellectual want. His ideas, his memories, his dreamscrowded thick and confused upon him; he wished to arrange them in order, and he could not. He was overpowered by the unorganised affluence of hisown imagination and intellect. He had often, even as a child, fanciedthat he was formed to do something in the world, but he had neversteadily considered what it was to be, whether he was to become a man ofbooks or a man of deeds. He had written poetry when it pouredirresistibly from the fount of emotion within, but looked at hiseffusions with a cold and neglectful eye when the enthusiasm had passedaway. Maltravers was not much gnawed by the desire of fame--perhaps few men ofreal genius are, until artificially worked up to it. There is in asound and correct intellect, with all its gifts fairly balanced, a calmconsciousness of power, a certainty that when its strength is fairly putout, it must be to realise the usual result of strength. Men ofsecond-rate faculties, on the contrary, are fretful and nervous, fidgeting after a celebrity which they do not estimate by their owntalents, but by the talents of some one else. They see a tower, but areoccupied only with measuring its shadow, and think their own height(which they never calculate) is to cast as broad a one over the earth. It is the short man who is always throwing up his chin, and is as erectas a dart. The tall man stoops, and the strong man is not always usingthe dumb-bells. Maltravers had not yet, then, the keen and sharp yearning forreputation; he had not, as yet, tasted its sweets and bitters--fataldraught, which /once/ tasted, begets too often an insatiable thirst!neither had he enemies and decriers whom he was desirous of abashing bymerit. And that is a very ordinary cause for exertion in proud minds. He was, it is true, generally reputed clever, and fools were afraid ofhim: but as he actively interfered with no man's pretensions, so no manthought it necessary to call him a blockhead. At present, therefore, itwas quietly and naturally that his mind was working its legitimate wayto its destiny of exertion. He began idly and carelessly to note downhis thoughts and impressions; what was once put on the paper, begot newmatter; his ideas became more lucid to himself; and the page grew alooking-glass, which presented the likeness of his own features. Hebegan by writing with rapidity, and without method. He had no objectbut to please himself, and to find a vent for an overcharged spirit;and, like most writings of the young, the matter was egotistical. Wecommence with the small nucleus of passion and experience, to widen thecircle afterwards; and, perhaps, the most extensive and universalmasters of life and character have begun by being egotists. For thereis in a man that has much in him a wonderfully acute and sensitiveperception of his own existence. An imaginative and susceptible personhas, indeed, ten times as much life as a dull fellow, "an he beHercules. " He multiplies himself in a thousand objects, associates eachwith his own identity, lives in each, and almost looks upon the worldwith its infinite objects as a part of his individual being. Afterwards, as he tames down, he withdraws his forces into the citadel, but he still has a knowledge of, and an interest in, the land they oncecovered. He understands other people, for he has lived in otherpeople--the dead and the living;--fancied himself now Brutus and nowCaesar, and thought how /he/ should act in almost every imaginablecircumstance of life. Thus, when he begins to paint human characters, essentially differentfrom his own, his knowledge comes to him almost intuitively. It is asif he were describing the mansions in which he himself has formerlylodged, though for a short time. Hence in great writers of History--ofRomance--of the Drama--the /gusto/ with which they paint theirpersonages; their creations are flesh and blood, not shadows ormachines. Maltravers was at first, then, an egotist, in the matter of his rude anddesultory sketches--in the manner, as I said before, he was careless andnegligent, as men will be who have not yet found that expression is anart. Still those wild and valueless essays--those rapt and secretconfessions of his own heart--were a delight to him. He began to tastethe transport, the intoxication of an author. And, oh, what a luxury isthere in that first love of the Muse! that process by which we givepalpable form to the long-intangible visions which have flitted acrossus;--the beautiful ghost of the Ideal within us, which we invoke in theGadara of our still closets, with the wand of the simple pen! It was early noon, the day after he had formed his acquaintance with theDe Montaignes, that Maltravers sat in his favourite room;--the one hehad selected for his study from the many chambers of his large andsolitary habitation. He sat in a recess by the open window, whichlooked on the lake; and books were scattered on his table, andMaltravers was jotting down his criticisms on what he read, mingled withhis impressions on what he saw. It is the pleasantest kind ofcomposition--the note-book of a man who studies in retirement, whoobserves in society, who in all things can admire and feel. He was yetengaged in this easy task, when Cesarini was announced, and the youngbrother of the fair Teresa entered his apartment. "I have availed myself soon of your invitation, " said the Italian. "I acknowledge the compliment, " replied Maltravers, pressing the handshyly held out to him. "I see you have been writing--I thought you were attached to literature. I read it in your countenance, I heard it in your voice, " said Cesarini, seating himself. "I have been idly beguiling a very idle leisure, it is true, " saidMaltravers. "But you do not write for yourself alone--you have an eye to the greattribunals--Time and the Public. " "Not so, I assure you honestly, " said Maltravers, smiling. "If you lookat the books on my table, you will see that they are the greatmasterpieces of ancient and modern lore--these are studies thatdiscourage tyros--" "But inspire them. " "I do not think so. Models may form our taste as critics, but do notexcite us to be authors. I fancy that our own emotions, our own senseof our destiny, make the great lever of the inert matter we accumulate. 'Look in thy heart and write, ' said an old English writer, * who did not, however, practise what he preached. And you, Signor--" * Sir Philip Sidney. "Am nothing, and would be something, " said the young man, shortly andbitterly. "And how does that wish not realise its object?" "Merely because I am Italian, " said Cesarini. "With us there is noliterary public--no vast reading class--we have dilettanti and literati, and students, and even authors; but these make only a coterie, not apublic. I have written, I have published; but no one listened to me. Iam an author without readers. " "It is no uncommon case in England, " said Maltravers. The Italian continued: "I thought to live in the mouths of men--to stirup thoughts long dumb--to awaken the strings of the old lyre! In vain. Like the nightingale, I sing only to break my heart with a false andmelancholy emulation of other notes. " "There are epochs in all countries, " said Maltravers, gently, "whenpeculiar veins of literature are out of vogue, and when no genius canbring them into public notice. But you wisely said there were twotribunals--the Public and Time. You have still the last to appeal to. Your great Italian historians wrote for the unborn--their works not evenpublished till their death. That indifference to living reputation hasin it, to me, something of the sublime. " "I cannot imitate them--and they were not poets, " said Cesarini, sharply. "To poets, praise is a necessary aliment; neglect is death. " "My dear Signor Cesarini, " said the Englishman, feelingly, "do not giveway to these thoughts. There ought to be in a healthful ambition thestubborn stuff of persevering longevity; it must live on, and hope forthe day which comes slow or fast, to all whose labours deserve thegoal. " "But perhaps mine do not. I sometimes fear so--it is a horrid thought. " "You are very young yet, " said Maltravers; "how few at your age eversicken for fame! That first step is, perhaps, the half way to theprize. " I am not sure that Ernest thought exactly as he spoke; but it was themost delicate consolation to offer to a man whose abrupt franknessembarrassed and distressed him. The young man shook his headdespondingly. Maltravers tried to change the subject--he rose and movedto the balcony, which overhung the lake--he talked of the weather--hedwelt on the exquisite scenery--he pointed to the minute and more latentbeauties around, with the eye and taste of one who had looked at Naturein her details. The poet grew more animated and cheerful; he becameeven eloquent; he quoted poetry and he talked it. Maltravers was moreand more interested in him. He felt a curiosity to know if his talentsequalled his aspirations: he hinted to Cesarini his wish to see hiscompositions--it was just what the young man desired. Poor Cesarini!It was much to him to get a new listener, and he fondly imagined everyhonest listener must be a warm admirer. But with the coyness of hiscaste, he affected reluctance and hesitation; he dallied with his ownimpatient yearnings. And Maltravers, to smooth his way, proposed anexcursion on the lake. "One of my men shall row, " said he; "you shall recite to me, and I willbe to you what the old housekeeper was to Moliere. " Maltravers had deep good-nature where he was touched, though he had nota superfluity of what is called good-humour, which floats on the surfaceand smiles on all alike. He had much of the milk of human kindness, butlittle of its oil. The poet assented, and they were soon upon the lake. It was a sultryday, and it was noon; so the boat crept slowly along by the shadow ofthe shore, and Cesarini drew from his breast-pocket some manuscripts ofsmall and beautiful writing. Who does not know the pains a young poettakes to bestow a fair dress on his darling rhymes! Cesarini read well and feelingly. Everything was in favour of thereader. His own poetical countenance--his voice, his enthusiasm, half-suppressed--the pre-engaged interest of the auditor--the dreamyloveliness of the hour and scene--(for there is a great deal as to timein these things). Maltravers listened intently. It is very difficultto judge of the exact merit of poetry in another language even when weknow that language well--so much is there in the untranslatable magic ofexpression, the little subtleties of style. But Maltravers, fresh, ashe himself had said, from the study of great and original writers, couldnot but feel that he was listening to feeble though melodiousmediocrity. It was the poetry of words, not things. He thought itcruel, however, to be hypercritical, and he uttered all the commonplacesof eulogium that occurred to him. The young man was enchanted: "Andyet, " said he with a sigh, "I have no Public. In England they wouldappreciate me. " Alas! in England, at that moment, there were fivehundred poets as young, as ardent, and yet more gifted, whose heartsbeat with the same desire--whose nerves were broken by the samedisappointments. Maltravers found that his young friend would not listen to any judgmentnot purely favourable. The archbishop in /Gil Blas/ was not more touchyupon any criticism that was not panegyric. Maltravers thought it a badsign, but he recollected Gil Blas, and prudently refrained from bringingon himself the benevolent wish of "beaucoup de bonheur et un peu, plusde bon gout. " When Cesarini had finished his MS. , he was anxious toconclude the excursion--he longed to be at home, and think over theadmiration he had excited. But he left his poems with Maltravers, andgetting on shore by the remains of Pliny's villa, was soon out of sight. Maltravers that evening read the poems with attention. His first opinionwas confirmed. The young man wrote without knowledge. He had neverfelt the passions he painted, never been in the situations he described. There was no originality in him, for there was no experience; it wasexquisite mechanism, his verse, --nothing more. It might well deceivehim, for it could not but flatter his ear--and Tasso's silver march rangnot more musically than did the chiming stanzas of Castruccio Cesarini. The perusal of this poetry, and his conversation with the poet, threwMaltravers into a fit of deep musing. "This poor Cesarini may warn meagainst myself!" thought he. "Better hew wood and draw water thanattach ourselves devotedly to an art in which we have not the capacityto excel. . . . It is to throw away the healthful objects of life for adiseased dream, --worse than the Rosicrucians, it is to make a sacrificeof all human beauty for the smile of a sylphid that never visits us butin visions. " Maltravers looked over his own compositions, and thrustthem into the fire. He slept ill that night. His pride was a littledejected. He was like a beauty who has seen a caricature of herself. CHAPTER III. "Still follow SENSE, of every art the Soul. " POPE: /Moral Essays/--Essay iv. ERNEST MALTRAVERS spent much of his time with the family of DeMontaigne. There is no period of life in which we are more accessibleto the sentiment of friendship than in the intervals of moral exhaustionwhich succeed to the disappointments of the passions. There is, then, something inviting in those gentler feelings which keep alive, but donot fever, the circulation of the affections. Maltravers looked withthe benevolence of a brother upon the brilliant, versatile, and restlessTeresa. She was the last person in the world he could have been in lovewith--for his nature, ardent, excitable, yet fastidious, requiredsomething of repose in the manners and temperament of the woman whom hecould love, and Teresa scarcely knew what repose was. Whether playingwith her children (and she had two lovely ones--the eldest six yearsold), or teasing her calm and meditative husband, or pouring outextempore verses, or rattling over airs which she never finished, on theguitar or piano--or making excursions on the lake--or, in short, inwhatever occupation she appeared as the Cynthia of the minute, she wasalways gay and mobile--never out of humour, never acknowledging a singlecare or cross in life--never susceptible of grief, save when herbrother's delicate health or morbid temper saddened her atmosphere ofsunshine. Even then, the sanguine elasticity of her mind andconstitution quickly recovered from the depression; and she persuadedherself that Castruccio would grow stronger every year, and ripen into acelebrated and happy man. Castruccio himself lived what romanticpoetasters call the "life of a poet. " He loved to see the sun rise overthe distant Alps--or the midnight moon sleeping on the lake. He spenthalf the day, and often half the night, in solitary rambles, weaving hisairy rhymes, or indulging his gloomy reveries, and he thought lonelinessmade the element of a poet. Alas! Dante, Alfieri, even Petrarch mighthave taught him, that a poet must have intimate knowledge of men as wellas mountains, if he desire to become the CREATOR. When Shelley, in oneof his prefaces, boasts of being familiar with Alps and glaciers, andHeaven knows what, the critical artist cannot help wishing that he hadbeen rather familiar with Fleet Street or the Strand. Perhaps, then, that remarkable genius might have been more capable of realizingcharacters of flesh and blood, and have composed corporeal andconsummate wholes, not confused and glittering fragments. Though Ernest was attached to Teresa and deeply interested inCastruccio, it was De Montaigne for whom he experienced the higher andgraver sentiment of esteem. This Frenchman was one acquainted with amuch larger world than that of the Coteries. He had served in the army, had been employed with distinction in civil affairs, and was of thatrobust and healthful moral constitution which can bear with everyvariety of social life, and estimate calmly the balance of our moralfortunes. Trial and experience had left him that true philosopher whois too wise to be an optimist, too just to be a misanthrope. He enjoyedlife with sober judgment, and pursued the path most suited to himself, without declaring it to be the best for others. He was a little hard, perhaps, upon the errors that belong to weakness and conceit--not tothose that have their source in great natures or generous thoughts. Among his characteristics was a profound admiration for England. Hisown country he half loved, yet half disdained. The impetuosity andlevity of his compatriots displeased his sober and dignified notions. He could not forgive them (he was wont to say) for having made the twogrand experiments of popular revolution and military despotism in vain. He sympathised neither with the young enthusiasts who desired arepublic, without well knowing the numerous strata of habits and customsupon which that fabric, if designed for permanence, should be built--norwith the uneducated and fierce chivalry that longed for a restoration ofthe warrior empire--nor with the dull and arrogant bigots who connectedall ideas of order and government with the ill-starred and worn-outdynasty of the Bourbons. In fact, GOOD SENSE was with him the/principium et fons/ of all theories and all practice. And it was thisquality that attached him to the English. His philosophy on this headwas rather curious. "Good sense, " said he one day to Maltravers, as they were walking to andfro at De Montaigne's villa, by the margin of the lake, "is not a merelyintellectual attribute. It is rather the result of a just equilibriumof all our faculties, spiritual and moral. The dishonest, or the toysof their own passions, may have genius; but they rarely, if ever, havegood sense in the conduct of life. They may often win large prizes, butit is by a game of chance, not skill. But the man whom I perceivewalking an honourable and upright career--just to others, and also tohimself (for we owe justice to ourselves--to the care of our fortunes, our character--to the management of our passions)--is a more dignifiedrepresentative of his Maker than the mere child of genius. Of such aman we say he has GOOD SENSE; yes, but he has also integrity, self-respect, and self-denial. A thousand trials which his sense ravesand conquers, are temptations also to his probity--his temper--in aword, to all the many sides of his complicated nature. Now, I do notthink he will have this /good sense/ any more than a drunkard will havestrong nerves, unless he be in the constant habit of keeping his mindclear from the intoxication of envy, vanity, and the various emotionsthat dupe and mislead us. Good sense is not, therefore, an abstractquality or a solitary talent; but it is the natural result of the habitof thinking justly, and therefore seeing clearly, and is as differentfrom the sagacity that belongs to a diplomatist or attorney, as thephilosophy of Socrates differed from the rhetoric of Gorgias. As a massof individual excellences make up this attribute in a man, so a mass ofsuch men thus characterised give a character to a nation. Your Englandis, therefore, renowned for its good sense, but it is renowned also forthe excellences which accompany strong sense in an individual--highhonesty and faith in its dealings, a warm love of justice and fair play, a general freedom from the violent crimes common on the Continent, andthe energetic perseverance in enterprise once commenced, which resultsfrom a bold and healthful disposition. " "Our wars, our debt--" began Maltravers. "Pardon me, " interrupted De Montaigne, "I am speaking of your people, not of your government. A government is often a very unfairrepresentative of a nation. But even in the wars you allude to, if youexamine, you will generally find them originate in the love of justice, which is the basis of good sense, not from any insane desire of conquestor glory. A man, however sensible, must have a heart in his bosom, anda great nation cannot be a piece of selfish clockwork. Suppose you andI are sensible, prudent men, and we see in a crowd one violent fellowunjustly knocking another on the head, we should be brutes, not men, ifwe did not interfere with the savage; but if we thrust ourselves into acrowd with a large bludgeon, and belabour our neighbours, with the hopethat the spectators would cry, 'See what a bold, strong fellow thatis!'--then we should be only playing the madman from the motive of thecoxcomb. I fear you will find in the military history of the French andEnglish the application of my parable. " "Yet still, I confess, there is a gallantry, and a noblemanlike andNorman spirit in the whole French nation, which make me forgive many oftheir excesses, and think they are destined for great purposes, whenexperience shall have sobered their hot blood. Some nations, as somemen, are slow in arriving at maturity; others seem men in their cradle. The English, thanks to their sturdy Saxon origin, elevated, notdepressed, by the Norman infusion, never were children. The differenceis striking, when you regard the representatives of both in their greatmen--whether writers or active citizens. " "Yes, " said De Montaigne, "in Milton and Cromwell there is nothing ofthe brilliant child. I cannot say as much for Voltaire or Napoleon. Even Richelieu, the manliest of our statesmen, had so much of the Frenchinfant in him as to fancy himself a /beau garcon/, a gallant, a wit, anda poet. As for the Racine school of writers, they were not out of theleading-strings of imitation--cold copyists of a pseudo-classic, inwhich they saw the form, and never caught the spirit. What so littleRoman, Greek, Hebrew, as their Roman, Greek, and Hebrew dramas? Yourrude Shakespeare's /Julius Caesar/--even his /Troilus andCressida/--have the ancient spirit, precisely as they are imitations ofnothing ancient. But our Frenchmen copied the giant images of old justas the school-girl copies a drawing, by holding it up to the window, andtracing the lines on silver paper. " "But your new writers--De Stael--Chateaubriand?"* * At the time of this conversation the later school, adorned by VictorHugo, who, with notions of art elaborately wrong, is still a man ofextraordinary genius, had not risen into its present equivocalreputation. "I find no fault with the sentimentalists, " answered the severe critic, "but that of exceeding feebleness. They have no bone and muscle intheir genius--all is flaccid and rotund in its feminine symmetry. Theyseem to think that vigour consists in florid phrases and littleaphorisms, and delineate all the mighty tempests of the human heart withthe polished prettiness of a miniature-painter on ivory. No!--these twoare children of another kind--affected, tricked-out, well-dressedchildren--very clever, very precocious--but children still. Theirwhinings, and their sentimentalities, and their egotism, and theirvanity, cannot interest masculine beings who know what life and itsstern objects are. " "Your brother-in-law, " said Maltravers with a slight smile, "must findin you a discouraging censor. " "My poor Castruccio, " replied De Montaigne, with a half-sigh; "he is oneof those victims whom I believe to be more common than we dream of--menwhose aspirations are above their powers. I agree with a great Germanwriter, that in the first walks of Art no man has a right to enter, unless he is convinced that he has strength and speed for the goal. Castruccio might be an amiable member of society, nay, an able anduseful man, if he would apply the powers he possesses to the rewardsthey may obtain. He has talent enough to win him reputation in anyprofession but that of a poet. " "But authors who obtain immortality are not always first-rate. " "First-rate in their way, I suspect; even if that way be false ortrivial. They must be connected with the /history/ of their literature;you must be able to say of them, 'In this school, be it bad or good, they exerted such and such an influence;' in a word, they must form alink in the great chain of a nation's authors, which may be afterwardsforgotten by the superficial, but without which the chain would beincomplete. And thus, if not first-rate for all time, they have beenfirst-rate in their own day. But Castruccio is only the echo ofothers--he can neither found a school nor ruin one. Yet this" (againadded De Montaigne after a pause)--"this melancholy malady in mybrother-in-law would cure itself, perhaps, if he were not Italian. Inyour animated and bustling country, after sufficient disappointment as apoet, he would glide into some other calling, and his vanity and cravingfor effect would find a rational and manly outlet. But in Italy, whatcan a clever man do, if he is not a poet or a robber? If he love hiscountry, that crime is enough to unfit him for civil employment, and hismind cannot stir a step in the bold channels of speculation withoutfalling foul of the Austrian or the Pope. No; the best I can hope forCastruccio is, that he will end in an antiquary, and dispute about ruinswith the Romans. Better that than mediocre poetry. " Maltravers was silent and thoughtful. Strange to say, De Montaigne'sviews did not discourage his own new and secret ardour for intellectualtriumphs; not because he felt that he was now able to achieve them, butbecause he felt the iron of his own nature, and knew that a man who hasiron in his nature must ultimately hit upon some way of shaping themetal into use. The host and guest were now joined by Castruccio himself--silent andgloomy as indeed he usually was, especially in the presence of DeMontaigne, with whom he felt his "self-love" wounded; for though helonged to despise his hard brother-in-law, the young poet was compelledto acknowledge that De Montaigne was not a man to be despised. Maltravers dined with the De Montaignes, and spent the evening withthem. He could not but observe that Castruccio, who affected in hisverses the softest sentiments--who was, indeed, by original nature, tender and gentle--had become so completely warped by that worst of allmental vices--the eternally pondering on his own excellences, talents, mortifications, and ill-usage, that he never contributed to thegratification of those around him; he had none of the little arts ofsocial benevolence, none of the playful youth of disposition whichusually belongs to the good-hearted, and for which men of amaster-genius, however elevated their studies, however stern or reservedto the vulgar world, are commonly noticeable amidst the friends theylove or in the home they adorn. Occupied with one dream, centred inself, the young Italian was sullen and morose to all who did notsympathise with his own morbid fancies. From the children--thesister--the friend--the whole living earth, he fled to a poem onSolitude, or stanzas upon Fame. Maltravers said to himself, "I willnever be an author--I will never sigh for renown--if I am to purchaseshadows at such a price!" CHAPTER IV. "It cannot be too deeply impressed on the mind, that application is the price to be paid for mental acquisitions, and that it is as absurd to expect them without it as to hope for a harvest where we have not sown the seed. "In everything we do, we may be possibly laying a train of consequences, the operation of which may terminate only with our existence. " BAILEY: /Essays on the Formation and Publication of Opinions/. TIME passed, and autumn was far advanced towards winter; stillMaltravers lingered at Como. He saw little of any other family thanthat of the De Montaignes, and the greater part of his time wasnecessarily spent alone. His occupation continued to be that of makingexperiments of his own powers, and these gradually became bolder andmore comprehensive. He took care, however, not to show his "Diversionsof Como" to his new friends: he wanted no audience--he dreamt of noPublic; he desired merely to practise his own mind. He became aware, ofhis own accord, as he proceeded, that a man can neither study with suchdepth, nor compose with much art, unless he has some definite objectbefore him; in the first, some one branch of knowledge to master; in thelast, some one conception to work out. Maltravers fell back upon hisboyish passion for metaphysical speculation; but with what differentresults did he now wrestle with the subtle schoolmen, now that he hadpractically known mankind. How insensibly new lights broke in upon him, as he threaded the labyrinth of cause and effect, by which we seek toarrive at that curious and biform monster--our own nature. His mindbecame saturated, as it were, with these profound studies andmeditations; and when at length he paused from them, he felt as if hehad not been living in solitude, but had gone through a process ofaction in the busy world: so much juster, so much clearer, had becomehis knowledge of himself and others. But though these researchescoloured, they did not limit his intellectual pursuits. Poetry and thelighter letters became to him not merely a relaxation, but a criticaland thoughtful study. He delighted to penetrate into the causes thathave made the airy webs spun by men's fancies so permanent and powerfulin their influence over the hard, work-day world. And what a lovelyscene--what a sky--what an air wherein to commence the projects of thatambition which seeks to establish an empire in the hearts and memoriesof mankind! I believe it has a great effect on the future labours of awriter, --the place where he first dreams that it is his destiny towrite! From these pursuits Ernest was aroused by another letter from Cleveland. His kind friend had been disappointed and vexed that Maltravers did notfollow his advice, and return to England. He had shown his displeasureby not answering Ernest's letter of excuses; but lately he had beenseized with a dangerous illness which reduced him to the brink of thegrave; and with a heart softened by the exhaustion of the frame, he nowwrote in the first moments of convalescence to Maltravers, informing himof his attack and danger, and once more urging him to return. Thethought that Cleveland--the dear, kind gentle guardian of his youth--hadbeen near unto death, that he might never more have hung upon thatfostering hand, nor replied to that paternal voice, smote Ernest withterror and remorse. He resolved instantly to return to England, andmade his preparations accordingly. He went to take leave of the De Montaignes. Teresa was trying to teachher first-born to read; and seated by the open window of the villa, inher neat, not precise, /dishabille/--with the little boy's delicate, yetbold and healthy countenance looking up fearlessly at hers, while shewas endeavouring to initiate him--half gravely, half laughingly--intothe mysteries of monosyllables, the pretty boy and the fair young mothermade a delightful picture. De Montaigne was reading the Essays of hiscelebrated namesake, in whom he boasted, I know not with what justice, to claim an ancestor. From time to time he looked from the page to takea glance at the progress of his heir, and keep up with the march ofintellect. But he did not interfere with the maternal lecture; he waswise enough to know that there is a kind of sympathy between a child anda mother, which is worth all the grave superiority of a father in makinglearning palatable to young years. He was far too clever a man not todespise all the systems of forcing infants under knowledge-frames, whichare the present fashion. He knew that philosophers never made a greatermistake than in insisting so much upon beginning abstract education fromthe cradle. It is quite enough to attend to an infant's temper, andcorrect that cursed predilection for telling fibs which falsifies allDr. Reid's absurd theory about innate propensities to truth, and makesthe prevailing epidemic of the nursery. Above all, what advantage evercompensates for hurting a child's health or breaking his spirit? Neverlet him learn, more than you can help it, the crushing bitterness offear. A bold child who looks you in the face, speaks the truth, andshames the devil; that is the stuff of which to make good and brave--ay, and wise men! Maltravers entered, unannounced, into this charming family party, andstood unobserved for a few moments, by the open door. The little pupilwas the first to perceive him, and, forgetful of monosyllables, ran togreet him; for Maltravers, though gentle rather than gay, was afavourite with children, and his fair, calm, gracious countenance didmore for him with them than if, like Goldsmith's Burchell, his pocketshad been filled with gingerbread and apples. "Ah, fie on you, Mr. Maltravers!" cried Teresa, rising; "you have blown away all thecharacters I have been endeavouring this last hour to imprint uponsand. " "Not so, Signora, " said Maltravers, seating himself, and placing thechild on his knee; "my young friend will set to work again with agreater gusto after this little break in upon his labours. " "You will stay with us all day, I hope?" said De Montaigne. "Indeed, " said Maltravers, "I am come to ask permission to do so, forto-morrow I depart for England. " "Is it possible?" cried Teresa. "How sudden! How we shall miss you!Oh! don't go. But perhaps you have bad news from England?" "I have news that summon me hence, " replied Maltravers; "my guardian andsecond father has been dangerously ill. I am uneasy about him, andreproach myself for having forgotten him so long in your seductivesociety. " "I am really sorry to lose you, " said De Montaigne, with greater warmthin his tone than in his words. "I hope heartily we shall meet againsoon: you will come, perhaps, to Paris?" "Probably, " said Maltravers; "and you, perhaps, to England?" "Ah, how I should like it!" exclaimed Teresa. "No, you would not, " said her husband; "you would not like England atall; you would call it /triste/ beyond measure. It is one of thosecountries of which a native should be proud, but which has no amusementfor a stranger, precisely because full of such serious and stirringoccupations to the citizens. The pleasantest countries for strangersare the worst countries for natives (witness Italy), and /vice versa/. " Teresa shook her dark curls, and would not be convinced. "And where is Castruccio?" asked Maltravers. "In his boat on the lake, " replied Teresa. "He will be inconsolable atyour departure: you are the only person he can understand, or whounderstand him; the only person in Italy--I had almost said in the wholeworld. " "Well, we shall meet at dinner, " said Ernest; "meanwhile let me prevailon you to accompany me to the /Pliniana/. I wish to say farewell tothat crystal spring. " Teresa, delighted at any excursion, readily consented. "And I too, mamma, " cried the child; "and my little sister?" "Oh, certainly, " said Maltravers, speaking for the parents. So the party was soon ready, and they pushed off in the clear genialnoontide (for November in Italy is as early as September in the North)across the sparkling and dimpled waters. The children prattled, and thegrown-up people talked on a thousand matters. It was a pleasant day, that last day at Como! For the farewells of friendship have indeedsomething of the melancholy, but not the anguish, of those of love. Perhaps it would be better if we could get rid of love altogether. Lifewould go on smoother and happier without it. Friendship is the wine ofexistence, but love is the dram-drinking. When they returned, they found Castruccio seated on the lawn. He didnot appear so much dejected at the prospect of Ernest's departure asTeresa had anticipated; for Castruccio Cesarini was a very jealous man, and he had lately been chagrined and discontented with seeing thedelight that the De Montaignes took in Ernest's society. "Why is this?" he often asked himself; "why are they more pleased withthis stranger's society than mine? My ideas are as fresh, as original;I have as much genius, yet even my dry brother-in-law allows /his/talents, and predicts that/he/ will be an eminent man! while/I/--No!--one is not a prophet in one's own country!" Unhappy man! his mind bore all the rank weeds of the morbid poeticalcharacter, and the weeds choked up the flowers that the soil, properlycultivated, should alone bear. Yet that crisis in life awaitedCastruccio, in which a sensitive and poetical man is made or marred; thecrisis in which a sentiment is replaced by the passions--in which lovefor some real object gathers the scattered rays of the heart into afocus: out of that ordeal he might pass a purer and manlier being--soMaltravers often hoped. Maltravers then little thought how closelyconnected with his own fate was to be that passage in the history of theItalian. Castruccio contrived to take Maltravers aside, and as he ledthe Englishman through the wood that backed the mansion, he said, withsome embarrassment, "You go, I suppose, to London?" "I shall pass through it--can I execute any commission for you?" "Why, yes; my poems!--I think of publishing them in England: youraristocracy cultivate the Italian letters; and, perhaps, I may be readby the fair and noble--/that/ is the proper audience of poets. For thevulgar herd--I disdain it!" "My dear Castruccio, I will undertake to see your poems published inLondon, if you wish it; but do not be sanguine. In England we readlittle poetry, even in our own language, and we are shamefullyindifferent to foreign literature. " "Yes, foreign literature generally, and you are right; but my poems areof another kind. They must command attention in a polished andintelligent circle. " "Well! let the experiment be tried; you can let me have the poems whenwe part. " "I thank you, " said Castruccio, in a joyous tone, pressing his friend'shand; and for the rest of that evening, he seemed an altered being; heeven caressed the children, and did not sneer at the grave conversationof his brother-in-law. When Maltravers rose to depart, Castruccio gave him the packet; andthen, utterly engrossed with his own imagined futurity of fame, vanishedfrom the room to indulge his reveries. He cared no longer forMaltravers--he had put him to use--he could not be sorry for hisdeparture, for that departure was the Avatar of His appearance to a newworld. A small dull rain was falling, though, at intervals, the stars brokethrough the unsettled clouds, and Teresa did not therefore venture fromthe house; she presented her smooth cheek to the young guest to salute, pressed him by the hand, and bade him adieu with tears in her eyes. "Ah!" said she, "when we meet again I hope you will be married--I shalllove your wife dearly. There is no happiness like marriage and home!"and she looked with ingenuous tenderness at De Montaigne. Maltravers sighed;--his thoughts flew back to Alice. Where now was thatlone and friendless girl, whose innocent love had once brightened a homefor /him/? He answered by a vague and mechanical commonplace, andquitted the room with De Montaigne, who insisted on seeing him depart. As they neared the lake, De Montaigne broke the silence. "My dear Maltravers, " he said, with a serious and thoughtful affectionin his voice, "we may not meet again for years. I have a warm interestin your happiness and career--yes, /career/--I repeat the word. I donot habitually seek to inspire young men with ambition. Enough for mostof them to be good and honourable citizens. But in your case it isdifferent. I see in you the earnest and meditative, not rash andoverweening youth, which is usually productive of a distinguishedmanhood. Your mind is not yet settled, it is true; but it is fastbecoming clear and mellow from the first ferment of boyish dreams andpassions. You have everything in your favour, --competence, birth, connections; and, above all, you are an Englishman! You have a mightystage, on which, it is true, you cannot establish a footing withoutmerit and without labour--so much the better; in which strong andresolute rivals will urge you on to emulation, and then competition willtask your keenest powers. Think what a glorious fate it is, to have aninfluence on the vast, but ever-growing mind of such a country, --tofeel, when you retire from the busy scene, that you have played anunforgotten part--that you have been the medium, under God's great will, of circulating new ideas throughout the world--of upholding the gloriouspriesthood of the Honest and the Beautiful. This is the true ambition;the desire of mere personal notoriety is vanity, not ambition. Do notthen be lukewarm or supine. The trait I have observed in you, " addedthe Frenchman, with a smile, "most prejudicial to your chances ofdistinction is, that you are /too/ philosophical, too apt to /cui bono/all the exertions that interfere with the indolence of cultivatedleisure. And you must not suppose, Maltravers, that an active careerwill be a path of roses. At present you have no enemies; but the momentyou attempt distinction, you will be abused; calumniated, reviled. Youwill be shocked at the wrath you excite, and sigh for your oldobscurity, and consider, as Franklin has it, that 'you have paid toodear for your whistle. ' But in return for individual enemies, what anoble recompense to have made the Public itself your friend; perhapseven Posterity your familiar! Besides, " added De Montaigne, with almosta religious solemnity in his voice, "there is a conscience of the headas well as of the heart, and in old age we feel as much remorse if wehave wasted our natural talents as if we had perverted our naturalvirtues. The profound and exultant satisfaction with which a man whoknows that he has not lived in vain--that he has entailed on the worldan heirloom of instruction or delight--looks back upon departedstruggles, is one of the happiest emotions of which the conscience canbe capable. What, indeed, are the petty faults we commit asindividuals, affecting but a narrow circle, ceasing with our own lives, to the incalculable and everlasting good we may produce as public men byone book or by one law? Depend upon it that the Almighty, who sums upall the good and all the evil done by His creatures in a just balance, will not judge the august benefactors of the world with the sameseverity as those drones of society, who have no great services to showin the eternal ledger, as a set-off to the indulgence of their smallvices. These things rightly considered, Maltravers, you will have everyinducement that can tempt a lofty mind and a pure ambition to awakenfrom the voluptuous indolence of the literary Sybarite, and contendworthily in the world's wide Altis for a great prize. " Maltravers never before felt so flattered--so stirred into highresolves. The stately eloquence, the fervid encouragement of this man, usually so cold and fastidious, roused him like the sound of a trumpet. He stopped short, his breath heaved thick, his cheek flushed. "DeMontaigne, " said he, "your words have cleared away a thousand doubts andscruples--they have gone right to my heart. For the first time Iunderstand what fame is--what the object, and what the reward of labour!Visions, hopes, aspirations I may have had before--for months a newspirit has been fluttering within me. I have felt the wings breakingfrom the shell, but all was confused, dim, uncertain. I doubted thewisdom of effort, with life so short, and the pleasures of youth sosweet. I now look no longer on life but as a part of the eternity towhich I /feel/ we were born; and I recognise the solemn truth that ourobjects, to be worthy life, should be worthy of creatures in whom theliving principle never is extinct. Farewell! come joy or sorrow, failure or success, I will struggle to deserve your friendship. " Maltravers sprang into his boat, and the shades of night soon snatchedhim from the lingering gaze of De Montaigne.