large glass vessel. Presently
a small hand, properly incited, dives down for a second into the
interior of the vase, and brings up, between two of its fair, round,
turquoise-encircled fingers, the scrap of paper. Its pretty owner
blushes, and timidly announces, "Bellini's Tomb;" _Bellini's Tomb_ is
buzzed about the room. At this juncture the Duke, who has been
_expected_, sends a messenger to announce that we are not to wait for
him--a sly fellow the Duke! The bard now concentrates himself for
inspiration, but begs us to talk on, and not mind him. While he waits
for the _afflatus divinus_, and consults the muses--and in fact his
eyes soon begin to betray _possession_--he passes his hand over his
parturient forehead, while the _os magno sonaturum_ is getting ready;
the labour-pains are evidently on him; he hurls back his hair, and
fixes his eyes upon the moon, (who has been looking at _him_ for
several minutes through the window opposite.) Full of her influence,
and not knowing there is such a place as Bedlam in the world, he
starts upon his legs, makes two or three rapid strides up and down the
room, like a lion taking exercise, or a lord of council and session in
Scotland preparing to pronounce sentence, and means to be delivered
(mercy on us!) exactly opposite our chair! All are attentive to the
godlike man; you might hear a pin drop: the subject is announced once
and again in a very audible voice; the touch-paper is ignited, the
magazine will blow up presently! Incontinently we are rapt off to
_Pere la Chaise_, where the great composer lies buried, and a form of
communication is made to us on this suitable spot, that Bellini is
_dead_; then comes, in episode, a catalogue of all the operas he ever
wrote, with allusions to each, and not a little vapouring and pathos,
while a host of heroes and heroines we never before heard of, is let
loose upon us; presently, a marked pause, and some by-play, makes it
evident that he sees something, and cannot see what the thing is; he
shortly, however, imparts to us in confidence, though in a very low
tone, for fear of disturbing it--he sees, he assures us, a female form
stealing to the young man's tomb--the form of a widowed lady--who is
she? _e la sua madre!_ This was startling, no doubt; though we, or
many of us, were like the cat in Florian, to whom the monkey was
showing a magic lantern _without a light_, and describing what she
ought to have seen. Believing her, however, to be t