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slighted it. His wines are good, with the exception of the last lot, purchased at a bargain ’ from the Messrs. Leeds. He has a few boxes left of some mild old Havannas, the gift of a tenant, who begged a month's deferment of quarter-day, and ran off in the interval. Mr. Solomon Fudge has a small opinion of the cigars : 1 insist that they are good.
Mrs. Fudge, the wife of my uncle Solomon, and naturally my aunt — by marriage- I entertain a cheerful regard for. I am of opinion that she entertains much the same feeling for me.
Neither her person nor character can be digested hastily. She will fill a chapter.
I shall therefore devote my next chapter to an exhibition and discussion of my uncle's wife, Mrs. Solomon FUDGE.
Of Lomond's wave and Katrine's tide,
Of Lomond's peak and Benvenue,
The pass where gallant Graham* died,
The haunts of RODERICK, bold and true,
Of all of these, the poet's line,
Where Doon's fair river glideth slow;
Who sings within that cottage low,
Whom all as Scotia's minstrel know?
Near Dryburgh's cloistered ruin sweeps ?
For there the mighty Wizard' sleeps!
Half silvered o'er by 'pale moonlight,'
As once to DELORAINE's rapt sight;
• GRAHAM of Claverhouse, who fell, in the moment of victory, at the battle of the Pass of Killicrankie.
I sing less classic ground, perchance,
The waves 1 hail no bard hath known; But none more bright in sunlight dance,
And that land's birth-right is mine own!
When billows huge round Ailsa rise,
And startled sea-birds o'er it sweep, The fisher's fragile boatie flies
To thee, safe heaven, from the deep! Dear to my heart, fair to mine eyes,
May Heaven its smiles upon thee keep, Loch Ryan, with thy headlands twain, Like giants watching o'er the main. No foliage waves along thy shore, We mark thy silvery sheen the more; So sweet at rest, in storm so grandAccept this tribute at my hand! When last I saw thy cherished wave,
The seaward breezes freshly blew;
As swift away our vessel flew,
My lingering feet had lately trod,
Beneath whose daisy-sprinkled sod My kindred mingle with the clay;
Ancestral names the marbles bear, A line entire hath passed away!
No fulsome words their deeds declare,
• Unmoor from land!'
As outward-bound on deck I stood,
Its love, devotion, gratitude ! Far, far away!—my simple song,
Loch Ryan - erst of many isles,'* Long lost — the memories may prolong,
That soothe me with their pleasant wiles : While Hope re-trims her gleeful sail, And waiteth watchful for the gale, Whose favoring breath will bid her steer
Her prow toward thy waters clear! Boston, Mass., October, 1851.
WILLIAM WALLACE MORLAND.
* Ryan, it is said, signifies islands, or many islets : none now exist in the loch.
Sketch-Book of Me, Meister Karl.
"FERRARA! in thy wide and grass-grown streets,
Whose symmetry was not for solitude,
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood
CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO rv., XXXV.
I say it, not because Byron said it before me, but out of my own bitter experience, that the city of Ferrara is the most intensely dull place ever inhabited.
Dullness in other localities is merely apathetic, negatively bad ; but in Ferrara the blue devils assail you with a spite, a virulence, a malignity which might perhaps be appreciated by those who have suffered solitary durance-vile on a rainy Sabbath, but which certainly has not its parallel in the ordinary course of human events.
I pity the man who, in any other city, cannot drum up agreeable companions, pretty faces, or something to pass time on. But Ferrara !
My excellent friend, as I now write alone, and as the recollection of the sickening solitude of that town comes over me, I feel half disposed to rush out and join the first human being I meet. Ah, thank Heaven, there is somebody walking by!
It strikes me, that according to my own and others' experience, it would be absolutely profane, improper, incorrect, a sin, in fact, against the genius of the place, (if there be one,) to even attempt to be merry
in such a God-and-man-forsaken hole.
What do you think, reader, of such jolly, comfortable, soul-inspiring sentiments as the following, taken from a journal dated April the first, on which day my friend C. the author of said diary, had most appropriately entered Ferrara?
* FERRARA is a silent, mournful city. An inhabited solitude sounds strangely,* but such it is. Sad and desolate, the stranger feels as if he had, by some mistake, been thrown out of time. How I long for the busy, bustling world! How gladly would I welcome gny face that I have ever seen before! But no, here I am alone. A-a-a-ah-h me! how forlorn and dull!
As I sit in my room this evening, at dusk, I feel as wretchedly alone as human being can. I am in the first hotel of the town, and the only soul in it, except the landlord and servants. Oh, dreariness !
6 Au me! I am aweary, aweary,
I would I were abed!',
Reader, I will give you one or two of my own observations in Ferrara. I was tramping along one morning through the town, with a villanous old valet-de-place for a guide, when my attention was arrested by seeing an important-looking personage in uniform, blowing a trumpet. On concluding his music, he cried, in a loud voice, a sentence, the only word of which I could catch was, “IL GONFALONIERE.'
• Not at all, friend C
• Enter the King solus, with two fiddlers,' is an old precedent.
NOTE BY THE MEISTER.
I asked the valet-de-place what the trumpeter had said ; but the old rascal, despite his dishonesty, was intensely proud of his native city, and evaded the question. Being closely pressed, he at length gave it: 'I summon you all, in the name of the Gonfaloniere, to come forth and weed the streets !' It is well known that many of the streets of Ferrara are overgrown
grass. This has become such a reproach (or inconvenience) to the inhabitants, that means have been taken to remove it. Accordingly, as we went along, I saw numbers of old women and children come forth with baskets and knives for that purpose.
Those curious in such items may refer to John Murray for a description of Ariosto's house and ink-stand, or his manuscripts, with those of Tasso, in the library. But one souvenir of the past touched my soul on the raw.
The custode, who showed me the ancient Palace d'Este, finally found his way to a room, which he called Parisina's.
*Very good; nothing more likely!' thought I, with an expression of intense gratification, looking round, meanwhile, at the walls with that vividly curious air with which we generally regard the masonry of any place where a remarkably interesting event has occurred. But I was right in this instance; for, on second thoughts, I took a squint at the ceiling!
· And here,' continued the guide, pointing to a very common, tawdrylooking, gilt.Chinese secretary, full of looking-glasses, here is Parisina's secretary; and,' sinking his voice to an awful whisper, while glancing darkly and mysteriously around, and here, in these very secret drawers, her correspondence with Ugo was concealed !'
Shade of Byron!
_'s diary : 'April 3: Retired early; rose ditto; got my coffee; paid a scandalously exorbitant bill; and found my way to the diligence.
• Company consisted of a lively Italian lady, rather passée, whose entire information on the subject of America was contained in a knowledge of the fact that Fanny Èllsler (or Lesler, as they call her here in Italy) had been there. She had with her a remarkably stupid husband. Before long we reached the Po, and, while crossing it in a ferry-boat, our passports were examined. In walking about, I soon became aware that I was an object of great curiosity. All my movements were scanned with that “I-wonder-what-he 'll-do-next' sort of air, which was to me quite incomprehensible. To dissipate any nervous perplexities which might arise, I took out my pipe. Immediately the eyes of all present were fixed upon it, as though the calumet of the great Nantucket fog-giant himself had appeared. I wanted a light: immediately half a dozen matches were tendered me, by as many men. My choice made, I could at once observe that the fortunate individual thus honored at once became himself a lion, of lesser magnitude, and had a knot collected round him, to whom he seemed to be confidentially narrating something, ever and anon mysteriously exhibiting his match-case, which was turned over and examined by all with intense interest.
• When I walked along the boat, every one respectfully made way for me, and kept silence until I had passed. But what it all meant I could not guess. When I approached the horse, (for it was a wheel-boat, worked by a one-horse power,) the engineer (i mean the man who fed and whipped the animal) looked as if he would have given all he knew to have me speak a word to him. Only one man on board seemed to put on a nil-admirari air, and affect to care nothing for the stranger. For this man I at once, naturally, conceived a deep antipathy, which immediately subsided into intense contempt. I had no doubt, that if he would only uncover his head, instead of a bump of veneration, I should behold a cavity in which a hen might hide herself. Soon a keen-eyed, gentlemanly, man-of-the-world-looking officer in mufti came up, and, addressing me in French, said: Excuse me;
but you may not be aware that you are quite a lion at present ?'
* Indeed!' quoth I, innocently, and attempting to come the air rally assigned on the stage to emperors in disguise; “indeed! and why?'
**Because they have found out, by the passport, that you are an American ; and one may well believe, that they all see an American now for the first time.'
My new friend did not belie his appearance. In five minutes we had slidden into an intimacy, the good effects of which were manifested immediately after at the office of the 'Dogana,' on the other side, where, amid all the searching of trunks and boxes, he imperatively laid his hand on my baggage, and signified to the officials that they need not trouble me.
“But,' said I,“my pockets are loaded with tobacco; what if they should take a look at them?'
' 'Parbleu !' quoth he, laughing, ‘so are mine!'
• With these words, he took out a bag full of the article, and shook it laughingly at the douanier, who grinned wistfully at the prohibited commodity.
We breakfasted at Rovigo, and arrived in Padua that afternoon. My officer went directly on to Venice in the rail-road cars, while I, who, owing to the joint lies of the head-waiter and landlord, had unwittingly taken a diligence ticket through, had to wait an hour for the vehicle which was to convey me, which hour I spent in the Café Pedrocchi.
"THE CAFÉ PEDROCCHI,' says the Guide Book, ‘is really a species of national monument, from its splendor. The exterior is of marble; the style, Italian-Gothic, and remarkably good. It is curious to see the pattern of an ancient palazzo revived for such a purpose. While the building was in progress, Pedrocchi was present every evening, and paid all the workmen ready money, and always in old Venetian gold. He had been left in poor circumstances, and lived in a ruinous little
the site of his present Fairy Palace, which, falling into decay, he was compelled to pull down. Suddenly he abounded in riches — as many stories are now afloat concerning hidden treasures, and yet more awful things, as would furnish materials for a legend — and thus was the present magnificent structure raised. During the building, portions of an ancient Roman