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on his donkey, in his short jacket (for he disdains the tailored. skirts of a fashionable coat, though at times over his broad shoulders a great blue cloak is grandly thrown, after the manner of the ancient emperors), is far more impressive, far more princely, as he slowly and majestically moves at nightfall towards his august abode. The shadows close around him as he passes along; salutations greet him from the damp shops; and darkness at last swallows up for a time the great square torso of the "King of the Beggars."

Such is Beppo as he appears on the public 'change. His private life is involved somewhat in obscurity; but glimpses have been had of him which indicate a grand spirit of hospitality, and condescension not unworthy of the best days of his ancestors, the barons of the Middle Ages. Innominato, a short time since, was passing late at night along the district of the Monti, when his attention was attracted by an unusual noise and merry-making in one of its mean little osterie or bettole. The door was ajar; and peeping in, he beheld a gallant company of roisterers of the same profession as Beppo, with porters, and gentlemen celebrated for lifting in other ways. They were gathered round a table, drinking merrily; and mounted in the centre of it, with his withered legs crooked under him, sat Baron Beppo, the high-priest of the festive rites. It was his banquet; and he had been strictly Scriptural in his invitations to all classes from the street. He was the Amphitryon who defrayed the cost of the wine, and acknowledged with a smile and a cheerful word the toasts of his guests; and when Innominato saw him, he was as "glorious" as Tam O'Shanter. He was not under the table, simply because he was on it; and he had not lost his equilibrium, solely because he rested upon so broad a base. Planted like an oak, his legs figuring the roots, there he sat, while the jolly band of beggars and rascals were "rousing the night-owl with a catch," and the blood of the vine was freely flowing in their cups. The conversation was very idiomatic and gay, if not aristocratic, and Beppo's tongue wagged with the best. It was a most cheering spectacle. The old barons used to sit above the salt, but Baron Beppo sat higher yet,- or rather, he reminded one of classic days, as, mounted there like a Bacchic Torso, he presided over the noisy rout of Silenus.

Beppo has, however, fallen lately into disgrace. His breakfast had perhaps disagreed with him, perhaps he had “roused

the night-owl" too late on the previous night, and perhaps his nerves were irritated by a bad "scirocco"; but certain it is that one unfortunate morning an English lady to whom he applied for "qualche cosa" made some jocosely intended answer, to the effect that he was as rich as she, and alluded, it is said, to the dowry he had given his daughter; whereupon it became suddenly "cattivo giorno" with Beppo, and he suffered himself to threaten her, and even, as some accounts go, to throw stones; and the lady having reported him to the authorities, Beppo went into forced retirement for a time. I was made aware of this one day by finding his bank occupied by a new figure and face. Astonished at the audacity of this interloper, I stopped and said, “And Beppo, where is he?" The jolly beggar then informed me, in a very high and rather exulting voice (I am sorry to say), beginning with a sharp and prolonged eh-e-e-e-h, that the police. had laid violent hands on Beppo, because he had maltreated an English lady, and that he ought to have known better, but « come si fa"; and that for the present he was at San Michele. Beppo having repented, and it is to be hoped amended, during his sojourn in that holy hospice, has now again made his appearance in the world. But during his absence the government has passed a new and salutary law, by which beggars are forbidden publicly to practice their profession, except upon the steps of the churches. There they may sit and extend their hand, and ask charity from those who are going to their prayers; but they may no longer annoy the public, and especially strangers in the street. Beppo, therefore, keeps no more his bank on the steps of the Piazza di Spagna; but has removed it to those of the church of St. Agostino, where, at least for the present, he is open to the "receipt of custom."

The words of the previous sentence are now, alas! no longer true. Since they were written and printed last, Beppo has passed away from among the living to join the great company, among which Lazarus is not the least. Vainly the eye of the stranger will seek him on the steps of the Piazza di Spagna, or on those

of St. Agostino. The familiar figure has gone. The places

which have known him will know him no more; and of the large and noble company of mendicants at Rome, there is not one left who could fitly wear the mantle that has fallen from his shoulders.

SPRING IN ROME

From Roba di Roma. Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

PRING has come.

SPR

The nightingales already begin to bubble into song under the Ludovisi ilexes and in the Barberini Gardens. Daisies have snowed all over the Campagna, periwinkles star the grass, crocuses and anemones impurple the spaces between the rows of springing grain along the still brown slopes. At every turn in the streets basketfuls of sweet-scented Parma violets are offered you by little girls and boys; and at the corner of the Condotti and Corso is a splendid show of camellias, set into beds of double violets, and sold for a song. Now and then one meets huge baskets filled with these delicious violets on their way to the confectioners and caffès, where they will be made into sirup; for the Italians are very fond of this bibita, and prize it not only for its flavor, but for its medicinal qualities. Violets seem to rain over the villas in spring; acres are purple with them, and the air all around is sweet with their fragrance. Every day scores of carriages are driving about the Borghese grounds, which are open to the public: and hundreds of children are running about, plucking flowers and playing on the lovely slopes and in the shadows of the noble trees; while their parents stroll at a distance and wait for them in the shady avenues. There too you will see the young priests of the various seminaries, with their robes tucked up, playing at ball, and amusing themselves at various sports. . . If one drives out at any of the gates he will see that spring is come. The hedges are putting forth their leaves, the almond-trees are in full blossom, and in the vineyards the contadini are setting cane-poles, and trimming the vines to run upon them. Here and there along the slopes the rude antique plow, dragged heavily along by great gray oxen, turns up the rich loam, that needs only to be tickled to laugh out in flowers and grain. Here and there, the smoke of distant bonfires, burning heaps of useless stubble, shows against the dreamy purple hills like the pillar of cloud that led the Israelites. One smells the sharp odor of these fires everywhere, and hears them. crackle in the fields:

"Atque levem stipulam crepitantibus urere flammis.”

(And stubble easily burned with crackling flames.)

[The following poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers.]

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I dreamed I was with my Antony,
And in his arms I lay;

Ah, me! the vision has vanished

The music has died away.

The flame and the perfume have perished,
As this spiced aromatic pastille

That wound the blue smoke of its odor
Is now but an ashy hill.

Scatter upon me rose-leaves,—
They cool me after my sleep;
And with sandal odors fan me

Till into my veins they creep;
Reach down the lute, and play me

A melancholy tune,

To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.

There, drowsing in golden sunlight,
Loiters the slow smooth Nile
Through slender papyri, that cover
The wary crocodile.

The lotus lolls on the water,

And opens its heart of gold,
And over its broad leaf-pavement
Never a ripple is rolled.

The twilight breeze is too lazy

Those feathery palms to wave,

And yon little cloud is as motionless
As a stone above a grave.

Ah, me! this lifeless nature

Oppresses my heart and brain! Oh! for a storm and thunder

For lightning and wild fierce rain! Fling down that lute-I hate it!

Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred.

Hark! to my Indian beauty,

My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers,—
That flashes across the light.

Look! listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!

O cockatoo, shriek for Antony!

Cry, "Come, my love, come home!" Shriek, "Antony! Antony! Antony!" Till he hears you even in Rome.

There - leave me, and take from my chamber That stupid little gazelle,

With its bright black eyes so meaningless,

And its silly tinkling bell!

Take him,- my nerves he vexes,

The thing without blood or brain,

Or by the body of Isis,

I'll snap his thin neck in twain!

Leave me to gaze at the landscape
Mistily stretching away,

Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,

And melted, as in a crucible,

Their earthly forms expire;

And the bald blear skull of the desert
With glowing mountains is crowned,

That burning like molten jewels

Circle its temples round.

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