ite and earn a little money that way; he had read all
Sir Walter Scott's novels in a translation--thirty-two volumes I think he
said; he admired them immensely and was thinking of writing a romance; he
had in fact an idea for one, and would I be so good as to give him my
opinion about it? A young lady is desired by her father to marry a man
she does not love, a rich man, much older than herself. She refuses,
but, later on, consents to make the sacrifice. After a year of unhappy
married life she meets a man of her own age, falls in love with him, and
one day her husband surprises them together, in his rage kills them both
and commits suicide.

"Now," said the professor, "what do you think of my theme?"

I said that, so far as I could remember Sir Walter Scott's novels at the
moment, they contained nothing from which any one could say he had taken
his plot which, of course, was greatly to his credit on the score of
originality, but I begged to be allowed to defer giving any further
opinion until he had finished the work; so much depends upon the way in
which these things are carried out.

He had also written a poem entitled _Completo_, of which he gave me a
copy. It was, he said, "un grido dell' anima." He had not found a
publisher for it yet, but if I would translate it into English and get it
published in London, I could send him any profits that might accrue. I
showed it to Peppino who swore he remembered something very like it in an
Italian magazine and that the professor had had nothing to do with it
beyond copying it. I translated it without rhymes, the professor not
having gone to that expense. I have not offered the result to any
English publisher, none of them would receive it as Peppino did when I
showed it to him. He said I had performed a miracle, that I had
converted a few lines of drivelling nonsense--just the sort of stuff that
would attract the professor--into a masterpiece. But I am afraid the
prestige of the English language may have blinded Peppino to any little
defects, as it made him see more romance than I could find in the names
of the English boats. This was my "masterpiece":

FULL INSIDE.

The train is full; Ah me! the load of travellers!
The engine whistles; Ah me! the piercing shriek!
My heart is burdened; Ah me! the weight of sorrows!
My soul exclaims; Ah me! the despairing cry!

O Train! have pity upon me
For you are st