University of Virginia Library

A SICILIAN POET.

I had threaded the ever-bustling street of the Toledo,
in the city of Naples, and satiated, for the time
being, my passion for observation, in glancing at the
motley specimens of humanity so characteristic of
the over-populated cities of Europe. The splendid
equipages of wealth, hard pressed by the low carts
of the market venders; the gaily-accoutred exquisites
of the metropolis; the coarsely clad peasant;
the maimed and wo-begone mendicant; the buffoons
and the soldiery; the dark-robed priest and the bewildered
stranger, combine to render this a scene
unequalled for the contrasts it presents, and the
sounds of which it is redolent. These contrasts I
had gazed upon till the eye and the heart were alike
weary; these sounds I had endured till their deafening
noise was insupportable; and entering the
Coronna di Ferro, a tratoria, renowned for its

beef-steaks served up a la mode Anglais, I prepared
to discuss mine, and eschew, for a while, the
ceaseless confusion of the grand strada.

My neighbour at the table proffered a kindly
word, and I turned to mark him. He was a young
man of graceful mien, with the dark eloquent eye of
the country, and his pale complexion and expression
of thoughtful intelligence betokened an intellectual
character. `Voi siete Inglese, Signor? he
inquired. `No,' I replied, `Sono Americano;'—at
the word his eye brightened, and a sentiment of
romantic interest seemed to excite him. He spoke
enthusiastically of Washington and Franklin, and
insisted upon an adjournment to his lodgings. I
found him to be a Sicilian by birth, and a poet by
profession. He was very curious to learn the extent
of the liberty of the press in America—and
when informed, was in alternate raptures and dejection;
the idea of such freedom transported him, but
the thought of his own political relations soon subdued
and saddened his spirit. He struck his hand
despondingly upon a pile of manuscripts, the publication
of which the censors had prohibited, on the
ground of their liberality of sentiment. Pacing the
room, and exclaiming enthusiastically at my descriptions,
the poor bard seemed ready to throw himself
into the first vessel which could convey him from a
land so favourable to the inspiration, and inimical to
the development of the divine art. I was interested

in the expedient he had adopted to gratify his
restricted muse. He was deep in the study of Natural
History, and was devoting himself to the poetical
illustration of this subject, reserving visions of
liberty for the especial subjects of his unwritten
poetry. Upon parting, I gave him a volume of
selections from Byron, as he was studying the English
tongue: he pressed the bello regalo to his
heart, and promising to write, embraced me, and we
parted.