completion of Vortigern, he was only nineteen. The play was written and transcribed in secret, and at stolen intervals; and if we may take his own word, "he appeared in public at the same time as much as he could, in order to make the world believe he was a giddy, thoughtless youth, incapable of producing the papers."

The closing scene of the comedy-for so we may style the whole affair-may be readily anticipated. Gratified by the notoriety he had acquired, Ireland was easily induced to publish a full and free confession of his fraud. He hastened to take upon himself the whole responsibility, and anxiously endeavored to exculpate his father from any participation in the imposture. It must be confessed that circumstan

ces seemed to warrant the suspicion that father and son were equally implicated, and even the latter's solemn declaration to the contrary could not remove the impression that had been made on the public mind.

Mr. Samuel Ireland died in the year 1800, and it has been asserted that his days were shortened by the exposure of the shameful fraud of which he had been made the dupe. The son subsequently published in his own name many plays, novels, and poems, which are now almost forgotten. His death is recorded in the Gentleman's Magazine, as having taken place on the 15th of April, 1835; and it may be further stated, that up to that period he had kept, and that he carried with him to his grave, the significant soubriquet of Shakspeare Ireland.

Ay, be the scandal what you will,
And whisper what you please,
You do but fan his glory still
By whistling up a breeze.

The little spark becomes a flame,
If you won't hold your tongue;
Nobody pays you for your blame,

Nor cares to prove it wrong;
But if you will so kindly aid
And prop a good man's peace,
Why, really one is half afraid
Your ill report should cease!

Look you!-two children playing there, With battledores in hand,

To keep their shuttle in the air

Must strike it as they stand;
It flags and falls if both should stop
To look admiring on;

And so Fame's shuttlecock would drop,
Without a pro and con!

I AM an old song now, and have been | often sung. Mine has been a long and brilliant career; and though now put on the shelf amid the dust of departed forefathers, let me, ere I sink into annihilation, retrace the early years of my glorious being, when I flew triumphant from throat to throat, roused the heart, and filled the eyes of men with tears of gladness, sympathy, and love. I am by birth an Italian. I was created by the maestro in his twenty-fifth year. It was while rocking lazily on the moonlit lagunes of Venice that I first became conscious of existence in the magic hall of the brain I first bestirred my wings, but found the quarters too confined for my ambitious and expanding energies. I was, however, allowed to move, as the Scotch say, "butt and ben," between the head and the heart, for from both I sprang. Ay, thy life-blood, poor Stefano, ran in my veins, with the wild fire of its burning passion, and the pathos of its sombre melancholy, indelibly impressed on the wild earnestness of my adagio and the marvellous rapture of my allegro! The author of my being had been a poet and a musician from his earliest years. In the poverty-stricken home of his father there were few opportunities for the improvement of any but such an one as Stefano. His was the heart to which all Nature speaks in her fondest and deepest tones; the airy tongue that addressed the spirit of Stefano whispered ceaselessly in the ear willing to hear, of all that was beautiful, poetic, and ennobling.

Now to return to myself. Shall I tell the secrets of the brain? Shall I reveal to Mr. Faraday the electric flashes which accompanied my gradual formation in the thoughts and will of my creator? Shall I trace my being back to its first dawn, through its gradual perfecting, to the full splendor of

its perfect organization, when, consigned to the throat of a great prima donna, I first spread my wings and sailed forth triumphant, conquering and to conquer?

It was fully two years from the time that the first bars of my being were laid down in the brain to that when, in an hour of despair, agony, and insanity, I was put down upon paper and brought out into the world. Talk of Minerva, all ready armed, leaping, bucklered and helmeted, from the brain of Jove! what was her start into life compared to mine? In me were centred a thousand perfections, for I came adorned and crowned with Love's idolatry-an offering, a dying offering, to the only woman Stefano ever loved in his life. Of course, I was in all his secrets. Giulia was a young actress-you do not need a description of her; she is in all the London print-shops; but yet she is not now as she was then. Ah! era stella del mattin. Originally a flower-girl at Florence, she had a voice of three octaves and two notes, a head of glorious form, and a face of enchanting loveliness. At sixteen, she had the grace of a nymph and the ease of a child. She was taken in hand by old Giorgio, and taught to sing, some time before she learnt to write or read. She was the strangest girl-a mixture of vanity, vice, fascination, and good-nature; with some superstitions, that made her very diverting when she took a fit of fright about a new character. I know that she vowed fifteen pounds to St. Mark if she got through the Casta Diva, with an encore to the quick part. By the way, I have a spite at Casta Diva ever since she was preferred to me at the San Carlo. But to return. This Giulia was the very girl to drive Stefano crazy. He imagined he saw her enacting the part of Zara in his Montezuma. He followed her everywhere. He besieged her with bouquets,

letters, and songs. One night he set forth, and stood in a severe shower beneath her window.

"Giovinetto cavalier!" sung out Giulia from an attic window.

This was enough for Stefano. He thought he was in high favor; and the next idea was to sing with her on the stage. This was a hope, however, too brilliant to be fulfilled. "Oh, how blessed an existence," he thought, "to sing, to act, to feel that idealized, brief life of the stage, true to one's own heart!" He went to the impresario. Pisani was a courteous and kind Italian. He would do his possibile to get him a place in the chorus; the opera in preparation was the Barbiere. Well, he might stand beneath Rosina's dow, and sing among the tenors.

"Oh, obbligato, mille grazie!" cried Stefano. And he went off as happy as if he had just found fifty pounds in his empty pockets. For those who like it, it is a charming thing singing in a chorus; to the real lover of the stage, to the real denizen of the greenroom, this will be easily explained. To feel that one forms one billow of that tide of music to feel that one is joining in the ruling passion of a multitude, and making one's own noise besides-all this combines to create an elevated feeling of enjoyment and delicious excitement. The eventful rehearsal came. Into the dim, dark, nasty theatre walked Stefano, very triumphant. There stood the pale, ill-washed chorus; the dirty scenes; the disenchanted gardens of the Spaniard's home; and lolling on a chair, sipping eau sucrée, in a filthy white shawl, with an old handkerchief over her head, sat the Giulia, very tarnished and shabby, certainly. People who know nothing about these things, are fond of saying and believing that all the falsehood of the stage, all the vain trickery of the performers, cure the too-ardent admirer in the morning of the passion that he felt at night in an illuminated theatre. This is far from being altogether true. On the contrary, to some minds the slovenliness of a great performer becomes a superb mystery, when from that cloud of physical drawbacks emerge in power the grandeur, the unique talents, the charms of genius and beauty. Thus felt Stefano when, after, contemplating in silence the baggy outline of the great signora's head, the orchestra struck up the air she was to introduce as the famous music lesson. It was ill played; the fury started up. She threw off her head-dress and dashed it to the ground; tore open her shawl, to give her arms fair play;

A fortnight after, Stefano received an intimation from the impresario that Don Basilio was sick, and that he might take his part for that night. Stefano was half crazed with delight; he was getting on in the world. That evening he wrote down the brilliant passage in my third page; he polished my new cadenza, and added a chromatic flourish to my recitative. I was daily improving

now.

That evening Stefano was in good voice. He had risen to the dignity of an actor, and Giulia spoke to him; and he stood at the side of the stage, listening enraptured to the mellow tones of love-making on the stage. He was not jealous of the tenor, for he had a squint and a large family. And then it was so charming, the way that Giulia came forth, to curtsey with enchanting coquetry, and sing, in round, crisp tones, her Buona sera, buona sera, as he retreated, bowing truly in spirit to her. Then he was asked to supper, and he went. It was an extremely lively and amusing meal; light wines, and light laughing, and light talking; very pleasant for Stefano, who had never before felt so great a man. When he came home, I lay skulking in a drawer. I was pitched too high for him that night.

The next day Stefano twanged away at the guitar songs of successful love; foolish things, how I hated them! silly addresses to Nice, mio ben and idol mio. In my silent, tragic greatness I lay, and could have gnashed my notes for fury. Well, well, my time was coming. Stefano scraped together al his money to purchase a pearl ring, and he sent it to Giulia. She put it on her lovely

little finger, and she acted Ninetta that night. Stefano sang the part of Pippo faute de mieux, in the way of a contralto. It was at a small Italian theatre, and Giulia was only rising into fame. He got through it wonderfully well, and acted the part in the most impassioned manner.

That evening he told Giulia that he would die for her. She thought the compliment well chosen, and returned it with stating that she meant to live for him. Oh, those light stage vows and green-room promises! Well, this was the state of affairs for one fortnight; they acted together, and never better than one evening, the last but two of their engagement. The walls of the town were chalked all over with homage to Giulia: Eterno opore all' immortale sirene! Divina Giulia! and a few other such truisms.

Two idle young Englishmen came to Fer

He leant over the box-he was interested; and a chorus of women struck up the magic music of the Serena i Vaghi rai. How grandly lovely was Giulia in her despotic tenderness! There was a contralto, with an ill-conditioned turban on her head, for Arsace; but regal was the love-making of Giulia. And how grandly did she summon the Assyrian courtiers to do their homage to her! Giuri, a sommi dei. There was a superb tyranny in her cadences and imperial embellishments. Stefano gloried in her every note; there was not a brighter face than his in the theatre. It was a sight of rapture and triumph to him-that rapture in the triumph of another that has not even the restlessness of vanity to irritate and mar its enjoyment.

Giulia yet stood in her crimson robes and diadem when Lord Vane addressed her. He spoke French and Italian beautifully. The Italian, subtle from the time that she had cut her first tooth, soon saw and enjoyed the admiration of one man and the frantic jealousy of another. Next evening a diamond ring effaced the pale pearl one on her hand;

the engagement at the theatre was prolonged for an additional week. The English milor and his admiration of the prima donna was no secret subject of conversation; cruel vanity and heartlessness shone in the fiery glances of Giulia. It was one evening, the last of the stay of the opera troupe, that Stefano made his way alone into the presence of Giulia. It was after the performance. had gone home to her lodgings, and it was late when Stefano rushed up the stairs that led to her apartment. He knocked hurriedly.

She

"Chi c'è?" said the sweet treble voice. "Son io!" shrieked Stefano, as he burst in. He laid hold of her, and shook her till her teeth chattered; then fell down on his knees, and rolling himself on the ground, made abject protestations of despair and devotion.

"Prendi l'anel ti dono," said Giulia, retreating with a scornful grin, and tossing his ring in his poor face. He seized it, and bit the slight gold circlet in two.

Mangi pure," said the malicious woman. With a scream he seized hold of her, and clasped her in his arms

"Eh m'ami ancora, dimmi che m'ami.” "Sicuro, mia vita!" said Giulia.

So Stefano was pacified, like a silly young man as he was, and they sat down. Giulia opened the window, and hung her head out. She wrapped a mantilla round her and hummed Di tanti Palpiti. Then she stopped, and there was a silence for a little while. At last there followed the sound of shuffling feet, and the soft, mellow twang of guitars— that sound full of warmth and starlight to me; and then there rose up a serenade. Addio, Delizia, came over and over again from a band of men's voices. Stefano was silent, till the old landlady entered.

"Una serenata, signorina mia, dalla parte di milor; sicuro dalla parte di milor."

Stefano asked no more, the Italian blood was lit up with the fury of long-suppressed revenge; he flew on the old woman and nearly strangled her.

him a gave good

"Ahi! Soccorso! aiuta! aiuta!" And the yells of the two women brought up the whole street to the door in two minutes. Stefano met Lord Vane, who beating; and then, dashing through the crowd, he made his way home. He never saw Giulia again. Early next morning he received an intimation that his services were no longer required; that his cadences were as incorrect as his conduct; that Signor Baretti, from Milan, had kindly consented to take all his parts; and that the corps wished