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