CHAPTER XVI.

SKETCHES DRAWN FROM LIFE.

"Around the fireside, at their ease,
There sat a group of friends, entranced
With the delicious melodies;
Who from the far-off noisy town
Had to the wayside inn come down,
To rest beneath its old oak trees:
The fire-light on their faces glanced,
Their shadows on the wainscot danced,
And, though of different lands and speech,
Each had his tale to tell, and each
Was anxious to be pleased, and please,
And while the sweet musician plays,
Let me in outline sketch them all,
Perchance uncouthly, as the blaze
With its uncertain touch portrays
Their shadowy semblance on the wall.

"A young Sicilian, too, was there;
In sight of Etna born and bred,

Some breath of its volcanic air
Was glowing in his heart and brain,

And being rebellious to his liege,
After Palermo's fatal siege,

Across the western seas he fled."

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN.-PRELude.

S

OME months had pasaed since my Nahant

visit when I went again to Cambridge.

It was Christmas night, and besides Signor

Monti, a great friend of the professor, my husband and myself were the only strangers present. The house was a beautiful picture in itself, and the hanging wreaths and garlands showed the presence of the holy natal tide. The poet was as usual extremely courteous and kind, and the evening passed with delightful charm. I recognized in Mr. Monti an old friend of the professor, and he said to me during the dinner:

"This is the young Sicilian that I have known so long, and love so well," looking as he spoke directly toward Mr. Monti with an affectionate smile.

Signor Monti was evidently gratified, and said, with ready grace, speaking our language perfectly: "Yes, I am the once young, now old Sicilian

mentioned in 'The Tales of a Wayside Inn.' Did you not recognize me?"

"Of course," said I heartily, "I ought to have done so at once, but not thinking about it, my imagination has proven itself excessively torpid. It never entered my mind that you were the real Signor Luigi' spoken to by the Jew; but," turning to Longfellow, "let me ask you a question. Are all of the characters bonâ fide in the poem, and may I know who they are?"

Longfellow looked up quite gayly, and said,

"Yes, I think you may, but Mr. Monti shall Let him tell the story."

answer.

Mr. Monti would not hear to that, so Mr. Longfellow began to speak. "Mr. Monti and his friends used to steal away every summer for their vacation to the little town of Sudbury, not far from Boston, and they had such fine times among themselves, I really thought that I should like to join their party to pass my next summer. They insisted on my coming, and I was so charmed with the place that I immediately conceived my poem, 'The Tales of a Way

side Inn.' The house, although quaint and old-fashıioned, was interesting in one way. Three pairs of lovers used to steal in and out of the old tavern, and three modest fiancées would regularly come to the trysting-place in the vine-embowered garden. Later on the same three couples were married in fine style, and took each other for better or worse. One was Monti and his wife, the other was the poet Theophilus Parsons, and the third couple was Dr. Parsons, sister and her fiancé.

"Ah! those were happy times. Why, do you know, Monti was so fond of the place, that he went there for twelve consecutive seasons, and I don't know but the others did the same, now that I think of it. I went a number of times until the inn fell into disuse, and after my poem was finished, it was strange to say, almost abandoned by our old party. Still it was a charming spot, and so home-like. The old inn is standing now, although sadly changed, and I fear that of the number who once passed so many happy hours there, not one to-day would think of

returning unless by way of a souvenir for Auld Lang Syne."

"But the other characters," I interrupted, "who were they? did they really exist ?"

"Really," said the poet, laughing; "why, of course. Professor Daniel Treadwell was the Theologian; Henry Wales, Esq., was the Student; Lyman Howe was the Landlord, and our Italian friend here before you was and is Luigi Monti, the Sicilian."

"The only fictitious character," interrupted the Signor, "was the Jew. That is Mr. Longfellow's secret, he will never tell who he was; but you have forgotten to say that the musician was Ole Bull," continued Mr. Monti. "I am sure madame must often have heard him play."

66

Who," said I quickly, "has not heard of the "Wizard of the North? and what American but has listened to his playing? I knew him well. He was a charming gentleman, besides being a good storyteller-and such an amiable man, while the whole world acknowledged his wondrous talent."

Mr. Monti evidently did not intend letting the