"Merely because I am Italian," said Cesarini. "With us there is no literary public--no vast reading class--we have dilettanti and literati, and students, and even authors; but these make only a coterie, not a public. I have written, I have published; but no one listened to me. I am an author without readers." "It is no uncommon case in England," said Maltravers. The Italian continued: "I thought to live in the mouths of men--to stir up thoughts long dumb--to awaken the strings of the old lyre! In vain. Like the nightingale, I sing only to break my heart with a false and melancholy emulation of other notes." "There are epochs in all countries," said Maltravers, gently, "when peculiar veins of literature are out of vogue, and when no genius can bring them into public notice. But you wisely said there were two tribunals--the Public and Time. You have still the last to appeal to. Your great Italian historians wrote for the unborn--their works not even published till their death. That indifference to living reputation has in it, to me, something 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."