ng of the sublime."

"I cannot imitate them--and they were not poets," said Cesarini,
sharply. "To poets, praise is a necessary aliment; neglect is death."

"My dear Signor Cesarini," said the Englishman, feelingly, "do not give
way to these thoughts. There ought to be in a healthful ambition the
stubborn stuff of persevering longevity; it must live on, and hope
for the day which comes slow or fast, to all whose labours deserve the
goal."

"But perhaps mine do not. I sometimes fear so--it is a horrid thought."

"You are very young yet," said Maltravers; "how few at your age ever
sicken for fame! That first step is, perhaps, the half way to the
prize."

I am not sure that Ernest thought exactly as he spoke; but it was the
most delicate consolation to offer to a man whose abrupt frankness
embarrassed and distressed him. The young man shook his head
despondingly. Maltravers tried to change the subject--he rose and moved
to the balcony, which overhung the lake--he talked of the weather--he
dwelt on the exquisite scenery--he pointed to the minute and more latent
beauties around, with the eye and taste of one who had looked at Nature
in her details. The poet grew more animated and cheerful; he became even
eloquent; he quoted poetry and he talked it. Maltravers was more and
more interested in him. He felt a curiosity to know if his talents
equalled his aspirations: he hinted to Cesarini his wish to see his
compositions--it was just what the young man desired. Poor Cesarini!
It was much to him to get a new listener, and he fondly imagined every
honest listener must be a warm admirer. But with the coyness of his
caste, he affected reluctance and hesitation; he dallied with his own
impatient yearnings. And Maltravers, to smooth his way, proposed an
excursion on the lake.

"One of my men shall row," said he; "you shall recite to me, and I will
be to you what the old housekeeper was to Moliere."

Maltravers had deep good-nature where he was touched, though he had not
a superfluity of what is called good-humour, which floats on the surface
and smiles on all alike. He had much of the milk of human kindness, but
little of its oil.

The poet assented, and they were soon upon the lake. It was a sultry
day, and it was noon; so the boat crept slowly along by the shadow of
the shore, and Cesarini drew from his breast-pocket some manuscripts of
small and beautiful writing. Who does not know the pains a young poet
takes to bestow a