hysterics, rang the bell violently, bowed, and
retired.

But Polly mounted guard over her lover that
evening, in a very retired corner of the castle.
And he was nursed and fattened unknown to
master or mistress; unknown to any but the
servants, Hester, and Miss Madge. And when
he was able to go forth, he went in search of
better fortune.

THE ITALIAN LAUREATE'S LAST
POEM.

AFTER Manzoni, who, however, can hardly
be said to belong to the present generation,
Giovanni Prati, author of Armando, takes the
first place among the living poets of Italy. His
being made poet-laureate over the head of a
superior bard is an accident, of which no one—
not even Manzoni—has a right to complain.
Prati came in with the house of Savoy. He
has been the king's "poet royal" for twenty
years. We have only to read his Ode on
the Marriage of Prince Humbert, to be
convinced that eagles, even when they are born
among the mountains of Tyrol, as Prati was,
can learn the cackle of the farm-yard. It is
true that eagles of this sort have to be tamed
by kings.

But Prati is something more than a poet-
laureate—he is a poet. Witness Armando, his
new work, as fresh and brilliant as
Edmenegarda, his boyish production; as vigorous
and thoughtful as his ballads and lyrics.
Witness, too, the esteem in which he is held by his
countrymen.

Armando is a sort of life-drama—a poem and
a play combined, with songs and ballads
interspersed. It is a book for ladies and gentlemen,
but it is also a book for men of letters.
The extravagance of the nightmare scene,
where the Devil, alias Mastragabito, is crucified,
is rather far fetched but it is, perhaps,
warranted by the subject. We object to Prati's
saying (as he does in the preface) that he fears
his work is too original, and that he hoped,
but hoped in vain, that "some great master,
ancient or modern," would have come to his
assistance. Modesty of this sort provokes
inquiry, and inquiry shows that he has been
indebted to Manfred for suggestion of his
spectre scenes, while Hamlet has suggested one
at least of his soliloquies.

The story of Armando is rather complicated,
but it is worth telling. Armando is an Italian
of high birth and great fortune, who has
become sceptical and cynical from too much
learning and goodness of heart—a dreamer who
is half a madman and half a poet, but who
might have remained a very sensible person if
he had not fallen in love. He is described as a
libertine in the decline of his youth—a "pale
and weary shadow," wandering about the world
in search of happiness and finding it not. He
is rather tall, with brown hair streaked with
grey, and dark piercing eyes, which now and
then reveal the "abysses of his soul." He
is slovenly in his attire, but always gentlemanly,
like one who values himself, but despises
the world's opinion, and his smile (for he
smiles sometimes) is withering and convulsive.
After about three hundred lines of blank verse
devoted to a vague summary of his early life,
and a long address to the Muse, without which
no Italian poem is complete, we find Armando
wandering about the Apennines during a
storm:

  The forest trees, tormented by the wind,
  Throw up their hundred hands and shriek aloud.
  * * * *
  The waters leap like tigers from the rocks,

and Armando gets wet. He approaches a hut,
and is about to enter, when a shepherd rushes
out and asks him to be quiet, as his children—
Nello and Rosetta—are asleep. It turns out
that they are dead. "The tempest will awake
them," says Armando. "I think not so,"
replies the shepherd. The usual comparisons are
made between Death and Sleep, and the traveller
is admitted to a view of the children. Two or
three days after this, Armando meets a gipsy
girl called Pachita, and has his fortune told.
Her song is one of the gems of the book, and
ought to be set to music. He visits the battlefields
of San Martino and Montebello, meets
a soldier with a wooden leg and the Cross of
St. Helena—a veteran of "Vaterlò"—who sings
a song and disappears, kissing his ribbon.
Armando himself never sings, but he is the
cause of song in others—and indeed his
life and adventures would be nothing without
the songs. He goes south and loses his way
in a Calabrian valley, where he meets a wolf,
but no wolf-hunter, which is a pity: a Wolf
Hunter's Song would have been acceptable.
He gazes on the setting sun. "Take the salute
of an Immortal!" he exclaims, raising his hat
to it. He visits a seaport town, where a number
of fishermen are amusing themselves at the
expense of a poor idiot, who has lost his wits in
consequence of the oppression of the Bourbons.
The fool's song is as witty as fools' songs (in
print) usually are, and the ensuing conversation
is so "wisely absurd" that we are afraid it was
intended for a bit of metaphysics. Armando gets
into a boat and hears a boatman's song, which is
fresh and bright, sailor-like, and full of
tenderness and love, with the splash of the waves
in it. His subsequent adventures are rather
numerous. He visits a churchyard and makes
the acquaintance of a grave-digger (who sings
a song); he enters a wayside inn, where a
drunken man, called Joshua, the butt of his
companions, is tampering with a clock, saying
that he is the Joshua of the Bible and is
going to make the sun stand still; he strolls
into the forest and meets a brigand, who is
talkative but songless; and on his way to some
obscure hut, his resting place for the night, he
overhears a fine song in praise of poverty sung
by a labouring man on his way home. In the
middle of the night he is awakened by the