Maltravers then little thought how closely connected with his own fate was to be that passage in the history of the Italian.

Castruccio contrived to take Maltravers aside, and as he led the Englishman through the wood that backed the mansion, he said, with some embarrassment, "You go, I suppose, to London ?" "I shall pass through it--can I execute any commission for you ?" "Why, yes; my poems!--I think of publishing them in England: your aristocracy cultivate the Italian letters; and, perhaps, I may be read by the fair and noble--_that_ is the proper audience of poets.

For the vulgar herd--I disdain it!" "My dear Castruccio, I will undertake to see your poems published in London, if you wish it; but do not be sanguine.

In England we read little poetry, even in our own language, and we are shamefully indifferent to foreign literature." "Yes, foreign literature generally, and you are right; but my poems are of another kind.

They must command attention in a polished and intelligent circle." "Well! let the experiment be tried; you can let me have the poems when we part." "I thank you," said Castruccio, in a joyous tone, pressing his friend's hand; and for the rest of that evening, he seemed an altered being; he even caressed the children, and did not sneer at the grave conversation of his brother-in-law.
When Maltravers rose to depart, Castruccio gave him the packet; and then, utterly engrossed with his own imagined futurity of fame, vanished from the room to indulge his reveries.