but gallant and courteous smile were often turned towards the lady's beauty, which though already fading, had not, as yet, departed. Both belonged to Milanese families of the best blood, and were united by a certain sense of superiority, not only over the other middleclass guests, but over their hosts as well, whose nobility was only provincial. The Marchese was affability itself, and would have conversed amiably with the humblest of his fellow-guests, but Donna Eugenia, in the bitterness of her soul, in her disgust for the place and the persons, attached herself to him as to the only one worthy of her attention, markedly singling him out, in order, also, to offend the others. She embarrassed him by remarking in a loud tone that she did not see how he could ever have taken a fancy to this odious Valsolda. The Marchese, who for many years had led a life of quiet and retirement in this region, where, moreover, the birth of his only daughter, Donna Ester, had taken place, was, first, greatly disconcerted, for this remark was calculated to wound several of their fellow-guests; but finally he burst into a brilliant defense of the place. The Marchesa showed no feeling; Paolin, Paolon, and the prefect, all natives of Valsolda, were silent and abashed. Then, in pompous language, Pasotti sang the praises of Niscioree, the villa belonging to Bianchi, near Oria. These praises did not seem to please the Marchese, who, himself a most loyal man, had not always found Pasotti to his liking, in the past. He invited Donna Carabelli to come to Niscioree. «You must not go on foot, Eugenia,» said the Marchesa, well aware that her friend was tormented by the fear of growing stout. «The road from the Custom House to Niscioree is so narrow! You could not possibly pass.»> Donna Eugenia protested hotly. «It is not, indeed, the Corso of Porta Renza,» said the Marchese, «but neither is it le chemin du Paradis unfortunately!» <<That it is not! Most certainly not! You may take my word for it!» exclaimed Viscontini, heated, as ill luck would have it, by too many glasses of Ghemme. All eyes were turned upon him, and Paolin said something to him in a low tone. «Crazy?» the little man retorted, his face aflame. «Not by any means! I tell you » And here he related how, coming from Lugano that morning, he had felt cold in the boat, and had gotten out at Niscioree, intending to pursue his journey on foot; how there, between those two walls, where the path was so narrow an ass could not turn round in it, he had met the customs-officers, who had first abused him for getting out at Niscioree, and had then taken him back to the beastly custom house. He said that beast of a Ricevitore the receiver of customs - had confiscated a roll of manuscript music he had with him, taking the crotchets and quavers for a secret political correspondence. Profound silence followed this recital. Presently the Marchesa declared that Signor Viscontini was entirely in the wrong. He should not have landed at Niscioree, it was forbidden. As to the Ricevitore, he was a most worthy man. Pasotti, with a solemn face, confirmed this statement. «Excellent official,» said he. «Excellent rascal!» muttered the prefect between his teeth. Franco, who at first appeared to be thinking of something else, roused himself, and cast a contemptuous glance at Pasotti. «After all,» the Marchesa added, «it seems to me that, in the disguise of manuscript music, there might easily —» «Certainly,» said Paolin, who played the Austrian from fear while the mistress of the house was Austrian from conviction. The Marchese, who in 1815 had broken his sword in two that he might not be obliged to serve the Austrians, smiled saying quietly: «La! C'est un peu fort!» «But everyone knows that the Ricevitore is a beast!» Franco exclaimed. «I beg to differ with you, Don Franco,» said Pasotti. «Nonsense; beg to differ!» the other retorted. «He is a perfect beast!» «He is a conscientious man,» said the Marchesa, «an official who does his duty.>> «Then his masters are the beasts!» Franco exclaimed. «My dear Franco!» drawled the emotionless voice, «I will not tolerate such language in my house! Thank God we are not in Piedmont Pasotti grinned his approval. Then Franco, lifting his plate with both hands shivered it upon the table with a furious blow. «Holy Mother!» gasped Viscontini, and Paolon, interrupted in the laborious operations of a toothless glutton, uttered an exclamation of alarm. «Yes, yes!» said Franco, rising, his face distorted, «I had better go!» And he left the room. Donna Eugenia at once turned faint, and had to be led away. All the ladies, except Signora Pasotti, followed her out at one door, while the footman entered at another, bearing a great risotto pie. Puria cast a triumphant glance at Pasotti, but Pasotti pretended not to notice. All had risen. Viscontini, the apparent culprit, kept repeating: «I can't make it out! I can't make it out and Paolin, much vexed at seeing the dinner thus interrupted, grumbled at him: «What business have you to try to make anything out?» The Marchese was frowning fiercely, but kept silent. At last Pasotti, the real culprit, assuming an air of affectionate sadness, said, as if speaking to himself: «What a pity! Poor Don Franco! A heart of gold, a good head, but such a disposition! It is indeed unfortunate.»> «Alas!» exclaimed Paolin, and Puria added despairingly: «Truly a great misfortune!>> They waited and waited, but the ladies did not return. Then someone moved. Paolin and Puria, their hands clasped behind them, walked slowly towards the sideboard, lost in contemplation of the risotto pie. Puria called sweetly to Pasctti, but Pasotti did not move. «I only wished to observe,» the big curate said, hiding his triumph so that it might or might not be apparent, «I only wished to observe that there are white truffles in it.» «I should say that black truffles' are not wanting here either,» remarked the Marchese pointedly, and slightly accentuating the words. 1 Tartufo: often used to indicate those who are hypocritically pious. The word «black» refers to the priest's black robe. [Translator's note.] FOLK-SONG BY F. B. GUMMERE S IN the case of ballads, or narrative songs, it was important to sunder not only the popular from the artistic, but also the ballad of the people from the ballad for the people; precisely so in the article of communal lyric one must distinguish songs of the folk-songs made by the folk-from those verses of the street or the music hall which are often caught up and sung by the crowd until they pass as genuine folk-song. For true folk-song, as for the genuine ballad, the tests are simplicity, sincerity, mainly oral tradition, and origin in a homogeneous community. The style of such a poem is not only simple, but free from individual stamp; the metaphors, employed sparingly at the best, ale like the phrases which constantly occur in narrative ballads, and belong to tradition. The metre is not so uniform as in ballads, but must betray its origin in song. An unsung folk-song is more than a contradiction,-it is an impossibility. Moreover, it is to be assumed that primitive folk-songs were an outcome of the dance, for which originally there was no music save the singing of the dancers. A German critic declares outright that for early times there was "no dance without singing, and no song without a dance; songs for the dance were the earliest of all songs, and melodies for the dance the oldest music of every race." Add to this the undoubted fact that dancing by pairs is a comparatively modern invention, and that primitive dances involved the whole able-bodied primitive community (Jeanroy's assertion that in the early Middle Ages only women danced, is a libel on human nature), and one begins to see what is meant by folk-song; primarily it was made by the singing and dancing throng, at a time when no distinction of lettered and unlettered classes divided the community. Few, if any, of these primitive folk-songs have come down to us; but they exist in survival, with more or less trace of individual and artistic influences. As we cannot apply directly the test of such a communal origin, we must cast about for other and more modern conditions. When Mr. George Saintsbury deplores "the lack, notorious to this day, of one single original English folk-song of really great beauty," he leaves his readers to their own devices by way of defining this species of poetry. Probably, however, he means the communal lyric in survival, not the ballad, not what Germans would include under volkslied and Frenchmen under chanson populaire. This distinction, so often forgotten by our critics, was laid down for English usage a century ago by no less a person than Joseph Ritson. "With us," he said, "songs of sentiment, expression, or even description, are properly called Songs, in contradistinction to mere narrative compositions. which now denominate Ballads." Notwithstanding this lucid statement, we have failed to clear the field of all possible causes for error. The song of the folk is differentiated from the song of the individual poet; popular lyric is set over against the artistic, personal lyric. But lyric is commonly assumed to be the expression of individual emotion, and seems in its very essence to exclude all that is not single, personal, and conscious emotion. Professor Barrett Wendell, however, is fain to abandon this time-honored notion of lyric as the subjective element in poetry, the expression of individual emotion, and proposes a definition based upon the essentially musical character of these songs. If we adhere strictly to the older idea, communal lyric, or folk-song, is a contradiction in terms; but as a musical expression, direct and unreflective, of communal emotion, and as offspring of the enthusiasm felt by a festal, dancing multitude, the term is to be allowed. It means the lyric of a throng. Unless one feels this objective note in a lyric, it is certainly no folk-song, but merely an anonymous product of the schools. The artistic and individual lyric, however sincere it may be, is fairly sure to be blended with reflection; but such a subjective tone is foreign to communal verse- - whether narrative or purely lyrical. In other words, to study the lyric of the people, one must banish that notion of individuality, of reflection and sentiment, which one is accustomed to associate with all lyrics. To illustrate the matter, it is evident that Shelley's 'O World, O Life, O Time,' and Wordsworth's 'My Heart Leaps Up,' however widely sundered may be the points of view, however varied the character of the emotion, are of the same individual and reflective class. Contrast now with these a third lyric, an English song of the thirteenth century, preserved by some happy chance from the oblivion which claimed most of its fellows; the casual reader would unhesitatingly put it into the same class with Wordsworth's verses as a lyric of "nature," of "joy," or what not,- an outburst of simple and natural emotion. But if this 'Cuckoo Song' be regarded critically, it will be seen that precisely those qualities of the individual and the subjective are wanting. The music of it is fairly clamorous; the refrain counts for as much as the verses; while the emotion seems to spring from the crowd and to represent a community. Written down no one can say when it was actually composed-not later than the middle of the thirteenth century, along with the music and a Latin hymn interlined in red ink, this song is justly regarded by critics as communal rather |