LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2174, 12 February 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTEEY OP LOUD BRACKENBURY A [NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS, Author of “Barbara’s History,” “ Deben barn’s Vow,” &o. ( Continued.)

And here, bargaining, gossiping, laughing, chattering, are all the housewifely woild of Verona, leavened by a sprinkling of Austrian soldiers In white uniforms, with here and there a mendicant monk in woollen frock and sandals.

Giving smile for smile, greeting for greeting. La Glulietta meanwhile makes her modest purchases; lettuce and oreas and sweet fennel for salad ; lentils and a handful of tawny fungi for soup ; a little pat of frevh butter wrapped in mulberry leaves ; and the proffered morsel of stracchino for the Uncle Stefano’s supper. These, with a dish of polenta, and perhaps a neat’s foot, will furnish her larder for two or three days. And still, whichever way she tarns, she meets some well-known face. Here are Dame Oiauetta’s daughters, Lotta and Lisa, beside themselves with joy; for Tomaso, tho crrpenter’a assistant at the Theatre Nuovc, has just given them three gallery tickets for to-morrow evening’s performance.

‘ Dear little Ginlietta!’ they say with a patroi-fling air, ‘it is a pity we cannot take you aso—you go out bo seldom, and have so little pleasure! But, you see tho third ticket is for the mother ; and she will not let ui go anywhere without her—as if we werebabies, and could not take care of each otbei! Ah, well! another time, perhaps, littloCinlietts 1’

* Qra Giuiietta, it was so good of you to bringmy Tito that mug_ of soup last night,’ says tho widow Carolina, another neighbour, who supports herself and her blind boy by ataw plaiting. *He hardly coughed at all rfter it, and has been better ever since’

* /ha, la piocola I ’ laughs a bonny looking veil-dressed dame, followed by a man who arries her purchases. ‘ What is this pretk song that a little bird has been singing i: my ear ? Did he tell me that our Giulitta has found a Romeo 1 ’ ‘ Ymr little bird sings false, Signora DonAl ’ * Ny, you look as if one accused you of saciilge I But a lover—why that’s as it shoul be, my child, when one is young and prett, ? ’ Bu the girl turns away briskly, and the Signoa Donda, whose husband keeps a cafe billiai in the Yia Leonana, shrugs her shonlers, and laughs contemptuously. *Cb ! ohe ! che! one would think 'Tonio Moroti was not good enough for her ! ' ' lairuth, she might go farther and fare woraeSignora Donda,’ replies the fat cook from te Hotel Colombo d’Oro, who is buying at theatne stall.

‘EI what wonld yon have ? The girls’ headaiowadays are as fall of nonsense as a melon is (full of pips. I’ll be bound the f colls! wench thinks a real gentleman wonld not Moo good for her 1 ’ Bu these criticisms are lost rtpon GinJiettaßeni, who is by this time far enough away attracted by a certain bookstall at the corn* of the Piazza del Signori. It is a booktall of the humbler sort, stocked with broaaheet ballads, story books in gaudy pape wrappers, second hand missals, old muei cookery books, lives of the saints, and le like ; and it is kept by a one-eyed oripje popularly known, because of his pecuar voice, as II Grille (the cricket) ; bnt hese real name is Scalchi. There are seveil loiterers at II Grillo’a stall this morng, and his one eye has enongh to do, * God morning to yon, mia bella I ’ he cries n bis shrill falsetto. ' I have somethingvery special for you 1 I conld have sold ia dozen times over, but I kept it for you, -eo—a newjballad, all about yourself! Ay, ook here I —it is called “The Fatal Lov< of Borneo and Giulietta ” —a ballad in tweiy-four verses with a beautiful wood-cut to bit ! La Giulietta (that’s you my dear, andrery like you)—La Giulietta on her balcjy, gazing up at the moon ; Borneo hehQ the cypresses in the garden ! Gome nowyou will not grudge five centesimi for youiown history and your own portrait, to say icthing of the lover in the garden 1 Wb the picture alone is worth the money ! Twcentesimi ? Impossible. Why, I gave thrf for it myself I Fie ! what a little Jews it is I Well, there!—because yon are good child, and call me always by my riglname, you shall have a ballad for what it at me— three centeairdi, as I’m a ainrr ! ’

Is girl blushes and bargains ; the by* staiera listen and laugh. One—a seafaring ma'apparently —who is turning over a book at .e farther end of the stall, stays his ting on the leaf, and looks at her with undisposed admiration, ‘ is to be snug to the tune of “Ti Voglio BerAssai!” squeaks II Grille, pocketing hishree centealmi, as La Qlulietta runs aw; with her purchase. Vhy did you say that it was about herself' asks the sailor, his finger still between thoaves.

‘h ! Eh ! That question shows you to be a singer ! ’ ‘Tell, yea—l am a stranger. Who is thronzella ? ’ ‘ er name Is Giulletta.’ • guessed as much. And her snrnai V

'o stall-keeper shakes his head snspicioly. 7 hat is that to yon ? ’

(aybe nothing—maybe something. , . W knows ? How much do you ask for thbook ?’ ive Austrian lire.’ on said three just now.’ * I said three, I meant five.’ replies II Gr>, with a cool state. 'o sailor smiled, chinking the loose coins in i trousers pocket. nd the Donzella ? Where does she live ? Wt is her father’s name ? ’

rythe», let me look again at the book, Sipre. Eh! eh! eh ! See, now, what a he; is mine ! There’s my private mark ; achat mark stands for seven lire. Seven liroignoro ! You can take it or leave it—no' farthing less ! ’ 91 smiling, the sailor brings out a sunbraed hand full o( money—silver and cojr, with a gleam or two of gold. From the he selects a French ten franc piece. *>u can give me three lire in change.’ Hrillo’a one eye sparkles covetously ‘cfano Beni is a wheelwright. You will tiniis workshop under one of the archwa of the Arena in the Piazza Bra,’ he rej-i, clutching the ten franc piece. ■>. Giulletta is his daughter ? ’ iis niece.’ nt they don’t live at the workshop undthe archway—that is impossible.’ I rillo has brought from the innermost races of his nether garments a little yreasy lest - bag tied with leather strings wherein heiorits the half Napoleon. ‘ rse lire ! ’ he mutters. 1 Corpo dl bio have I as much as three lire.’

* ;11, supposing you have not enough chsi. Where do they live ? ’ * u’d be going to the Oateria del Cappel iif told you ! ’ ‘ hat tho old house of the Cappellettl ? Doehe live there ? ’

* here else would you expect La Ginlletto live, I wonder? ’ grins the cripple, refit ng tho leather bag to the obscurity of his ;eohes pocket. ‘ 1 right—you may keep the change.’ A. the sailor, sauntering away with the deatought volume under hia arm, crosses oven the shady side jest in time to see the jeot of his inquiries meekly kissing the nd, and apparently receiving the benedicta, of a plump little white haired priest in rty black soutane and shovel hat, at the fartlr end of the Piazza.

* ’ho is he ! ’ asks one of the bystanders at IBrillo’s stall. ‘ h ? eh ! How should I know ?—some snltater chap with more money than brains! Tenranca for that rubbishing old copy of Guard's Pastor Fido, which is worth about fiftyientesimi 1 I call that a good morniug’fwork! ’ Chaiteu XXXIX. IN THE AMPHITHEATRE. Stfano Beni, shaping the spokes of a cart’hcel in the great archway which served him for a workshop, found hie light oh-

scured, and. without looking round, said—- ' Is that you, Matteo?’ 'lt is not Matteo, nncle—pretty Tito ! good Tito ! ’ And Oiolietta put do«n her basket that she might >o pond to tH-> greetings of Tito, a magnifloo it black oat who lived and had hia being in Uncle Stefano's workshop.

' Von here, my niece? Is anything the matter ? ’ ‘ On : y a job for you, Uncle Stefano. I have just seen Padre and he bade me tell yon that the tire came off bis near wheel, as he drove it this morning from Montorlo ; and he wants it put to rights immediately.’ ' That tire again ? Body of Bacchus ! One cannot go on patching it for ever Luigi said last time that the metal was as rotten as tinder. He mast have a new one.”

(Luigi was the blacksmith under the next archway). ‘Ho says he cannot afford a now one yet awhile.’ ‘ The old story I—waiting, I suppose, till I make him a new wheel, or Luigi puts him a tire for nothing. Ugh ? these priests I Grasp all and gmdge all—that’s their motto.’

La Oinlietta. sitting on the floor with Tito in her lap, looked up quickly, * You are quite ight, Uncle Stefano,’ she said, with a somewhat heightened colour. ‘ The motto fits Padre Anselmo like a glove. Ton remember last winter—how he went

from house to house, begging meal from one, oil from another, rice from another—how he got whole sheep and goats from the farmers ahsnt Moatorio; and how he distributed biead and sonp and aims to the sick and the hungry 1 You remember how old Gatterina told ns that he himself never tasted meat for weeks together, but gave all his poultry, and the last bottle of wine in his cellar, to the poor of his parish P Then look at his coat —threadbare and patched ! I should he ashamed to see yea, Uncle Stefano, In a coat half as shabby. Yes, yon are quite right. 1 Grasp all and grudge all ’ —that is bis motto; hat yon forgot to add that he grasps all for others, and gradgeo all to himself ’ Stefano Reni —a sallow, hard-featured Lombard—looked up with an odd twinkle in his eye; and leaning on his mallet, said ; * When I was in Venice years ago, I saw a play anted. It was about a merchant who had borrowed money from a Jew, and bad pledged a pound of his own flesh as security for the loan. Well, that merchant’s ships were all wrecked, and he conld not pay the money; so the Jew demanded his pound of flesh—living flesh you know—to he ont from nearest the man’s heart.’ ‘ But it was murder.’ *Ah ; it was murder. And yet the lawyers could not save the man, because the foifeit was in the bond. However, the mer* chant had a sweetheart, and what do you suppose hia sweetheart did ?’ ‘ Killed the Jew! ’ * Better than that. She put on an advocate’s wig and gown and pleaded before the judges, and saved her lover’s life,’ ' That was fine ! ’ said the girl breathlessly. ‘ Ay ; and the fellow that played the Jew how he raged and swore ! If ever that piece is acted in Verona, I will take yon to see it. Bat I think I have muddled it, somehow, after all. I can’t remember clearly whether the girl was the merchant’s own sweetheart, or the sweetheart of his friend ’ ' I don’t care whose sweetheart she was,’ said La Oinlietta, regretfully; but she ought to have killed the Jew ! ’ ‘ Humph ! —You women are all bloodthirsty,’ said tho wheelwright, with a grim smile. * However, my niece, if I ever get into trouble, yon shall put on tne wig and gown ; for I’ll be hanged if you’re not the best special pleader in Verona.’ The girl put Tito down, and jumping up, leaned her clasped hands caressingly on the old man’s sbonlder. ' A good pleader wins his cause,’ ' and so the little nncle will put a new tire on Padre Anselmo’s wheel! ’ ‘ I! 1 put a new tire f Nonsense, child< Am I a blacksmith ! ’ ‘ Yon are a dear, good, clever wheelwright, little nncle ; and it Is the wheelwright’s business to get the tire pnt on, even though he does not pnt in on with his own hands. You know I cannot ask Lugl for the tire—so poor as be is, and with so many mouths to feed I He will pnt it on for nothing—good old Luigi!, but the little uncle will pay for the iron.’ ‘ Now may the devil fly away with mo if ... ’ If yen refuse to do a good tnrn to a good man ? Ah, but you are not going to refuse, nncle mio. Shall I ask Lnigi to send for the wheel ? ‘ Where is the carretta ? ’ ‘At the Golden Snn. Padre Anselmo always puts np at tho Golden Sun,’ * Humph! Matteo will bo back presently he can fetch it.’ ‘ There is my own good, kind. . . . ’ * Pardon, neighbor Beni—your servant, Signorina Giulietta,’ said a husky voice In the doorway. It was a very small, withered, feeble looking old man, in spectacles, and a woollen nightcap, and a shabby snuffcolored coat reaching to his heels His name was Oittl, and he was a custodian of the amphitheatre. He also sold curiosities, and wrote “ Antiquario ” over the door of the archway that served him for porter’slodge, shop, dwelling, "kitchen and all.” His stock-in-trade consisted of Etruscan and Roman relics grubbed np by himself In the substructions of the ampnitheatre, or fonnd from time to time by the peasantry round about. ‘ There is a party of travellers just driven np,” he said; ‘and 1 have a customer looking through my stock—a real connoisseur, who means buying. If I send him sway, he is ears not to come back again ; and seeing the Signorina Oinlietta. . . .’

* Yon came to ask me to show Arena for you? With pleasure. Signor Citti—it will not be the first time, will it ? Give me the keys, and I will go at once. Take care of my basket, Uncle Stefano !’ And away ran La Giulletta with the big keys. ‘ She is a dear, blessed child! quavered the old custode, looking after her with feeble admiration. ‘ She deserves a good husband.’

The wheelwright shook his head. * Plenty of time for that !’ he said grnffly. ‘1 don’t want any nonsense of that sort put into her head, neighbor Citti—remember that ’

The travellers, meanwhile, had alighted at the entrance to the Amphitheatre—a father, two daughters, and a courier—all English; the father tall and spare; the daughters long and languid ; the courier—loaded with warps, guide-books, and sketching materials. La Giulletta unlocked the heavy wooden doer, dropped her little curtsey as they passed in and was about to turn the key on the Inside when a man came qnlokly across from the cafe opposite. 4 One can sea the Amphitheatre ?’ he isked,

It was the seafaring man of the Piazza dei Signori. ‘ It costa one lira,’ replied La Giulietta, pointing to a written notice in the custode’a window. She admitted the English party without a word ; but the new comer was of her own class, and might not care to pay the fee. The man however, like most sailors ashore, was free-handed and flush of money, and tossed down hia lira as if it were a copper. ‘ The Amphitheatre ia supposed to have been built about the close of the first century, and the beginning of the second, ’ said La Glnlietta, repeating the little lesson she had learned from old Cittl, *lt is contemporaneous with the Coliseum at Rome: The ciroumferet ce is fourteen hundred and seventy-six feet. The outer diameter of the building from end to end is five hundred and forty-six feet, by four hundred and thirtysix feet across. The height from the ancient pavement is one hundred and six feet. The whole ia built of fine Verona marble, upon basements of Roman brickwork. Of the outer circuit, which originally consisted of seventy-two arches, only four arches remain. This, if complete, would give only eight arches leas than the circuit of the Coliseum.’ (To he continued on Tuesday.)