e die for Camillus, and let's
take horse. Only, we lose the love-business--exactly where I
show my strength. Clelia in the camp of the king: dactyllic
chorus-accompaniment, while she, in heavy voluptuous anapaests,
confesses her love for the enemy of her country. Remember, this is our
romantic opera, where we do what we like with History, and make up our
minds for asses telling us to go home and read our 'student's Rome.'
Then that scene where she and the king dance the dactyls, and the
anapaests go to the chorus. Sublime! Let's go into the woods and begin.
We might give the first song or two to-night. In composition, mind,
always strike out your great scene, and work from it--don't work up to
it, or you've lost fire when you reach the point. That's my method."

They ran into the woods, skipping like schoolboy and schoolgirl. On
hearing that Camillus would not be permitted to love other than his
ungrateful country, Emilia's conception of the Roman lord grew pale,
and a controversy ensued-she maintaining that a great hero must love a
woman; he declaring that a great hero might love a dozen, but that it
was beneath the dignity of this drama to allow of a rival to Rome in
Camillus's love.

"He will not do for music," said Emilia firmly, and was immoveable. In
despair, Tracy proposed attaching a lanky barbarian daughter to Brennus,
whose deeds of arms should provoke the admiration of the Roman.

"And so we relinquish Alfieri for Florian! There's a sentimental
burlesque at once!" the youth ejaculated, in gloom. "I chose this
subject entirely to give you Rome for a theme."

Emilia took his hand. "I do thank you. If Brennus has a daughter, why
not let her be half Roman?"

Tracy fired out: "she's a bony woman, with a brawny development; mammoth
haunches, strong of the skeleton; cheek-bones, flat-forward, as a fish
's rotting on a beach; long scissor lips-nippers to any wretched rose of
a kiss! a pugilist's nose to the nostrils of a phoca; and eyes!--don't
you see them?--luminaries of pestilence; blotted yellow, like a tallow
candle shining through a horny lantern."

At this horrible forced-poetic portrait, Emilia cried in pain: "You hate
her suddenly!"

"I loathe the creature--pah!" went Tracy.

"Why do you make her so hideous?" Emilia complained. "I feel myself
hating her too. Look at me. Am I such a thing as that?"

"You!" Tracy was melted in a trice, and gave the motion of hugging, as a
commentary on his private o