In which a quicksilver fountain plays,
Reflecting all hues in the mid-day rays.
There is not a wish that her heart can crave,
That the Caliph yields not to his beautiful slave.
But beauty like cherub infancy,

If pamper'd with too much care,
May yield to caprice, or may sullen be-
Good fortune is hard to bear;

For beauty, like every mortal thing,
May be spoil'd by too much cherishing!
Ah, wherefore must all that is loveliest below
With a mixture of evil be tainted so!

Yet the morn that breaks with the purest air,
When the blue heaven smiles on the landscape fair,
And the scenery tells not of grief or pain,
And we think that the world is sinless again,
Will oftimes change into clouds and shade,
Like beauty too much of an idol made.
Oh if there is aught that should stable be
'Mid the endless round of earth's vanity,
'Tis the love, pure love that may two hearts bless
With a glimpse of the phantom happiness!
Nor less the Caliph loved the maid,

Though her waywardness he might see;

It only proffer'd another aid

To heighten his love's intensity;

For the sweetest things will the soonest cloy,
And a draught of pain may quicken joy.
So once when Zehra, with froward will,

Had convinced her lord she was woman still;

Had wept, and in anger withdrawn from his gaze,
And Mesnar the eunuch had struck with amaze,

As she vowed to the Caliph the harem door

Should be open'd to welcome his footsteps no more— For she'd build it up with a massy wall,

That he never might enter there;

That his cruelty kill'd her, that soon she should fall
His victim," she did not care,

For Caliphs were brutes to all womankind!"—
Then away she flew with her tears half blind,
While Mesnar expected the fearful command,
To follow her steps with the bow-string in hand.
The Caliph but smiled, and commanded her door
To be fill'd close with sequins from ceiling to floor,
And that none should presume the rich barrier to move,
Save Zehra when such her own pleasure should prove.
Need the sequel be told? on the eve of the day
When the rich wall was built, it had vanish'd away;
The Caliph had pass'd to the harem again,
And once more was the best and happiest of men ;
And beauty still victress had conquer'd the pride
That trampled in dust all things human beside!

* Abdalzamin the Second of Cordova.

LETTERS FROM ROME.

Roman Puppet-shows.

My dear V. You insist upon my telling you something of the "Eternal City," of which I have now been an inhabitant for some months; but what part of its motley garment, half modern, half antique, to choose for descanting upon, I know not, which has not already been worn threadbare by the countless tourists of all countries, sexes, and calibres, that have rolled hither in unceasing succession for the last ten years. Brooding over this important choice of an unsunned subject, as I strolled down the Corso (the Bond-street of Rome) my attention was caught by the vociferations of a man at the entrance to a kind of cellar under the Fiano palace, who was crying out Entrate O Signori, &c. "Walk in, gentlemen, it is going to begin." I entered, and found what I was in search of-an untouched subject to write to you about. On paying twenty-eight centimes (five sous and a half) I found myself at a Roman puppet-show; the smallness of the price of admission made me dread to meet with rather indifferent company, but I was agreeably surprised to perceive that twenty-eight centimes in this un-money-getting country were sufficiently important to keep out the canaille, and I accordingly took my place amongst a decent and respectable assemblage of Roman citizens. The inhabitants of Rome are perhaps the people in Europe who possess the keenest zest for fine and biting satire. Gifted with great clearness of perception, they seize with rapidity the most fine-drawn and remote allusions. Habituated for such a length of time to regard the evils that weigh upon them as inevitable as they are interminable, they are no longer actuated by feelings of hatred or vengeance towards the Pope or his ministers; they desire not their "taking off," well aware that their places would be filled by successors equally onerous. They therefore confine their malice to laughing heartily at the expense of the magnates of the land, whenever the opportunity is afforded them, by the piquant dialogues between Pasquin and Marforio, or the not less sly and satirical performances of their favourite fantoccini. It is unnecessary to say that it would be hopeless to seek for an indulgence in this way at the regular theatres, all the pieces of which have undergone the clipping criticisms of the censor's scissors. It is only then at the puppet-theatre, where the pieces are improvised, that there is any chance of an indulgence in this their favourite pastime. This grave prefatory explanation was necessary to prevent your laughing at me, when I tell you that I passed a most delicious evening at a representation of the wooden and pigmy comedians of the palace Fiano. These actors are not more than a foot high, and the stage upon which they fret their little hour, is about twelve feet in breadth and four or five in height. What adds wonder. fully to the illusion of the scene is, that the same just proportion is observed in the scenery and decorations, which, be it said en passant, are excellent. The doors, windows, archways, &c. are calculated with mathematical nicety to suit the fairy proportions of these 12-inch performers. The favourite personage with the Roman people at present, and whose adventures they never tire in witnessing, is Cassandrino. Cassandrino is a foppish old gentleman of fifty-five or sixty years of age, spruce in his person, brisk in his movements, his grey hairs

carefully arranged, possessing the manners of the best society, perfectly acquainted with men and things, and knowing how to turn to advantage the ruling passion of the day in a word, Cassandrino might be pronounced an almost perfect man, a kind of sexagenary Grandison, if he had not the slight blemish of tumbling over head and ears in love with every pretty face that chance throws in his way. In a country, the government of which is entirely composed of bachelors, it was a happy though a hazardous thought to create such a character as Cassandrino. He is of course represented as one of the laity, but the imagination of the spectators soon gifts him with holy orders, and puts on him the violet-coloured stockings of the Monsignori. The Monsignori are the aspirants after clerical honours at the papal court; it is from this class that most of the ecclesiastical dignities are filled up. Cardinal Gonzalvi, for instance, was a Monsignore for thirty years of his life. Rome is full of Monsignori of the same age as Cassandrino, who have still to make their fortune, but who endeavour to console themselves for the delay by paying assiduous court to the pretty women of Rome. The piece represented by the puppets of the palace Fiano, the evening I had the good fortune to stray in there, was entitled Cassandrino Allievo di un Pittore (Cassandrino the painter's pupil). A celebrated painter in Rome has a very beautiful sister, whose charms have made a profound impression upon Cassandrino, a youthful old gentleman of sixty, extremely particular in his dress and person. This amorous sexagenary calls to see his fair one, and gives himself, on entering on the stage, all the airs and graces of an embryo cardinal. These are as indicative of the character meant to be ridiculed, to the eye of a Roman, as is the careless lounge of a man of fashion in Bond-street, to the glance of an experienced Londoner. The appearance of Cassandrino upon the stage and three or four turns that he takes, while waiting for his belle, whom the cameriera di casa is gone to seek, after having had a pauletto slipped into her hand, excite the hilarity of the audience, so admirably do his movements imitate the affected gait of a young Monsignore. I could almost venture to affirm that at this moment no one in the theatre recollected that it was a piece of carved wood that was treading the boards before them. The painter's sister comes in, and Cassandrino, who has not as yet, on account of his age, ventured to make a positive declaration of his sentiments, begs her to allow him to sing a cavatina which he had just heard at a concert. This cavatina, one of Paesiello's most delightful airs, was sung in the most enchanting manner. It was applauded most enthusiastically, but the illusion was for a moment destroyed by the spectators crying out Brava, la Ciabatina. This was the name of the singer behind the scenes. She is the daughter of a cobler and has a most superb voice: she is paid a crown an evening for singing this air. In the words of the cavatina the tender Cassandrino conveys a declaration of his passion; the young lady replies to him by some compliments upon the elegance of his dress, with which the old gentleman is enchanted, and immediately commences an enumeration' of the excellencies of the various articles of his costume. The cloth of his coat he had from France, that of his pantaloons from England. He then talks of his superb gold repeater made at Geneva, which he draws out and causes to strike; in a word, Cassandrino exhibits all the petty ostentation and vanity of a foppish old bachelor. Acquiring con

fidence from the enumeration of the manifold perfections of his dress and trinkets, he insensibly moves his chair closer to that of the young lady, and a declaration in form is likely to be the result, when the tender tête-à-tête is unpropitiously interrupted by the entrance of the painter, who appears with an enormous pair of whiskers and long flow. ing locks; this being the favourite fashion at Rome with artists of genius, real or pretended, in imitation of Lord Byron, whose person and character are popular in Italy, particularly after he so nobly devoted his life and fortune in the glorious cause of the Greeks. The young painter returns to Cassandrino a miniature, which he had been retouching for him, and at the same time requests him not to honour his sister with any more visits. Cassandrino, instead of taking fire at this intimation, overwhelms the young painter with the most flattering encomiums upon his talent and skill.

On finding himself alone with his sister, the painter asks her "How could you be so imprudent as to grant a tête-à-tête to a man who cannot marry you?" This trait, which clearly indicates the clerical character of the suitor, was caught and applauded by the audience. We next had a monologue from Cassandrino in the street: he is inconsolable for having been precluded the sight of his fair one, with whom he is more enamoured than ever. The reasons which he makes use of to himself to disguise his sixty years are the more comical, inasmuch as Cassandrino is by no means a fool, but on the contrary a man of considerable experience and even cleverness, who only gives way to these ridiculous frailties, because he is in love. He at length resolves to disguise himself in the dress of a young man and become the pupil of the painter. Here the first act terminates. In the second act we have Cassandrino again at the painter's house. His face is almost entirely concealed by a pair of huge black whiskers and flowing wig, but from behind his ears peep forth the little grey and powdered locks of the sexagenary. His love-scene with the painter's sister is excellent. Like a true old bachelor, he endeavours to awaken her tenderness by talking of his riches, which he offers to share with her, and concludes by saying we shall be so happy together and no one shall know of our happiness. This other touch, which evidently points out the priest, is seized and applauded. Cassandrino at length ventures to fall at the fect of his mistress, and is surprised in this situation by her old aunt, who had known him forty years before in Ferrara. She brings to his recollection that he then made desperate love to her. Cassandrino quits the room in confusion, and flies to the painter's studio for refuge; but soon returns, followed by a crowd of young artists playing off a thousand pleasantries on the amorous old gentleman. The painter enters, and, after sending away his pupils, has a long dialogue with Cassandrino, who shews the most mortal alarm lest the affair should be made public. This other clerical indication is not lost upon the fine sagacity of a Roman audience. The painter, after amusing himself with the embarrassment of Cassandrino, at length says, "You are come here to take lessons in painting; well, I shall give you some, and I shall commence by one in colouring: my pupils shall strip off your clothes and paint your body of a fine scarlet (allusion to the colour of the cardinals), and, thus having attained the object of your wishes (the cardinalship), I shall walk you up and down the Corso!" Cassandrino, frightened out

be

of his wits at the idea of such a promenade, consents to marry the old aunt, whom he had made love to forty years before at Ferrara. He then approaches the foot-lights, and says aside to the audience, "I renounce the scarlet (becoming Cardinal), but I shall become uncle to the object I adore, and then- -" He here pretends that he is called away, makes a low bow to the audience, and disappears. Such is an imperfect analysis of the delicious little piece, which constantly produced amongst the spectators bursts of merriment, or excited that smothered and concentrated laughter still more agreeable. On the close of the piece a child came forward to trim the lamps, when a cry of surprise arose from the whole audience, thinking that they saw a giant so strong had the illusion been, and so totally had they forgotten the fairy proportions of the personages by whom they had been so well amused during three quarters of an hour. We had afterwards a ballet called "The Enchanted Well," taken from the Arabian Nights Entertainments, which was still more astonishing, if possible, than the comedy, from the graceful and natural movements of the wooden figurantes. On inquiring from one of my neighbours relative to the mechanism of these charming dancers, I was informed that the feet are made of lead, that the strings, by means of which they and the legs are moved, pass through the interior of the body, and are inclosed, together with those that direct the motion of the head, in a little tube, the aperture of which is at the crown of the head. It is therefore only the strings which move the arms that are a little visible, but even this inconvenience may avoided by taking a seat five or six paces removed from the stage. The eyes are moveable, but only inasmuch as the head inclines to the left or right side. But I despair of conveying to you an adequate idea of the exquisite skill with which the natural movements and attitudes of the body are imitated by means which, thus described in words, appear to be so simple and even clumsy. It was not till after an interval of three days that I could again find a free evening to revisit my favourite Fantoccini of the Fiano palace. Upon this occasion, the complexion of the entertainment had changed from " gay to grave, from lively to severe" in plain prose we were presented with a tragedy entitled Temisto, and I almost fear to excite your ridicule, by avowing that on this evening I wept almost as much as I had laughed upon the former. The tragedy of Temisto, which though represented by actors only twelve inches high, awakened so much emotion, was as follows:--The scene is in Greece, during the celebration of the rites of Bacchus. The king Cresfonte was formerly married to Temisto, by whom he had one son, named Philisthene. Erista, a beautiful but wicked woman, having entertained a violent passion for the king, persuaded him that Temisto had been unfaithful to his bed. Soon after the injured queen suddenly disappeared, and was, through the contrivance of Erista, sold as a slave to some Egyptians, who carried her with them to their native country. The king then married Erista. Ten years afterwards Temisto returned from Egypt under another name, and, being profoundly conversant with the mythological mysteries of that country, was made high priestess of Bacchus, and became the confidant of the wicked queen Erista. This exposition, though it may appear long thus set down in writing, was improvised clearly and rapidly at the Fantoccini: the language of the piece, which was in prose, was natural and animated. There was, to be sure,