Volume 2 — A NOVELLA. (continued 2)

It is necessary now to say something as to this theatre, and Signor Formica himself.

Nothing can be sadder than when, at carnival time in Rome, the impressarii have been unfortunate in their composers--when the primo tenore of the Argentina has left his voice on the road--when the primo uomo da donna in the Teatro Valle is down with the influenza--in short, when the chief pleasures to which the Romans have been looking forward have proved disappointments, and Giovedi Grasso has been shorn, at one fell swoop, of all the hoped-for flowers which were expected to come at that time into blossom. Immediately alter a melancholy carnival of this description (in fact, the fasts were scarcely over) a certain Nicolo Musso opened a theatre outside the Porto del Popolo, limiting himself to announcing the performance of minor, improvised buffonades. His advertisement was couched in a clever and witty style of wording, and from it the Romans formed in advance a favourable opinion of Musso's undertaking, and would have done so even had they not, in the unsatisfied state of their dramatic appetites, been eager to snatch at anything of the kind that was offered to them. The arrangements of the theatre--or rather of the little booth--could not be said to give evidence of any very flourishing state of finances on the manager's part. There was no orchestra; there were no boxes. There was a sort of gallery at the back of the audience part of the house, adorned with the arms of the Colonnas--a mark that the Conte Colonna had taken Murso and his theatre under his special protection. The stage was a raised platform covered with carpets, and surrounded with gay-coloured paper-hangings which had to serve for forests, interiors, or streets, according to the requirements of the drama. As, moreover, the audience had to be content with hard, uncomfortable wooden benches to sit upon, it is not matter for wonder that the first set of spectators expressed themselves pretty strongly on the subject of the audacity of Signor Musso in giving the name of a theatre to this boarded booth. But scarcely had the two first actors who appeared spoken a few words, when the audience became attentive. As the piece went on, the attention became applause, the applause astonishment, and the astonishment enthusiasm, which expressed itself in the most prolonged and stormy laughter, hand-clapping, and cries of bravo!

And, in truth, nothing more perfect could have been seen than those improvised representations of Nicolo Musso's which sparkled with wit, fun, and esprit, castigating the follies of the day with unsparing lash. The performers all rendered their parts with incomparable distinctiveness of character, but the "Pasquarello" more particularly carried the house away with him bodily, by his inimitable play of gesture, and a talent for imitating well-known personages, in voice, walk, and manner, by his inexhaustible drollery, and the extraordinary originality of the ideas which struck him. This actor, who called himself Signor Formica, seemed to be inspired by a very remarkable and unusual spirit; often, in his tone and manner, there would be a something so strange that the audience, while in the middle of a burst of the heartiest laughter, would suddenly feel a species of cold shiver. Almost on a par with him, and a worthy compeer, was the "Dr. Graziano" of the troupe, who had a play of feature, a voice, a power of saying the most delightful things in, apparently, the most foolish manner, to which nothing in the world could be likened. This "Doctor Graziano" was an old Bolognese, of the name of Maria Aglia. As a matter of course, all the fashionable world of Rome soon came thronging to the little theatre outside the Porto del Popolo. The name of Formica was on everybody's lips; and in the streets as in the theatre, all voices were crying, with the utmost enthusiasm, "Oh, Formica! Formica benedetto! Oh, Formicisimo!" He was looked upon as a supernatural being; and many an old woman, ashake with laughter in the theatre, would (if anybody ventured to criticise Formica's action in the slightest degree) turn grave, and say, with the utmost seriousness and solemnity--

"Scherza coi fanti e lascia star santi."

This was because, out of the theatre, Formica was an unfathomable mystery. No one ever saw him anywhere, and every attempt to come upon his traces was vain. Nothing as to where he lived could be got out of Musso.

Such was the theatre to which Marianna wished to go.

"Let us fly straight at our enemies' throats," Salvator said; "the walk home from the theatre to the town offers us a most admirable opportunity."

He then communicated a plan to Antonio, which seemed very risky and daring, but which the latter adopted with delight, thinking it would enable him to rescue his Marianna from the abominable Capuzzi; moreover, it pleased him well that Salvator made one great feature of it the punishing of the Pyramid Doctor.

When evening came, Salvator and Antonio each took a guitar, went to Strada Ripetta, and (by way of annoying old Capuzzi) treated the lovely Marianna to the most exquisite serenata imaginable. For Salvator played and sang like a master, and Antonio had a lovely tenor voice, and was almost an Odoardo Ceccarelli. Signor Pasquale of course came out on to the balcony, and scolded down at the singers, ordering them to hold their peace; but the neighbours, whom the beautiful music had brought to their windows, cried out to him, asking him whether, as he and his friends were in the habit of howling and screaming like all the demons in hell, he wouldn't suffer such a thing as a little good music in the street? Let him be off into the house, they said, and stop his ears, if he didn't want to hear the beautiful singing. Thus Signor Pasquale was obliged, to his torture, to endure Salvator and Antonio's singing, all night long--songs which at times consisted of the sweetest words of love, and at others ridiculed the folly of amorous old men. They distinctly saw Marianna at the window, and heard Pasquale adjuring her, in the most honeyed terms, not to expose herself to the night air.

The next evening there passed along the street towards the Porto del Popolo the strangest group of persons ever seen. They attracted all eyes, and people asked each other if some strange survival of the Carnival had preserved two or three mad maskers. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, in his many-coloured, well-brushed Spanish suit, a new yellow feather in his steeple-crowned hat, tightly belted and buckled, all tenderness and grace, tripping along on shoes too tight for him, as if treading on eggs, conducted on his arm the lovely Marianna, whose pretty figure, and still more beautiful face, could not be seen, in consequence of the extraordinary manner in which she was wimpled and wrapped up in a cloak and hood. On her other side tripped along Signor Splendiano Accoramboni in his enormous wig, which covered the whole of his back, so that, when seen from behind, he looked like some enormous head moving along on two diminutive legs. Close behind Marianna, almost clinging on to her, came, in crab-like fashion, the little hideosity of a Pitichinaccio, in flame-coloured female dress, with his hair bedecked, in the most repulsive style, with flowers of all the colours of the rainbow.

On this particular evening Signor Formica even surpassed himself; and--what he had never done before--he introduced little snatches of songs, imitating various well-known singers. In old Capuzzi this awoke all the old delight in theatrical matters which in former days had been a regular mania with him. He kissed Marianna's hands over and over again, and vowed that he certainly would bring her to Nicolo Musso's theatre every night without fail. He extolled Signor Formica to the very skies, and joined most heartily in the uproarious applause of the rest of the audience. Signor Splendiano was less content, and repeatedly begged Signor Capuzzi and Marianna not to laugh so very immoderately. He named, in one breadth, some twenty maladies which were liable to be brought on by over-agitation of the diaphragm; but neither the one nor the other gave themselves any trouble on the subject. Pitichinaccio was thoroughly unhappy. He had been obliged to sit just behind the Pyramid Doctor, who so overshadowed him with his enormous wig that he could not see the smallest peep of the stage, nor of the characters upon it; moreover, he was tortured by two facetious women who were sitting beside him, and who kept on calling him "Charming, pretty signora," and asking him whether he was married, for all he was so young, and had nice little children, who must be the dearest little things imaginable, &c., &c. Drops of cold perspiration stood on the poor little creature's brow; he whimpered and whined, and cursed the hour when he was born.

When the acting was over, Signor Pasquale waited till every one had left the house; and as the last of the lamps was being put out, Signor Splendiano lighted at it the stump of a wax candle, and they set forth on their homeward way. Pitichinaccio whined and cried; Capuzzi, to his torment, had to take him on his left arm, having Marianna on his right; before them went Doctor Splendiano with his candle-stump, whose feeble rays made the darkness of the night seem deeper.

While they were still some distance from the Porto del Popolo, they found themselves suddenly surrounded by several tall figures, thickly wrapped in cloaks. The Doctor's candle was instantly snatched from his hand, and went out on the ground. Capuzzi and the Doctor stood speechless and amazed. Then there fell (it was not clear from whence) a faint reddish glimmer upon the cloaked figures, and four pale death's-heads were seen staring at the Pyramid Doctor, with hollow, fearful eyes. "Woe! woe! woe unto thee, Splendiano Accoramboni!" howled the terrible spectres, in deep, hollow tones. Then one of them wailed out, "Knowest thou me? knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Cordier, the French painter, buried last week; sent under-ground by thee, with thy drugs!" Then the second: "Knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Kueffner, the German painter, whom thou didst poison with thy hellish electuaries!" Then the third: "Knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Liers, the Fleming, whom thou didst murder with thy pills, cheating his brother out of his pictures!" Then the fourth: "Knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Ghigi, the Neapolitan painter, whom thou didst slay with thy powders!" Finally, all the four cried out in quartet, "Woe! woe to thee, Splendiano Accoramboni, accursed Pyramid Doctor! Thou must away!--away with us!--down, down under the earth! On!--on with thee! Halloh!--halloh!" Therewith they seized the luckless Doctor, heaved him up, and disappeared with him like the storm-wind.

Sorely as terror was like to overcome Pasquale, he collected himself, and took heart of grace with wonderful courage, when he saw that this affair only concerned his friend Accoramboni. Pitichinaccio had put his head, flowers and all, under Pasquale's cloak, and was clinging so tightly about his neck that it was impossible to shake him off.

"Recover yourself," said Capuzzi to Marianna, when nothing more was to be seen of the spectres or of the Pyramid Doctor. "Recover yourself! Come to me, my sweet, darling little dove! My good friend Splendiano is gone. May Saint Bernard, who was a doctor himself, stand by him and defend him, if those revengeful painters, whom he sent to that Pyramid of his rather before their time, are going to twist his windpipe. Ah! who will take the bass parts in my canzonet now, I should like to know? And this creature here, Pitichinaccio, is squeezing my throat to that extent that, what with that, and what with the fright at seeing Splendiano spirited away, I dare say it'll be three months good before I can get out a single note in tune! Don't you be frightened, my own sweetest Marianna!--it is all over."

Marianna declared that she had quite recovered from the fright, and only begged him to let her walk by herself to enable him to get quit of his troublesome lap-child; but he only held her the tighter, and vowed that no consideration in the world would induce him to allow her to venture a single step by herself in the terrible darkness.

Just then, as Capuzzi was going to step courageously forward, there suddenly rose before him, as if from the depths of the earth, four terrible-looking figures of devils, in short cloaks of glittering red, who glared at him with fearful eyes, and began making a horrible croaking and squeaking. "Hup! hup!" they cried. "Pasquale Capuzzi!--idiotic fool!--amorous old donkey! We are comrades of yours; we are love-devils; and we have come to carry you down to the hottest hell, you and your bosom-friend there, Pitichinaccio!" Thus screaming, the devils fell upon Capuzzi, and he, with Pitichinaccio, went down, both of them raising piercing yells of distress like those of a whole herd of beaten donkeys.

Marianna had forcibly torn herself away from the old fellow, and sprung to one side, where one of the devils folded her softly in his arms, and said, in a sweet voice of affection: "Oh, Marianna! my own Marianna! it has all come right at last. My friends are taking the old man a long distance off, while we find some place of safety to fly to."

"My own Antonio!" Marianna whispered softly.

Suddenly a bright glare of torches lightened up the place, and Antonio felt himself stabbed on the shoulder-blade. Quick as lightning he turned round, drew his sword, and attacked the fellow, who was aiming a second stab with his stiletto. He saw that his three friends were defending themselves against a much stronger force of Sbirri. He managed to beat off the man who was attacking him, and to join his friends; but, bravely as they fought, the struggle was too unequal, and the Sbirri must unfailingly have had the best of it, had not two men suddenly burst, with loud shouts, into the ranks of the young fellows, one of whom immediately floored the Sbirro who was taxing Antonio the hardest.

The fight was now speedily decided to the disadvantage of the Sbirri, and those of them who were not on the ground wounded, fled with loud cries towards the Porto del Popolo.

Salvator Rosa--for it was no other who had hastened to Antonio's help, and struck down the Sbirro--was for starting off without more ado, with Antonio and the young painters who were in the devils' dresses, after the Sbirri to town.

Maria Agli, who had come with him, and, notwithstanding his years, had set to with the Sbirri like the others, thought this was not advisable, as the guard at the Porto del Popolo, informed of the affair, would of course arrest them all. So they betook themselves to Nicolo Musso, who received them gladly in his small abode not far from the theatre. The painters took off their devils' masks and their cloaks rubbed with phosphorus; and Antonio--who, save for the unimportant prick in his shoulder, was not at all hurt--brought his surgical skill into play, all the others having wounds, though none of any importance.

The plot, so daringly and skilfully contrived, would have succeeded had not Salvator and Antonio left one person out of account; and that person ruined it all. Michele, the ex-Bravo and Sbirro, who lived downstairs in Capuzzi's house, and was a kind of servant to him, had, by his wish, gone behind him to the theatre, but at some distance, as the old man was ashamed of his tattered and scoundrelly appearance. In the same way, Michele had followed on the homeward way; so that, when the spectres appeared, Michele--who really did not fear death or devil--smelt a rat, ran, in the darkness, straight away to the Porto del Popolo, gave the alarm, and came back with the Sbirri, who, as we know, arrived just at the moment when the devils fell upon Signor Pasquale, and were going to take him away, as the dead men had taken the Pyramid Doctor.

Bat in the thick of the fight, one of the young painters had distinctly seen a fellow hurrying away towards the gate with Marianna, in a fainting state, in his arms, followed by Pasquale, who was rushing along at an incredible rate, as if his veins were running quicksilver. There was, moreover, some glimmering object visible by the torch-light hanging on to his cloak, and whining, probably Pitichinaccio.

Next morning Doctor Splendiano was discovered at the Pyramid of Cestius, rolled up in a ball and immersed in his periwig, fast asleep, as though in a warm, soft nest. When they woke him, he talked incoherently, and it was hard to convince him that he was still in this visible life and, moreover, in Rome. When, at length, he was taken to his house, he thanked the Virgin and all the Saints for his rescue, threw all his tinctures, essences, electuaries, and powders out of window, made a bonfire of his recipes, and for the future healed his patients in no other manner than by laying his hands upon them and stroking them, as a celebrated physician used to do before him (who was a Saint into the bargain, but whose name I cannot think of at the moment), with much success, for his patients died as well as the other's, and before their deaths saw heaven open, and anything that the Saint pleased.

"I do not know," said Antonio, next day, to Salvator, "what fury has blazed up within me since some of my blood was spilt. Death and destruction to the miserable, ignoble Capuzzi! Do you know, Salvator, that I have made up my mind to get into his house by force; and if he makes any resistance, I will run him through, and carry Marianna off."

"Glorious idea!" exclaimed Salvator. "A truly happy inspiration. I have no doubt you have also devised the means of carrying Marianna through the air to the Piazza di Spagna, so that you may reach that place of sanctuary before they have arrested you and hanged you! No, no, dear Antonio, there is nothing to be done in this affair by violence, and you may be quite certain that Signor Capuzzi will be too well prepared for anything in the shape of an open attack. Besides this, our escapade has attracted a great deal of attention; and more than that, the laughable style in which we set about our little piece of entertainment with Splendiano and Capuzzi has had the effect of waking the police up from their gentle slumbers, so that they will now be on the watch for us, as far as their feeble powers enable them. No, Antonio, we must resort to stratagem: 'Con arte e con inganno si vive mezzo l'anno; con inganno e con arte si vive l'altro parte.' That is what Dame Caterina says, and she is quite right. I can't help laughing at our having set to work just as if we were innocent boys; but it is my fault, chiefly, seeing that I have the advantage of you in years. Tell me, Antonio, if our plot had succeeded, and you had really carried Marianna off, where should you have gone with her?--where could you have kept her hidden?--how could you have got married by the priest so speedily that the old man should not have managed to interfere? As it is, in a very few days you shall actually carry her off. I have enlisted the aid of Nicolo Musso and Formica, and in conjunction with them thought out a plan which scarcely can break down. Comfort yourself, therefore, Signor Formica is going to help you."

"Signor Formica!" repeated Antonio, in an indifferent, almost contemptuous tone; "and pray how can that 'funny-man' help me?"

"Ho, ho!" cried Salvator, "I must beg you to treat Signor Formica with a proper amount of respect. Don't you know that he is a kind of wizard, and has all sorts of wondrous secret arts at his command? I tell you, Signor Formica is going to help you. And old Maria Agli, our great and grand 'Doctor Graziano,' of Bologna, has joined in our plot, and is going to play a most important part in it. You shall carry your Marianna off from Musso's theatre."

"Salvator," said Antonio, "you are buoying me up with vain hopes. You have said, yourself, that Capuzzi will be thoroughly on his guard against any more open attacks; so, after what has happened to him already, how can he possibly be induced to go to Musso's theatre another time?"

"It is not such a difficult matter as you suppose," answered Salvator, "to get him to go back there again; the difficulty will be to induce him to go without his companions, and to get him on to the stage. But however that may be, you must now arrange matters with Marianna so as to be ready to fly from Rome whenever the favourable moment arrives. You will have to go to Florence. Your art will be an introduction to you there to begin with, and I will take care that you shall not want for friends, or for valuable support and assistance. We shall have to rest on our oars for a few days, and then we shall see what more is to be done. Keep up your courage. Formica will help."

A Fresh Misfortune Comes Upon Signor Pasquale Capuzzi. Antonio Scacciati Carries Out A Plot At Musso's Theatre, And Flies To Florence.

Signor Pasquale knew but too well who were the authors of the trick played upon him and the poor Pyramid Doctor near the Porto del Popolo; and we can imagine his rage with Antonio and with Salvator Rosa, whom he rightly considered to be the prime mover in the matter. He did his utmost to console Marianna, who was quite ill, from the fright--as she put it--but really from disappointment and vexation at the accursed Michele's having carried her off, with his Sbirri, from Antonio. Meanwhile, Margarita industriously brought her tidings of her lover, and she based all her hopes and expectations upon the enterprising Salvator. She waited most impatiently from day to day for anything in the shape of fresh events, and vented her vexation upon the old gentleman by a thousand teasings and naggings, which rendered him humble and submissive in his foolish amourishness, but had not the effect of in any degree casting out the love-devil by which he was possessed. When Marianna had poured out upon his devoted head a full measure of all the evil caprices of a selfish girl, she had only to suffer him to press his withered lips a single time upon her little hand, and he would vow, in the excess of his delight, that he would never leave off kissing the Pope's slipper till he had obtained his dispensation to marry his niece, quintessence as she was of all beauty and loveliness. Marianna was careful to do nothing to disturb this condition of delight, for those rays of hope of her uncle's made her own to shine brighter--her hopes of being all the nearer escaping him, the more firmly he believed himself to be united to her by bonds which were indissoluble.

Some time had elapsed when, one day, Michele came stumping upstairs and announced to his master (who opened the door after a good deal of knocking), with much prolixity, that there was a gentleman below who insisted, most urgently, on speaking with Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, who, he was aware, lived in that house.

"Oh, all ye heavenly hosts!" cried the old gentleman, in a rage, "doesn't this lubber know as well as possible that I never speak with strangers in the house!"

But Michele said the gentleman was very well-looking, rather elderly, and spoke exceedingly nicely, saying his name was Nicolo Musso.

"Nicolo Musso!" said Capuzzi, thoughtfully to himself; "Nicolo Musso, who has the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo! What can he want with me?" He carefully closed and bolted the door, and went down with Michele to talk with Nicolo in the street.

"My dear Signor Pasquale," said Nicolo, greeting him with an easy courtesy, "how very much delighted I am that you honour me with your acquaintance! How many thanks I owe you! Since the Romans saw you--the man of the most acknowledged taste, of the most universal knowledge, the virtuoso in art--in my theatre, my reputation, and my receipts, have been doubled. All the more does it pain me that some wicked, malicious fellows should have made a murderous attack upon you and your party as you were going home from my theatre at night. For the love of all the Saints, Signor Pasquale, do not form a prejudice against me and my theatre on account of an affair of this sort, which could scarcely have been anticipated. Do not deprive me of your patronage."

"My good Signor Nicolo," said Capuzzi, flattered, "let me assure you that I never, anywhere, found more pleasure than in your theatre. Your Formica, your Agli, are actors, whose equals have still to be discovered; but the alarm which brought my friend Splendiano Accoramboni--and indeed myself as well--nearly to death's door, was too severe. It has closed to me for ever, not your theatre, but the road to it. Open your theatre in the Piazza del Popolo, or in Strada Babuina, or Strada Ripetta, and I shall never miss a single evening; but no power on earth would induce me to set foot outside the Porto del Popolo at night."

Nicolo sighed as if possessed by profound sorrow. "That hits me hard," he said; "harder than you perhaps may suppose, Signor Pasquale. I had based all my hopes upon you. In fact, I came to implore your assistance."

"My assistance!" echoed the old gentleman; "my assistance! In what way could that be of any use to you, Signor Nicolo?"

"My dear Signor Pasquale," answered Nicolo, passing his handkerchief over his eyes as if wiping away a tear or two, "you will have observed that my actors occasionally introduce a little aria or so here and there; and my idea was to carry that further gradually; bring a small orchestra together, and finally evade prohibitions so far as to start an opera. You, Signor Capuzzi, are the first composer in all Italy, and it is only the incredible frivolity of the Romans, and the envy of the Maestri, that are to blame for the circumstance that anything except your compositions is to be heard on the stage. Signor Pasquale, I came to beg you, on my knees, to allow me to represent your immortal works in my theatre."

"My good Signor Nicolo!" cried the old fellow, with bright sunshine in his face, "why are we talking here in the public street? Will you be kind enough to climb up a steep flight of stairs, and come with me into my humble dwelling?"

As soon as he got into the room with Nicolo, he hauled out a great packet of dusty music-manuscript, opened it up, turned pages over, and began that frightful yelling and screeching which he called "singing." Nicolo demeaned himself like one enraptured. He sighed, he groaned; he cried "bravo!" from time to time, and "Bravissimo! Benedetto Capuzzi!" At length, as if in an excess of blissful enthusiasm, he fell at the old man's feet, and clasped his knees, hugging them so very tightly, however, that Capuzzi gave a great bound to try and shake him off, screamed with the pain, and cried out: "All the Saints! let me go, Signor Nicolo! you'll be the death of me!"

"No!" cried Nicolo. "No, Signor Pasquale! I will not rise from this spot till you promise to let me have that heavenly aria which you have just rendered so magnificently, so that Formica may sing it two nights hence on my stage."

"You are a person of some taste," sighed Pasquale; "a man of insight; to whom, rather than to you, should I intrust my compositions? You shall take all my arias with you (Oh! oh! do let me go!) but, oh heavens! I shall not hear them--my heavenly masterpieces! (Oh, oh! let go my legs, Signor Nicolo!)"

"No!" cried Nicolo, still on his knees, and firmly grasping the old man's spindle-shanks like a vice. "No, Signor Pasquale! I will not let you go till you give me your word that you will come to my theatre the evening after to-morrow. Have no fear of being attacked again. You may be certain that, when the Romans have heard those arias of yours, they will carry you home triumphantly in a torchlight procession. But even if they do not, I and my trusty comrades will arm, and escort you safely home."

"You and your comrades will escort me home, will you?" Pasquale inquired; "how many of them might there be?"

"Eight or ten people will be at your disposal, Signor Pasquale. Make up your mind; decide upon coming, and yield to my earnest prayers."

"Formica," lisped Pasquale, "has a capital voice; how he would sing my arias!"

"Decide on it," cried Nicolo once more, grasping the old man's legs tighter than ever.

"You promise me," said Pasquale; "you undertake to be responsible that I get safe home without being set upon?"

"Upon my life and honour," said Nicolo, giving the legs an extra grip.

"Done!" cried the old gentleman. "The evening after to-morrow I shall be at your theatre."

Nicolo jumped up, and pressed the old man to his heart with such violence that he coughed and gasped for breath.

At this juncture Marianna came in. Pasquale tried to restrain her by casting a grim look at her, but in vain. She went straight to Musso, and said angrily: "It is of no use your trying to entice my dear uncle to go to your theatre again. Remember that the horrible trick played upon me by abandoned villains who have a plot against me nearly cost my darling uncle and his worthy friend Splendiano their lives, not to mention myself. Never will I allow him to run such a risk again. Cease your attempts, Nicolo. Dearest uncle! you will stay quietly at home, will you not, and never venture outside the Porto del Popolo again in the treacherous night, which is no one's friend?"

This came upon Signor Pasquale like a clap of thunder. He gazed at his niece with eyes widely opened; and presently addressed her in the sweetest language, explaining to her at much length that Signor Nicolo had taken the responsibility of making such arrangements that there should be no possible risk of danger on the homeward way.

"For all that," answered Marianna, "my opinion remains the same, and I implore you most earnestly, dearest uncle, not to go. Excuse me, Signor Nicolo, for speaking clearly in your presence, and uttering the dark presentiment which I so strongly feel. I know that Salvator Rosa is a friend of yours, and I have no doubt so is Antonio Scacciati. How if you were in collusion with my enemies? How if you are tempting my uncle (who, I know, will not go to your theatre unless I am with him) only to have a surer opportunity of carrying out some fresh plot against him?"

"What an idea!" cried Nicolo, as if horrified. "What a terrible suspicion to entertain, Signora! Have you had such an evil experience of me in the past? Is my reputation such that you believe me capable of such a frightful piece of treachery? But if you do think so badly of me--if you have no confidence in the help I have promised--you can bring Michele (who was so useful in rescuing you on the former occasion), and let him bring a good force of Sbirri, who could be waiting for you outside; as you could scarcely expect me to fill my house with Sbirri."

Marianna, looking him steadfastly in the eyes, said earnestly: "Since you suggest that, I see that you mean honourably, Signor Nicolo, and that my evil suspicions of you were unfounded. Pray forgive my thoughtless words. Yet I cannot overcome my anxiety, and my fear for my dearest uncle, and I again beg him not to venture upon this dangerous expedition."

Signor Pasquale had listened to the conversation with strange looks, which clearly testified to the contest within him. He could now restrain himself no longer; he fell on his knees before Marianna, seized her hands, kissed them, covered them with tears which streamed from his eyes, and cried, as if beside himself: "Heavenly and adored Marianna! the fire in my heart breaks forth into flame! Ah! this anxiety, this fear on my account; what are they but the sweetest admissions of your love for me?" He entreated her not to allow herself to be alarmed in the very slightest degree, but to hear, on the stage, the most lovely of the arias which the divinest of composers ever had written.

Nicolo, too, continued the most pathetic entreaties, until Marianna declared she was persuaded, and promised to lay aside all fear, and go with her dear uncle to the theatre outside the Porto del Popolo.

Signor Pasquale was in the seventh heaven of bliss. He had the full conviction that Marianna loved him, and he was going to hear his own music on the stage, and gather the laurels which he had so long been striving for in vain. He was on the very point of finding his fondest dreams realized, and he wanted his light to shine in all its glory on his faithful friends. His idea, therefore, was that Signor Splendiano and little Pitichinaccio should go with him, just as they had done on the former occasion.

But in addition to the spectres who had carried him off, all manner of direful apparitions had haunted Signor Splendiano on the night when he slept in his periwig near the Pyramid of Cestius. The whole burying-ground seemed to have come to life, and hundreds of the dead had stretched their bony arms out at him, complaining loudly concerning his essences and electuaries, the tortures of which were not abated even in the tomb. Hence the Pyramid Doctor, though he could not contradict Signor Pasquale when he held that the whole thing was only a trick performed by a parcel of wicked young men, continued to be in a melancholy mood; and though, formerly, he was not greatly prone to anything in the nature of superstition, he now saw spectres everywhere, and was sorely plagued with presentiments and evil dreams.

As for Pitichinaccio, nothing would persuade him that those devils who fell upon him and Signor Pasquale were not real and veritable demons from the flames of hell, and he screamed aloud whenever any one so much as alluded to that terrible night. All Pasquale's assurances that it was only Antonio Scacciati and Salvator Rosa who were behind those devil's masks were unavailing; for Pitichinaccio vowed, with many tears, that, notwithstanding his terror, he distinctly recognized the fiend Fanfarell, by his voice and appearance, and that said Fanfarell had beaten his stomach black and blue.

It may be imagined what trouble Signor Pasquale had to persuade the Pyramid Doctor and Pitichinaccio to go with him again to Musso's theatre. Splendiano did not agree to do so until he had succeeded in getting from a monk of the Order of St. Bernard a consecrated bag of musk (the smell whereof neither dead men nor devils can abide), with which he was proof against all attacks. Pitichinaccio could not resist the promise of a box of grapes in sugar, but Signor Pasquale had to expressly agree that he was not to wear female attire (which, he thought, was what had brought the devils upon him), but go in his Abbate's costume.

What Salvator had dreaded seemed thus to be about to insist on happening, although, as he declared, his whole plot depended for success upon Signor Pasquale and Marianna going by themselves, without the faithful companions, to Musso's theatre.

Both he and Antonio cudgelled their brains how to keep Splendiano and Pitichinaccio away; but there was not time enough to carry out any plan having that for its aim, as the great stroke itself had to be struck on the evening of the next day. But heaven--which often employs the oddest tools in the punishment of foolish folk--interposed, in this instance, in favour of the lovers, and so guided Michele that he gave the rein to his natural dunderheadedness, and by that means brought about what the skill of Salvator and Antonio was powerless to accomplish.

On that self-same night there suddenly arose, in Strada Ripetta before Pasquale's house, such a terrible swearing, shouting, and quarrelling that all the neighbours started from their sleep, and the Sbirri (who had been after a murderer who took sanctuary in the Piazza di Spagna), supposing there was another murder going on, came hurrying up with their torches. When they, and a crowd of people attracted by the noise who came with them, arrived on the scene of the supposed murder, what was seen was poor little Pitichinaccio lying on the ground as if dead; Michele belabouring the Pyramid Doctor with a frightful cudgel, and the said Doctor in the act of falling down; whilst Signor Pasquale, picking himself up with difficulty, drew his sword, and began furiously lunging at Michele. All round lay fragments of shattered guitars. Several people stopped the old gentleman's arm, or he would infallibly have run Michele through the body. The latter (who, now that the torches had come, saw, for the first time, who it was that he had to do with), stood like a statue, with eyes staring out of his head. Presently He emitted a terrific yell, tore his hair, and implored forgiveness and mercy. Neither the Pyramid Doctor nor Pitichinaccio were seriously hurt, but they were so stiff, and so black and blue, that they could not move a muscle, and had to be carried home.

Signor Pasquale had brought this trouble upon his own pate. We are aware that Salvator and Antonio had favoured Marianna with the most beautiful night-music imaginable, but I have forgotten to add that they went on repeating it on succeeding nights, tremendously infuriating Signor Pasquale; his anger was held in check by the neighbours, and he was silly enough to apply to the authorities to prevent the two painters from singing in Strada Ripetta. The authorities considered it an unheard of thing in Rome to forbid anybody singing whenever he chose, and said it was absurd to demand it. On this Signor Pasquale determined to put an end to the thing himself, and promised Michele a good sum of money if he would fall upon the singers and give them a good cudgelling on the first opportunity. Michele at once provided himself with a big stick, and kept watch every night behind the door. However, it happened that Salvator and Antonio thought it advisable to discontinue the night-music in Strada Ripetta on the nights immediately preceding the execution of their plot, so that nothing might suggest ideas of his enemies to the old man. And Marianna innocently remarked that, much as she hated Salvator and Antonio, she would have been very glad to hear their singing, for their music, soaring on the breeze in the night, surpassed everything.

Pasquale took mental note of this, and, as an exquisite piece of gallantry, determined to delight and surprise his beloved with a serenata, composed by himself, and carefully rehearsed with his companions. So the very night before the projected visit to the theatre he slipped secretly out and fetched his two associates, who were prepared beforehand. But no sooner had they struck the first chords on their guitars than Michele (whom his master had unfortunately forgotten to warn of what was going to happen), in high glee at the near prospect of earning the promised reward, burst out at the door, and set to work unmercifully becudgelling the musicians. What happened afterwards we know. Of course it was out of the question that either Splendiano or Pitichinaccio could go with Pasquale to the theatre, as they were lying in their beds covered all over with sticking-plaster. But Signor Pasquale could not refrain from going himself, although his shoulders and back smarted not a little from the licking he had had; every note of his aria was a rope dragging him there irresistibly.

"Now that the obstacle which we thought insurmountable has cleared itself out of the way of its own accord," said Salvator to Antonio, "everything depends upon your adroitness in not letting slip, when it comes, the proper moment for carrying your Marianna off from Nicolo's theatre. But you will not fail; and I greet you already as the bridegroom of Capuzzi's beautiful niece, who will be your wife in a few days. I wish you every happiness, Antonio, although it goes to my very marrow when I think of your marriage."

"What do you mean, Salvator?" asked Antonio.

"Call it whim, or fanciful idea, Antonio," he answered; "the long and the short of it is, I love women; but every one of them, even her whom I am madly in love with, for whom I would gladly die, affects my mind with an apprehension which raises in me the most inexplicable and mysterious shudder the moment I think of a union with her such as marriage would be. The unfathomable element in woman's nature mockingly sets all the weapons of our sex at complete defiance. She whom we believe to have devoted herself to us with her whole being--to have opened to us the innermost recesses of her nature--is the first to deceive us, and with the sweetest kisses we imbibe the most destroying poison."

"And my Marianna?" asked Antonio, aghast.

"Pardon me, Antonio," answered Salvator; "even your Marianna, who is sweetness and delightsomeness personified, has given me a fresh proof how constantly we are menaced by the mysterious nature of woman. Remember how that innocent, inexperienced child behaved when we took her uncle home to her; how, at one glance of mine, she comprehended the whole situation, and played her part, as you said yourself, with the most amazing ability. But that was not to be named in the same day with what happened when Musso went to see the old man. The most practised skill, the most impenetrable craftiness--in short, every art of the woman most accomplished and experienced in the ways of the world--could suggest nothing more than what little Marianna did, in order to throw dust in the old man's eyes with the most absolute assurance of success. She could not possibly have acted with greater talent to make the road clear for us, whatever our undertakings were to be. The campaign against the insane old fool was legitimate--every kind of trick and artifice seems justified; still, however, dear Antonio, don't let my dreamer's fancies influence you too much, and be as happy with your Marianna as ever you can."

If only some monk had accompanied Signor Pasquale as he was on his way to Musso's theatre with Marianna, everybody must have thought the strange pair were being taken to the place of execution; for ahead of them marched Michele, truculent in aspect, and armed to the teeth; and he was followed by well on to twenty Sbirri, who were surrounding Signor Pasquale and Marianna.

Nicolo received the old gentleman and the lady with much solemnity of ceremony, and conducted them to the places reserved for them close in front of the stage. Much flattered at being thus honoured, Signor Pasquale looked about him with proud, beaming glances; and his pleasure was increased by the circumstance that there were none but women round and behind Marianna. Behind the scenes, on the stage, one or two violins and a bass were being tuned, and the old gentleman's heart beat high with anticipation, and a sort of electric shock pierced through his joints and marrow when all at once the ritornello of his aria sounded.

Formica came on as Pasquarello, and sang, with the gestures most peculiarly characteristic of Capuzzi, and in his very voice, that most atrocious of all arias. The theatre resounded with the audience's most uproarious laughter. People shouted out: "Ah! Pasquale Capuzzi! Compositore--Virtuoso celeberrimo! Bravo, bravissimo!" The old man, not observing the tone of the laughter, was all delight. When the aria ended, the audience called for silence; Doctor Graziano (played on this occasion by Nicolo) came on, holding his ears, and calling out to Pasquarello to cease his din, and not make such an insane crowing. He proceeded to ask Pasquarello when he had taken to singing, and where he had picked up that abominable tune. Pasquarello said he did not know what the Doctor meant, and that he was just like the Romans, who had no taste for real music, and left the finest talents in neglect. The aria, he said, was by the greatest of living composers and virtuosi, whose service it was his good fortune to be in, and who himself gave him lessons in music and singing. Graziano went over the names of a number of well-known composers and virtuosi, but at each renowned name Pasquarello disdainfully shook his head.

At length he said the Doctor showed gross ignorance in not knowing the very greatest composer of the day--none other than Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, who had done him the honour to take him into his service. Could he not see that Pasquarello was the friend and servant of Signor Pasquale?

The Doctor broke into an immoderate fit of laughter and cried: "What! had Pasquarello, after serving him, where, besides wages and food, many a good quattrino fell into his mouth, gone to the very greatest and most accomplished skinflint and miser that ever swallowed macaroni?--to the motley Carnival-fool, who strutted about like a turkey-cock after a shower?--to that cur, that amorous old coxcomb, who poisons the air in Strada Ripetta with that disgusting goat-bleating which he calls 'singing?'" &c., &c.

To this Pasquarello answered quite angrily, that it was mere envy on the Doctor's part. To speak with his heart in his hand (parla col cuore in mano) the Doctor was by no means in a position to pass a judgment on Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia. To speak heart in hand, the Doctor himself had a pretty good dash of all which he was finding fault with in the admirable Signor Pasquale. Speaking, as he was, heart in hand, he had often, himself, known some six hundred people or so to laugh with all their throats at Doctor Graziano himself. And then Pasquarello held forth at great length in praise of his new master, Signor Pasquale, attributing to him all possible excellences, and finishing with a description of his character, which he made out to be absolutely perfect as regarded amiability and lovableness.

"Blessed Formica!" whispered Signor Capuzzi aside to himself, "I see that you have determined to render my triumph complete, by rubbing the noses of the Romans in all the envy and ingratitude with which they have persecuted me, and showing them clearly whom and what I am."

"Here comes my master himself," cried Pasquarello; and there came on to the stage Signor Capuzzi, as he lived and moved, in dress, face, walk, and manner--in all respects so exactly similar to the Capuzzi down in the audience part of the house, that the latter, quite alarmed, let go his hold of Marianna (whom he had been holding up to this time with one hand), and rubbed his nose and periwig, as if to find out whether he was awake or dreaming of seeing his own double, or really in Nicolo Musso's theatre, obliged to believe his eyes, and infer that he did see this miraculous appearance.

The Capuzzi on the stage embraced Doctor Graziano with much amity, and inquired after his welfare. The Doctor said his appetite was good, at his service (per servir-lo), and his sleep sound; but that his purse laboured under a complete depletion. Yesterday, in honour of his lady love, he said, he had spent his last ducat in buying a pair of rosemary stockings, and he was just going to certain bankers to see if they would lend him thirty ducats.

"How could you think of such a thing?" cried Capuzzi. "Why pass the door of your best friend? Here, my dear sir, are fifty ducats; pray accept them."

"Pasquale, what are you doing?" cried the Capuzzi down in the audience, half aloud.

Doctor Graziano talked of giving a bill and paying interest; but the stage Capuzzi vowed he could not think of taking either from such a friend as the Doctor. "Pasquale! are you crazy?" cried the Capuzzi below, louder.

Doctor Graziano made his exit here, after many grateful embracings. Pasquarello then went forward, with lowly reverences; lauded Signor Capuzzi to the skies; said his (Pasquarello's) purse was afflicted with the same malady as the Doctor's, and begged for some of the same medicine. The Capuzzi on the stage laughed, saying he was glad that Pasquarello knew how to take advantage of his good dispositions, and threw him two or three shining ducats.

"Pasquale, you're mad! the devil's in you!" the audience-Capuzzi cried, very loudly. The audience called him to order. Pasquarello waxed still louder in Capuzzi's praise, and came, at length, on the subject of the arias which he (Capuzzi) had composed, with which he (Pasquarello) was in hopes of charming the world. Capuzzi on the stage patted Pasquarello on the shoulder, and said he could confide to a faithful servant like him, that the truth was that he really knew nothing whatever about music, and that the aria he had been mentioning, like all the arias he had ever written, was cribbed from Frescobaldi's canzone, and Carissimi's motets.

"You lie, you scoundrel, in your throat!" screamed the Capuzzi below, rising from his seat. "Silence!--sit down!" cried the audience; the women who were sitting near him dragged him down into his place.

The stage-Capuzzi went on to say it was time, now, to come to matters of more importance. He wanted to give a large dinner the next day, and Pasquarello must set to work briskly to get together all the requirements. He drew out of his pocket a list of the most expensive and recherché dishes, and read it aloud; as each dish was mentioned, Pasquarello had to say how much it would cost, and the money was handed to him on the spot.

"Pasquale!--idiotic fool!--madman!--spendthrift!--prodigal!" cried the Capuzzi below, in crescendo, after the mention of the several dishes, and grew more and more angry the higher the total bill for this most unheard-of of all dinners became.

When at length the list was gone through, Pasquarello asked Signor Pasquale's reason for giving so grand a dinner; and Capuzzi (on the stage) replied: "To-morrow will be the happiest day of all my life. Let me tell you, my good Pasquarello, that to-morrow I celebrate the wedding-day, rich in blessings, of my dear niece Marianna. I am giving her hand to that fine young fellow, the greatest of all painters, Scacciati."

Scarce had the Capuzzi on the stage uttered those words, than he of the audience, quite beside himself, and incapable of further self-control, sprang up, with all the fury of a demon in his face of fire, clenched both his fists at his counterfeit, and screamed out at him, in a yelling voice: "That you shall not!--that you shall never! you infernal scoundrel of a Pasquale! Will you defraud yourself of your own Marianna, you dog? Are you going to throw her at that diabolical rascal's head? The sweet Marianna--your life, your hope, your all-in-all? Ah, beware! Have a care, deluded blockhead! These fists shall beat you black and blue, and give you something else to think about than dinners and marriages."

But the Capuzzi on the stage clenched his fists too, and cried out in a similar fury, with the same yelling voice: "May all the devils enter your body! you cursed, senseless Pasquale! Abominable skinflint!--old amorous goose!--motley fool, with the cap and bells over your ears! Have a care of yourself, or I will blow the breath of life out of you! that the mean actions you want to father upon the shoulders of the good, honourable, upright Pasquale may be put an end to at last."

To an accompaniment of the most furious curses and maledictions of the Capuzzi beneath, he on the stage proceeded to narrate one scurrilous story of him after another, finishing off by crying out: "Try if you dare, Pasquale--amorous old ape!--to interfere with the happiness of those two young people, destined for each other by heaven."

As he spoke, there appeared at the back of the stage Antonio Scacciati and Marianna, with their arms about each other. Shaky as the old gentleman was on his legs, fury gave him strength and agility. At a bound he was on to the stage, where he drew his sword, and ran at Antonio. But he felt himself seized from behind; an officer of the Papal Guard was holding him, and said, in a serious tone: "Consider a little, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi; you are on Nicolo Musso's stage. Without being aware of it, you have been playing a most entertaining part this evening. You will not find Antonio or Marianna here." The two performers whom Capuzzi had taken to be them had come closer, with the rest of the actors, and he did not know their faces at all. The sword fell from his trembling hand; he drew a deep breath, like one waking from a fearful dream, clasped his forehead, forced his eyes wide open. The dreadful sense of what had really happened flashed upon him, and he cried: "Marianna!" in a terrible voice, till the walls re-echoed.

But his calling could no longer reach her ears; for Antonio had carefully watched for the moment when Capuzzi, oblivious of everything, even himself, was contending with his counterfeit on the stage, had then cautiously made his way to Marianna, and taken her through the audience to a side door, where the Vetturino was waiting with the carriage; and away they were driven towards Florence as fast as they could go.

"Marianna!" the old man continued crying. "She has gone!--she has flown!--the villain Antonio has robbed me of her! Away!--after her! Good people, have pity! Get torches; search for my dove! Ha, the serpent!"

And the old man was making off; but the officer held him fast, saying: "If you mean the pretty young girl who was sitting by you, I rather fancy I saw her slip out with a young fellow--Antonio Scacciati, I believe,--some considerable time ago, just as you were beginning that useless, silly quarrel with the actor who had on a mask something like you. Signor Pasquale, it is my duty to arrest you, on account of your behaviour, and the murderous attack upon the actor."

Signor Pasquale, with pale death in his face, incapable of uttering a word or a sound, was marched off by the very Sbirri who had come there to protect him from masquerading demons and spectres. Thus there fell upon him deep distress and sorrow, and all the wild despair of a foolish and deceived old amorous fool, on the very night when he looked to celebrate his greatest triumph.

Salvator Rosa Quits Rome For Florence. The End Of This Story.

All things here below under the sun are subject to constant change and fluctuation, but there is nothing that more deserves to be called fickle and fleeting than mankind's opinions, which keep rotating in an eternal circle, like Fortune's wheel. Bitter censure falls to-day upon him who yesterday gathered a grand harvest of praise; he who walks to-day a-foot may to-morrow ride in a gilded chariot.

Who was there in all Rome who did not scorn and mock at old Capuzzi, with his mean avarice, his silly amorousness, his crazy jealousy?--or who did not wish the poor tormented Marianna her freedom? Yet now that Antonio had succeeded in carrying her off, all the scorn and mockery suddenly turned to pity for the poor old fellow who was seen creeping about the streets of Rome, with bowed head, inconsolable.

Misfortunes rarely come singly. Soon after Marianna had been carried off, Pasquale lost his dearest bosom friends. Little Pitichinaccio choked himself with an almond, which he incautiously tried to swallow as he was in the middle of a cadenza; and a slip of the pen (of his own making) put a sudden period to the life of the renowned Pyramid-Doctor, Signor Splendiano Accoramboni. Michele's cudgelling had such an effect on him that he fell into a fever. He determined to cure himself by a remedy which he believed he had discovered. He demanded pen and ink, and wrote a recipe, in which, by putting down a wrong fever, he enormously increased the quantity of a very powerful ingredient; so that as soon as he swallowed the medicine he fell back upon his pillow and was gone; proving, by his own death, the effect of this final tincture of his prescribing in the most striking and heroic manner.

As we have said, all who had previously laughed the most heartily at Capuzzi, and the most sincerely wished success to the brave Antonio in his undertaking, were now all compassion for the old man; and the bitterest blame was laid, not upon Antonio so much as upon Salvator Rosa, whom they all, with very good reason, held to have been at the bottom of the whole affair.

Salvator's enemies (of whom there were a goodly band) were not slow to stir up the fire to the best of their ability. "See!" they said; "this is Masaniello's worthy comrade, always ready to lay his hand to any evil trick, any robberish undertaking; if his dangerous stay in Rome is prolonged, we shall soon feel the effects of it heavily."

And, in fact, the ignoble herd of those who conspired against Salvator succeeded in stemming the bold flight which his fame would otherwise have taken. One picture after another came from his hand, bold of conception, magnificent of execution, but the so-called "connoisseurs" always shrugged the shoulder; said, now that the mountains were too blue; now, that the trees were too green, the figures too tall, or too stumpy; found fault with everything where there was no fault to be found, and made it their business to detract from Salvator's well-merited renown in every possible way. His chief persecutors were the members of the Academia di San Luca, who could never get over the affair of the surgeon, and went out of their own province to depreciate the pretty verses which Salvator wrote about that time, even trying to make out that he did not live upon the fruit of his own land, but pilfered the property of other people. And this, too, led to Salvator's being by no means in a position to surround himself with the splendour and luxury which he had formerly displayed in Rome. Instead of the grand, spacious studio, where all the celebrities of Rome used to visit him, he went on living at Dame Caterina's, beside his green figtree. And in this very restrictedness he, doubtless, soon found comfort and ease of heart.

But he laid the malignant conduct of his enemies more to heart than there was any occasion for; nay, he felt as though some creeping malady, engendered by annoyance and vexation, was gnawing at his inmost marrow. In this evil mood, he conceived and executed the great pictures which set all Rome in uproar. One of them represented the transitoriness of all earthly things; and in the principal female figure (which bore all the marks of a disreputable calling) it was easy to recognize the lady-love of one of the Cardinals. In the other was shown the Goddess of Fortune distributing her precious gifts. But Cardinal's hats, Bishop's mitres, and decorations were falling down upon bleating sheep, braying asses, and other despised creatures; whilst well-favoured men, in tattered garments, looked up in vain for the slightest favour. Salvator had given the rein to his bitter mood, and those beasts' heads had very striking resemblances to sundry well-known characters. It may be imagined how the hatred of him increased, and how much more bitterly he was persecuted than before.

Dame Caterina cautioned him with tears in her eyes. She had noticed that as soon as it was dark, birds of evil omen--suspicious-looking characters--came slinking about the house, watching Salvator's every step. He saw that it was time to be gone; and Dame Caterina and her dear daughters were the only people he felt any pain in parting from. Remembering the Duke of Tuscany's repeated invitations, he went to Florence; and there his mortification was richly compensated for, and the annoyances of tome lost sight of in the honour and fame--so richly merited--which were bestowed upon him in fullest measure. The Duke's presents, and the large prices which he got for his pictures, soon enabled him to occupy a large mansion, and furnish it in the most magnificent style. There he collected round him all the most famous poets and literati of the day; it is sufficient to mention amongst them Evangelista Torricelli, Valerio Chimentelli, Battista Ricciardi, Andrea Cavalcanti, Pietro Salviati, Filippo Apolloni, Volumnio Bandelli, Francesco Rovai. Art and science were joined together in a charming fusion, and Salvator Rosa had a manner of endowing the meetings with an element of the fanciful, which in a peculiar manner gave a stimulus to the thoughts and ideas of the company. Thus, the dining-hall had the appearance of a beautiful shrubbery, containing sweet-smelling bushes and flowers and gurgling springs; and the very dishes, served by singularly-attired pages, had a wonderful appearance, as if they came from some far-off enchanted land. These assemblages of poets and savants in Salvator Rosa's house were at the time known as the Academia de' Percossi.

But although Salvator occupied his mind in this manner with art and science, his inmost heart was cheered by his friend Antonio Scacciati, who was living a happy artistic life, free from care, with the beautiful Marianna. They used to think, sometimes, of the old deceived Signor Pasquale, and all that took place in Nicolo Musso's theatre. And Antonio asked Salvator how he had managed to interest not only Musso, but the wonderful Formica and Agli, in his affairs, to employ their talents on his behalf as they had done. Salvator said it had been an easy matter, inasmuch as Formica had been his most intimate friend in Rome, and always delighted to carry out upon the stage anything that he had suggested to him. Antonio declared that, much as he was unable still to help laughing when he thought of the occurrence which had made no happiness, he wished, from his heart, for a reconciliation with the old man, even although he should never touch a farthing of Marianna's fortune (which the old man had taken possession of), seeing that his art brought him money enough. Marianna, too, could often not restrain her tears at the thought that her father's brother would never till his dying day forgive the trick that had been played upon him; and thus Pasquale's hatred cast a sorrowful shadow upon her happy life. Salvator comforted them both with the thought that time cures much harder matters, and that chance might perhaps bring the old man to them in a much less dangerous manner than if they had remained in Rome, or were to go back there now.

We shall find that a spirit of prophecy dwelt in Salvator. A considerable time had elapsed, when one day Antonio burst into Salvator's studio, breathless, and pale as death. "Salvator!" he cried; "my friend! my protector!--I am lost unless you help me! Pasquale Capuzzi is here, and has got a warrant to arrest me for carrying off his niece."

"But what can Pasquale do to you now?" asked Salvator. Has not the Church united Marianna and you?"

"Alas!" answered Antonio, in despair, "even the Church cannot save me here. Heaven knows how he has accomplished it, but the old man has managed to get the ear of the Pope's nephew; and it is this nephew who has taken him under his protection, and given him hope that the Holy Father will declare our marriage void; and not only that, but give him a dispensation to enable him to marry his niece."

"Stop!" cried Salvator. "Now--now I understand the whole matter. It is that nephew's hatred for me, Antonio, which threatens to ruin everything. This nephew--this conceited, raw, boorish fellow--is one of those beasts which the Goddess of Fortune is overwhelming with her gifts in that picture of mine. That it was I who helped you to your Marianna--more or less indirectly, of course--is known not only to this nephew, but to every one in Rome. Season enough to persecute you, since they cannot specify anything against me. Even were it not for my affection for you, Antonio, as my best and dearest friend, I could not but stand by you if it were for nothing else than that it is I who have brought this mischance upon you. But, by all the saints, I do not see how I am to set about spoiling the game of your enemies."

As he said this Salvator, who up to this point had been working away at a picture without interrupting himself, laid his brushes, palette and mahlstick down, got up from his easel, and, folding his arms across his breast, strode 'several times up and down, whilst Antonio, in deepest thought, contemplated the floor with fixed glance.

Presently Salvator halted before him, and cried, laughing: "Antonio, there is nothing that I can accomplish as against your powerful enemies; but there is one who can, and will, help you; and that is Signor Formica."

"Alas!" cried Antonio; "do not jest with an unfortunate, for whom there is no further salvation."

"Still determined to despair?" cried Salvator, who had suddenly risen into the highest spirits. He laughed aloud: "I tell you, Antonio, friend Formica will help in Florence quite as well as he did in Rome. Go quietly home. Comfort your Marianna, and await the course of events quite tranquilly. All I expect of you is that you will be ready and prepared to do whatever Signor Formica--who happens to be here at this moment--may require of you." Antonio promised obedience with all his heart, hope and confidence at once beginning to glimmer up within him.

Signor Pasquale was not a little astonished to receive a formal invitation from the Academia de' Percossi. "Ha!--indeed!" he cried. "One sees that Florence is the place where they know how to esteem merit; where a man endowed with such gifts as Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegalia chances to possess, is properly appreciated."

Thus the thought of the amount of artistic knowledge which he possessed, and of the honours which were being paid to him in consequence, overcame the repugnance which he would otherwise have entertained to an assemblage which had Salvator Rosa, at its head. The Spanish state costume was brushed more carefully than usual; the steeple-crowned hat adorned with a new feather; the shoes set off with fresh bows of ribbon; and Signor Pasquale made his appearance in Salvator's house glittering like a golden beetle, with a countenance of radiant sunshine. The splendour around him--Salvator himself (who was much more finely dressed than he had been wont to be)--inspired him with reverence; and--as is usually the case with shallow souls, which are puffed-up at first, but at once fall down into the dust when they perceive any distinct superiority over them--Pasquale was all deference and humility towards that Salvator whom he was for ever lording over in Rome.

So much attention was paid to Signor Pasquale on all hands; his opinions were so unconditionally appealed to; so much was said as to his artistic merits, that he felt himself a new man; nay, it seemed to him that a special spirit came to life within him, so that he really spoke much more sensibly on many subjects than might have been expected. As, in addition to all this, he had never in all his life partaken of such a splendid dinner, or tasted such inspiring wine, his enjoyment necessarily mounted higher and higher, and he forgot all about the wrongs done him in Rome, and the unpleasant business which had brought him to Florence.

In a short time the bushes at the bottom of the hall began to get in motion, the leafy branches opened out apart, and a little theatre came into view, with its stage, and some seats for an audience.

"All ye saints!" cried Pasquale Capuzzi, in much alarm. "Where am I? That is Nicolo Mussos's theatre!"

Without paying attention to his outcry, two gentlemen of dignified appearance--Evangelista Torricelli and Andrea Cavalcanti--took him by the arms, one on each side, and conducted him to a seat in front of the stage, taking their places on either side of him.

No sooner were they seated than there entered on to the stage, Formica, as Pasquarello!

"Accursed Formica!" cried Pasquale, springing up and shaking his clenched fist towards the stage. Torricelli's and Cavalcanti's grave looks of disapproval, however, constrained him to silence and quietness.

Pasquarello sobbed, wept, and cursed his fate which brought him nothing but grief and misery; declared he did not know how he should manage to laugh, were it but ever so little, and concluded by saying that, in the excess of his despair, he would most certainly cut his throat, were it not that the sight of blood always made him faint; or throw himself into the river, if he only could help swimming when in the water.

Here Doctor Graziano entered and inquired the cause of his grief.

Pasquarello asked him if he did not know what had been happening in his master's, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia's, house?--whether he had heard that an abandoned ruffian had run off with his master's niece, Marianna?

"Ha!" murmured Capuzzi, "I see what it is, Signor Formica. You think you will exculpate and excuse yourself; you desire my forgiveness. Well, we shall see."

Doctor Graziano expressed his sympathy, and thought the ruffian must have been very clever to have evaded Capuzzi's search after him. Pasquarello told the Doctor not to allow himself to imagine that the rascal Antonio Scacciati succeeded in getting the better of the deep and clever Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, supported as he was, moreover, by influential friends. Antonio was in prison, his marriage declared void, and Marianna again in her uncle's hands.

"Has he got her?" cried Capuzzi, beyond himself; "has he got her again, the good Capuzzi? Has he got his little dove again; his Marianna? Is the scoundrel Antonio in prison? O most blessed Formica!"

"You take too lively an interest in the piece, Signor Pasquale," said Cavalcanti very seriously. "Pray allow the actors to speak, and do not interrupt them."

Signor Pasquale, abashed, sat down in his place again.

Pasquarello went on to say that there had been a wedding. Marianna had repented of what she had done; Signor Pasquale had obtained the necessary dispensation from the Holy Father, and had married his niece.

"Yes, yes," murmured Pasquale, aside, whilst his eyes shone with delight; "yes, yes, my dearest Formica! He marries the sweet Marianna, the lucky Pasquale! He always knew the little dove loved him; it was but the devil that led her astray."

In that case, Doctor Graziano said, everything was well, and there was no cause for lamentation.

But Pasquarello began to sob and cry more violently than before, and at last fell down in a faint, as if overcome by his terrible sorrow.

Doctor Graziano ran about anxiously; regretted that he had not a smelling-bottle about him; searched in all his pockets, and at length pulled out a roasted chestnut, which he held under the nose of the insensible Pasquarello. The latter recovered at once, sneezing violently, begged him to excuse the weak state of his nerves, and went on to say that after the marriage Marianna had fallen into the deepest melancholy, calling continually on Antonio's name, and regarding the old man with loathing and contempt. But the latter, blinded by his love and jealousy, had never ceased torturing her in the most terrible manner with his foolishness. Then Pasquarello related a number of mad tricks which Pasquale had been guilty of, and which were actually told of him in Rome. Signor Pasquale jigged uneasily on his seat here and there, murmuring, "Accursed Formica, you lie!--what devil inspires you?" It was only the fact that Torricelli and Cavalcanti kept their grave eyes fixed upon him that restrained a wild outburst of his anger. Pasquarello ended by saying that the luckless Marianna had at last fallen a victim to her unstilled love-longing, her bitter sorrow, and the thousand-fold tortures which the accursed old man had inflicted upon her, and had passed away from this world, in the flower of her age.

At this moment there was heard an awe-inspiring De profundis, chanted by hoarse and hollow voices; and men in long white mantles appeared upon the stage bearing a bier, on which lay the body of the beautiful Marianna, shrouded in white grave-clothes. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, in the deepest mourning, tottered along behind it, moaning aloud, beating his breast, and crying, in his despair, "Oh, Marianna! Marianna!"

When the Capuzzi in the audience saw the body of his niece, both the Capuzzis (him on the stage and he of the audience) howled, and cried in the most heart-breaking tones: "Oh, Marianna! Oh, Marianna! Miserable man that I am! Ah me! Ah me!"

Imagine the corpse of the beautiful girl on the open tier, Surrounded by the mourners, their solemn De profundis, and along with all this, the comic masks, Doctor Graziano and Pasquarello, expressing their grief in the most absurd gesticulations; and then the two Capuzzis, howling and crying in despair. And in truth, all they who were spectators of this strangest of dramatic representations, notwithstanding the irrepressible laughter into which they could not help breaking over the extraordinary old man, were penetrated by a deep and eerie shudder of awe.

The stage now suddenly grew dark. There was thunder and lightning; and out of the depths arose a pale and spectral form, exactly alike in every feature to Capuzzi's brother, Pietro, father of Marianna, who died in Senegaglia.

"Wicked Pasquale!" cried the spectre-form, in hollow, terrible tones; "what have you done with my daughter? Despair and die, accursed murderer of my child! Your reward awaits you in hell!"

The Capuzzi on the stage fell down as if struck by lightning, and at the same instant the Capuzzi down beneath fell senseless from his seat. The branches rustling, closed into their former places; and the stage, with Marianna and Capuzzi, and Pietro's grizzly ghost, disappeared from view. Signor Pasquale was in such a deep faint that it cost some trouble to bring him to himself again.

At last he revived, with a deep sigh, stretched his hands out before him as if to keep off the terror which seized upon him, and cried in hollow tones: "Let me go, Pietro!" A stream of tears burst from his eyes, and he cried, with sobs: "Ah, Marianna!--my darling beautiful girl!--my own Marianna!"

"Bethink you!" said Cavalcanti at last. "Consider Signor Pasquale! It was only on the stage that you saw your niece dead. She is alive. She is here, to implore your forgiveness for the thoughtless stratagem to which love--and, perhaps, your own inconsiderate conduct--impelled her."

Here Marianna, with Antonio Scacciati behind her, rushed forward from the back of the hall, and fell at the feet of the old gentleman, who had been placed in an easy chair. Marianna, in the fullest lustre of her beauty, kissed his hands, bedewed them with hot tears, and begged forgiveness for herself and Antonio, united to her by the Church's benediction. From the old man's deathly pale face flames suddenly broke, fury flashed from his eyes, and he cried in a half-articulate voice: "Ha! abandoned wretch!--venomous serpent! whom I nourished in my bosom, for my destruction!" But the grave old Torricelli came up to him, in all his dignity, and said that he (Capuzzi) had seen in a figure the fate which would inevitably overtake him if he dared to prosecute his evil design against the peace and happiness of Antonio and Marianna. He painted, in the most brilliant colours, the folly--the madness--of amorous old age yielding to love, which has the power of bringing down upon its head the most destroying evil with which Heaven can threaten man, since it annihilates all the affection which might still be his portion, whilst hatred and contempt aim their death-dealing arrows at him from every side.

And Marianna cried out, in a tone which penetrated the heart: "Oh, my uncle! I want to love and honour you as a father! You will bring me to the bitter death if you take Antonio from me!"

And all the poets who were surrounding the old man cried, with one voice, that it was impossible that such an one as Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia--a lover and patron of the arts, himself an admirable and accomplished artist--should not forgive; that he, who occupied the position of a father to the loveliest of women, should not welcome with joy, as a son-in-law, a painter such as Antonio Scacciati, prized by the whole of Italy, overwhelmed with honour and fame.

It was easy to see that a mental process of some kind was going on within the old man. He sighed; he groaned; he hid his face in his hands, whilst Torricelli plied him with the most convincing arguments; whilst Marianna implored him, in the most moving accents; whilst the others extolled and belauded Antonio Scacciati to the utmost of their skill. The old man looked, now at his niece, now at Antonio, whose fine dress and rich chain of honour proved the truth of what was urged as to his artistic position and success.

All anger had disappeared from Capuzzi's countenance. He sprung up with beaming glances, pressed Marianna to his heart, and cried: "Yes, I forgive you, my beloved child! I forgive you, Antonio! Far be it from mo to destroy your happiness. You are right, my worthy Signor Torricelli. Signor Formica has shown me, in a figure, on the stage, all the misery and destruction which would have come upon me if I had carried out my insane idea. I am cured--completely cured--of my folly. But where is Signor Formica?--where is my worthy physician, that I may thank him a thousand times for my recovery, which he has brought about. The terror which he knew how to cause me has transformed my whole being."

Pasquarello came forward. Antonio threw himself upon his breast, crying:

"Oh, Signor Formica! to whom I owe my life, my all! cast aside the mask which disguises you, that I may see your face--that Formica may cease to be a mystery to me."

Pasquarello took off the cap, and the skilfully-constructed mask, which seemed to be an actual, natural face, placing no obstacle in the way of facial expression. And this Formica--this Pasquarello--was transformed into--Salvator Rosa!

"Salvator!" cried Marianna, Antonio, and Capuzzi, ensemble, all amazement.

"Yes," said that wondrous man. "Salvator Rosa; whom the Romans would have none of, as painter, as poet; and who, as Formica, for more than a year, on Nicolo Musso's poor little stage, moved them almost nightly to the loudest and most immoderate applause; from whom they gladly accepted all ridicule and mockery of what was bad, though they would not swallow it in Salvator's poems and pictures. Salvator Formica it is who has aided you, dear Antonio."

"Salvator!" old Capuzzi began; "Salvator Rosa! I have looked upon you as my worst enemy, but I have always held your art in highest honour; and now I love you as the most valued of my friends, and I venture to beg you to accept me as such."

"Say, my worthy Signor Pasquale," answered Salvator, "in what I can be of service to you, and be assured beforehand that I will employ all my powers to fulfil your desires."

There dawned in Capuzzi's face once more that sugary smile which had vanished since Marianna's departure. He took Salvator's hand, and whispered gently: "My dear Signor Salvator, you can do anything with the good Antonio. Beg him, in my name, to allow me to spend the brief remainder of my days with him and my dear daughter Marianna, and to accept from me the fortune which she inherits from her mother, to which I mean to add a liberal marriage-portion. And then, too, he mustn't look askew if I now and then kiss the lovely child's little white hand; and--at all events on Sundays when I go to mass--he must dress my moustache for me; a thing which nobody in all the world can do as he can."

Salvator had difficulty in restraining his laughter; but before he could make answer, Antonio and Marianna, embracing the old man, assured him that they would not consider the reconciliation complete, or feel thoroughly happy, until he took his place by their hearth as a beloved father, never to leave them more. Antonio added that he would dress Capuzzi's moustachios not only on Sundays, but every day of the week, in the daintiest manner. And now the old man was all joy and happiness. Meanwhile a splendid supper had been served, and to this they all sate down, in the happiest mood of mind.

In taking my leave of you, dear reader, I wish with all my heart that the happiness which has now fallen to the lot of Salvator and all his friends, may have glowed very brightly in your own breast, whilst you have been reading the story of the marvellous Signor Formica.

"Now," began Lothair, when Ottmar had ended, "since our friend has been fair and honourable enough to admit from the outset the lack of vigour--the weakness of knee, so to speak, of his production, which it has pleased him to call a 'Novella,' this appeal to our considerateness does, certainly, draw the sting out of our criticisms, which were formed up, in complete steel, to attack him. He bares his bosom to the partizan-pike, and therefore, as magnanimous adversaries, we withhold our thrust, and are bound to have mercy."

"More than that," said Cyprian, "to console his pain, we feel ourselves permitted to bestow a certain limited amount of praise. For my part, I see a good deal in this work that is pleasant and Serapiontic. Capuzzi's broken leg, for instance, and its consequences, his mysterious serenade----"

"Which," interrupted Vincenz, "has all the more of the real Spanish, or the true Italian smack about it, just because it ends with a tremendous cudgelling. No proper Novella of the kind would be complete without the due amount of licking, and I prize it highly as, medically speaking, a specially powerful stimulant, always employed by the best writers. In Boccacio things hardly ever wind up without cudgelling; and where does it rain more blows or thrusts than in the Romance of all Romances, 'Don Quixote?' Cervantes himself considered it necessary to apologise to his readers about it. Now-a-days intellectual ladies will have none of such matters in connection with the mental 'teas' (which they enjoy along with tea for the body); the honoured hide of a favourite poet--if he would retain his footing at 'teas,' and in pocket-books--must, at highest, be blackened by a tap or so on the nose, or the least little box on an ear. But what of tea? What of cultivated ladies? Behold in me, oh, Ottmar, your champion in complete armour, and cudgel soundly in all the novels you may be thinking of writing. I praise you for the cudgelling's sake."

"And I," said Theodore, "for the delightful trio which Capuzzi, the Pyramid-doctor, and the somewhat shudder-creating little abortion, Pitichinaccio, form; and, moreover, for the wonderful way in which Salvator Rosa--who never appears as the hero of the tale, but always as an auxiliary--conforms to his character as it is described, and also as it appears in his own works."

"Ottmar," said Sylvester, "has held chiefly to the adventurous and enterprising side of his character, and given us less of what was grave and gloomy in him. A propos of this, I think of the famous sonnet in which, allegorising on his own name--Salvator--he utters his deep indignation at his enemies and persecutors who accused him of plundering from older writers in his poetry, which, indeed, is all ruggedness, and deficient in interior connectedness."

"But," said Lothair, "to return to Ottmar's Novella. The principal fault which I have to find with it is that, instead of a story rounding itself into a whole in all its parts, he has merely given us a series of pictures, although they are often delightful enough."

"Can I do otherwise than fully agree with you?" said Ottmar. "Still, you will all admit that it requires very skilful navigation to keep clear of the rocks upon which I have run."

"Perhaps," said Sylvester, "the rocks in question are more dangerous to dramatic writers. Nothing--at least in my opinion--is more annoying than, instead of a Comedy, in which all that happens is necessarily and closely attached to the thread which runs through the piece, and should appear to be indispensably necessary to the picture represented, to see merely a series of arbitrary incidents, or even unconnected, detached situations; and indeed, the ablest dramatic author of recent times has set the example of this thoughtless (or 'frivolous') treatment of Comedy. Does the 'Pagen-streiche,' for example, consist of anything but a series of ludicrous situations strung together apparently by chance, and at random? In former days, when, on the whole (at all events as regards the drama), one cannot complain of the want of due seriousness, every writer of a Comedy took much pains to construct a regular plot, and out of that plot all the comic element, the drollery, nay, the very absurdity, duly evolved itself, of itself; because it seemed the natural thing for it to do. Jünger (although he but too often seems very 'flat') always did this, and even Brenner--utterly prosaic as he was on the whole--was by no means deficient in the power of making the comic element flow out from his plots, and his characters have often real force and vividness of life, derived from actuality; as, for instance, in his 'Eheprokurator.' Only those ladies of his, with their grand phrases, are completely unenjoyablo by us nowadays. Notwithstanding this, I have a very high opinion of him, for the reasons I have given."

"In my mind," said Theodore, "his Operas put him out of court altogether. They may serve as examples how an opera ought not to be written."

"For the simple reason," said Vincenz, "that the departed (peace to his ashes, as Sylvester very properly said) did not show many signs of having much poetry in his constitution; so that in the romantic realm of opera he could not find the slightest indication of a track to go upon. However, as you are talking in this strain on the subject of Comedy, I might do worse than point out that you are wasting your time in discussing a nonentity--a thing which does not exist; and cry out to you, as Romeo did to Mercutio--

What I mean is that, taking them altogether, we never see a single German Comedy presented on the stage, for the simple reason that the old ones cannot be swallowed or digested (by reason of the weakness of our stomachs), and new ones are no longer written. The reason of the latter I might establish, very briefly, in a treatise of some forty sheets or so; but, for the moment, I let you off with a play-upon-words. What I say is, that we have no comic plays, because we have none of the comic which plays with itself; nor the sense for it."

"Dixi," cried Sylvester, laughing. "Dixi, and the name 'Vincenz' thereunder, with due stamp and seal. I happened, at the moment, to be thinking that in the lowest class of dramatic performances, or rather of productions destined to be represented on the stage, perhaps those should be included in which some clever farceur mystifies and befools some good uncle--a theatre director, or some such person. And yet it is not so very long ago that shallow, stupid stuff of this description constituted almost the daily bread of every stage. Just at present there seems to be more or less an intermission in this."

"It will never come to an end," said Theodore, "as long as there are actors to whom nothing in the world can be more delightful than to let themselves be wondered at and admired as chameleontic marvels, in that they change their costume and appearance in the most varied manner in the course of the same evening. Right out of the very depths of my being have I been compelled to roar with laughter over the self-apotheosis of self-sufficiency with which, after passing through a marvellous series of soul-transmigrations, the true ego of the performer takes its enfranchised flight, like a beautiful insect. Generally speaking, this is done in the shape of a pretty, elegant night-moth, dressed in black, with silk stockings, and a three-cornered hat under one arm, having, from the moment of its appearance as such, only to deal with the admiring public, not troubling itself about that which previously had been doing it soccage-service. As (vide Wilhelm Meister's 'Lehr-jahren') a special line of parts may so bind and enslave to it some given actor, who, for instance, plays all the characters who have to be cudgelled, or otherwise maltreated, every stage must possess a sujet who undertakes all the parts of the character of souffre douleur, and consequently plays those indispensable theatre managers, &c.; at all events, every starring actor has a part of the kind in his pocket, by way of entrance-pass, or letter of credit."

"What you say," answered Lothair, "reminds me of a most extraordinary fellow whom I met with in a theatrical troupe in a small town in the south of Germany, who was the exact image of that 'pedant' (to speak technically) in Wilhelm Meister. Insupportable as he now was on the stage in his little minor parts, praying them out in the most direful monotony, it was said that formerly, in his younger days, he had been a capital actor, and used to play, for instance, those sly, scampish inn-keepers which, in older times, used to occur in almost every comedy, and over whose total disappearance from the stage the host in Tieck's 'Verkehrter Welt' complains. When I knew this man he seemed to have completely accepted his fate, which truely had been a pretty hard one, and, in complete apathy, to place no value on anything in the world, least of all on himself. Nothing penetrated the crust which the heaping up of the most complete wretchedness had formed over the surface of his better self, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself under it; and yet there often beamed out of his deep-set, clever eyes the gleam of a higher intelligence, and there would rapidly jerk over his face the expression of a bitter irony, so that the exaggerated submissiveness with which he bore himself towards every one--and more particularly towards his manager (a silly young man, full of vanity)--took, in him, the form of an ironical contempt. On Sundays he used to take his seat at the lower end of the table d'hôte of the best hotel in the place, dressed in a good well-brushed suit of clothes, whose cut and extraordinary pattern indicated the actor of a long by-gone period; and there he enjoyed a hearty meal, never saying a word to a soul, although he was exceptionally temperate, particularly as regarded the wine, for he scarcely half-emptied the bottle which was placed before him. At each filling of his glass he made a courteous bow to the landlord, who gave him his Sunday dinner in return for his teaching his children reading and writing. It happened that I was dining one Sunday at this table d'hôte, and found only one vacant seat, which was at this old fellow's side. I hastened to occupy this place, hoping that I might have the good fortune to bring to the surface that better spirit which must be shut up within the man. It was difficult, almost impossible, to get hold of that spirit. Just when one thought one had him, he suddenly dived down, and slunk away in utter humility of submissiveness. At length, after I had with difficulty induced him to swallow a glass or two of good wine, he seemed to begin to thaw a little, and spake with visible emotion of the fine old theatrical times, now past and gone, apparently never to return. The tables were being cleared; one or two of my friends joined themselves to me; the player wanted to take his leave. I held him fast, though he made the most touching protests. A poor superannuated actor, he said, was no fit company for gentlemen such as we; it would be better that he should not stay, it was not his place, and so forth. It was not so much to my powers of persuasion as to the irresistible attractions of a cup of coffee, and a pipe of the best Knaster, which I had in my pocket, that I could attribute his remaining. He spoke with vividness and esprit of the old theatrical days. He had seen Eckhoff, and acted with Schroeder. It came out that the untuned state in which he was now so marred proceeded from the circumstance that those by-gone days had been, for him, the world wherein he had breathed freely, and moved unconstrainedly, and that, now that he was thrown forth out of that period, he had no firm standing-point that he could get hold of. But how marvellously did this man astonish us when, having become thoroughly at his ease, and free from constraint with us, he spoke the speech of the Ghost in Hamlet, as given in Schroeder's version (Schlegel's translation he knew nothing about), with a power of expression which touched our hearts; and we were all moved to admiration at the manner in which he delivered several passages from the part of Oldenhelm (for he would have nothing to say to the name 'Polonius'), rendering them in such a way that we distinctly saw before our eyes the courtier, in his second childhood now, but who had clearly not lacked worldly wisdom in former times, and still showed distinct traces of it. This he brought before us in a manner very seldom seen on the boards. All this, however, was but the prelude to a scene which I never saw the parallel of, and which I can never forget. It is here that I really, for the first time, come to what, during this conversation of ours, brought to my remembrance the old actor in question, and my worthy Serapion Brethren must pardon me if I have made my introduction to this somewhat too long. This man was compelled to undertake those wretched subordinate parts which we were talking of, and thus it chanced that, some days after the occasion I have been speaking of, he had to play the part of the 'Manager' in the piece 'The Rehearsal,' which the Impresario had altered to suit himself, thinking he particularly excelled in it. Whether it was that the conversation with us has stirred up his inner, better self, or that, perhaps (as it was rumoured afterwards), on that day he had reinforced his natural power with wine--contrary as that was to his usual custom--he had no sooner come upon the stage than he appeared to be a totally different man from what he had been at other times. His eyes sparkled, and the hollow wavering voice of the worn-out hypochondriac was transformed into a clear, resonant bass, such as is employed by jovial characters of the old style; for instance, the rich uncles who, in the exercise of poetical justice, punish folly and reward virtue. The beginning of the piece gave no indication of what was to come; but how amazed was the audience when, after the first changes of dress had been made, the strange creature turned upon the manager with sarcastic smiles, and addressed him somewhat as follows: 'Would not the respected audience have recognised our good So-and-so' (he mentioned the manager's name here), 'just as readily as I did myself at the first glance? Is it possible to base the power of deception on a coat cut in a particular fashion, or on a more or less frizzled wig? and in this way to stuff out a meagre talent, unsupported by any vigour of intelligence, like a child deserted by its nurse? The young man who is trying to pass himself off upon me, in this unskilled manner, as a many-sided artist, a chameleontic genius, need not gesticulate so immoderately with his hands, nor fold himself up like a pocketknife after each of his speeches, nor roll his r's so fearfully; and if he had not done so, I believe that a highly-prized audience (any more than I myself) would not have recognised our little manager in one instant, as has been the case now, to such an extent that it is pitiable. But, inasmuch as the piece has got to go on for another half-hour, I shall conduct myself, this once more, as if I didn't see it; although the affair is terribly tedious and uncongenial to me.' Be it enough to say that upon each fresh entrance of the manager, the old fellow ridiculed his acting in the most delicious manner; and it may be fancied that this was accompanied by the most ringing laughter of the audience; whilst the best part of it all was that the manager, completely absorbed in his numerous changes of costume, was absolutely unconscious of what was going forward till the very last scene. Perhaps the old fellow may have made a wicked compact with the theatre tailor; but it is a fact that the wretched manager's wardrobe had got into the most complete confusion, so that the intermediate scenes which the old man had to fill out lasted much longer than usual, giving him time enough to let the fulness of his bitter mockery of the poor manager stream forth in all its glory, and even to imitate his manner of speaking, saying many things with a wicked verity which sent the audience out of itself. The whole piece was turned topsy-turvy, so that the stop-gap intermediate scenes became the principal and important part of the business. It was delightful, too, how the old fellow sometimes told the audience beforehand how the manager was going to appear, mimicking his gestures and attitudes; and that he attributed the ringing laughter, which really belonged to the old fellow's admirable imitation of him, to his own success in making up. At last, however, the manager could not possibly help finding out what the old fellow was doing, and you may suppose he flew at him like a raging wild boar, so that it was all that he could do to escape mishandling. He did not dare to appear on the stage again; but the audience and the public had got so fond of the old actor, and took his side with so much zeal, that the manager (burdened, moreover, since that celebrated evening, with the curse of ludicrosity), found himself compelled to close his theatre, and betake himself elsewhere. Several respectable townsmen, with the innkeeper at their head, met, and collected a considerable sum of money for the old actor, enough to enable him to have done for ever with the worries of the stage, and end his days in comfort in the place. But marvellous, nay, unfathomable, is the mind of an actor! Before a year was over he suddenly disappeared, nobody knew whither, and presently he was discovered travelling with a strolling company, quite in the same subordinate position from which he had so recently shaken himself clear."