of the years 1584 and 1585, the very years in one of which Myles Standish was probably born. The parchment leaves, which contained the registry of the births of those years, were wholly illegible, and their appearance such as to lead to the conclusion, that pumice-stone, or something of the sort, had been purposely employed to disfigure and destroy the record which they contained, namely, the legal evidence of the parentage of Standish, and his consequent title to the estates. This mutilation, it was supposed, had been accomplished some twenty years before. in consequence of some inquiry then set on foot by the American Standishes. The rector of the parish, when afterwards requested by the investigator to certify that the papers were illegible, at once suspected his design of investigating the title to the Standish estates, and taking advantage of the rigor of the law (as he had presented himself merely in the character of an antiquarian), compelled him to pay a fee of about £15, or suffer imprisonment. "Thus," says Windsor, from whom we borrow this account, "it will be seen that, from the destruction of all legal proof, the property must forever remain hopelessly irrecoverable." The crest of the Standishes, as given by some authorities, might seem to allude to the surreptitious title by which the family at present hold their estates-" An owl argent, beaked and legged or, standing on a rat sable." Here follows Miles Standish's auto graph. Myles Standigy A LAZZIS. "To take it rightly it, is no more than a medley of impertinent conceits, where two lovers do most silly things, and the buffooneries of a merry-andrew."-ST. EVREMOND (1684). "The Italian theatre was the original and model of all European drama, the culture of Troy having found in Rome, etc., etc. The Venetian actors played extempore. *** Their lazzis was fair to see. Practice in throwing off the mask made them able to play the sublime sentiment, at the same time of pleasingly imitating the most ridiculous whims of mankind. They had no booth for themselves, but played (comedies) in private houses."-RICCO BONI. shadow, and see what an effect Zambetto and the sun get up together? I lift my arm, presto! there it goes-its shadow-right on that melon. I move my head-if it hasn't gone straight into the baker's window! By the way, that crumb looks white and soft, as does the crust brown and crisp. I wonder if those loaves are up to weight? I say it with regret, they do not look so. Now, had I money in my pocket, and was to buy a loaf there, I should be cheated, and you know, a fool and his money are soon parted ;' so, at this present moment, hungry as I am, I may consider myself the luckiest of dogs "WH WHAT a luscious slice of melon-it is so juicy that it is positively dripping itself away; how nicely those slippery, black seeds contrast with the firm red pulp! It is somewhat of a pity that it is raw; decidedly I should have preferred it cooked, say fried in oil, it is a deal wholesomer that way; on an empty stomach that slice of melon there would have disagreed with my delicate health;" and saying this the philosopher Zambetto, who had supped the night before on a handful of olives, and was now in search of a breakfast, passed on with a smile. "What a glorious thing this sunshine is to a hungry fellow!" cried the enthusiastic Zambetto, as he basked." Just then, Zambetto's ears, which in the full Venetian glare. "At this present moment it is worth more to me than meat and drink-there is absolutely substance in it. Will any candid observer be kind enough to look at my VOL. IX.-9 were considerably sharper than a fox's, heard a low "hist." He turned quickly round. "Hist!" cried a voice, again. It was a remarkably quiet sidewalk (Venice has hardly a street); with the exception of a gondola slowly gliding up the canal, not a soul was in sight. Zambetto's quick eye saw a shadow behind the projecting blind of the third story of the old palace under which he was standing, and presently out came an arm holding a palette, the whole terminating in a mahl-stick and a fistful of brushes. "Does it want me--perhaps an errand?" thought Zambetto, as he saw the arm begin to beckon in a violent way; it is either for me or for the gondola," he reasoned, "and so I shall keep one eye on the barge and the other on the window. Ah! two women inside? Good! Now let us observe what is going on up stairs; there is that arm again." Suddenly he gave a howl of pain; something had fallen in his eye; he clapped his hands to his face, and to his extreme horror (as soon as sight was restored) beheld his hands dyed green. "Oh! I am murdered-cut off in the flower of my age!" he cried; "but strange to say--my blood is remarkably sticky and of an unusual color-perhaps arising from my extreme youth. Come, let me see-am I really dead?" He looked about him, and at his feet on the marble pavement was a large brush with exceedingly stiff bristles, full of paint, and, strange to say, the color exactly matched the hue of his face and hands. "Ha!" he cried with mingled pain and mirth, "there lies, then, the thunder-bolt hurled by the imperious Jove, as my cousin, who does the choruses at the Fenice, would say. I wonder what it is worth? Let me pick it up;" he stooped and took the brush from the ground, where it had made a very artistic daub. "It must belong up stairs; I shall return it and request damages for the loss of my complexion;" and the next moment Zambetto was pounding at a door in the third story. "What is it?" cried a voice in a slightly ambiguous Italian. your window, and your sublime talent, sure to adorn all it deigns to touch, has converted my head into a landscape. Pray open-see for yourself, and admire." At this poetic appeal, the door was opened; a strong arm caught Zambetto by the ear and lugged him into the room. "Decidedly an American, from his engaging manners," thought Zambetto. "Was it you, then, you blackguard, that gave the howl under my window just now? What the devil had you to do with star-gazing this time of day?" and the artist dropped his palette and seized his mahl-stick. "Oh, my prince, it was the purest accident in the world. Pray, look at me; thanks to your skill I might pass for the sign of the green-faced monkey." "Answer me, what were you doing under my window?" "Getting up an appetite, your lord- ́ ship," answered Zambetto. "No impertinence," cried the artist, as he approached Zambetto with a huge brush, steeped in what Zambetto took to be fresh gore, "or I will leave colors on you that will be lasting." "It cannot be possible that your signore can find fault with me, for having so profitably employed my time. Why, to be hungry--is a poor fellow's privilege." There was a smile on the artist's face at his ludicrous appearance. Zambetto felt encouraged. "I have brought back your brush. I saw a piece at the Teatro Apollo the other night, where a great king picked up a paint-brush a greater painter had let fall," and Zambetto, with a peculiar manner, presented the brush, adding-"I am the king-you the painter." "Were there ever such fellows as these Italians, for complimentary speeches? Strange how cleverly the fellow did it. Nice pose-clean limbsneat torse, he might do for a study," and with this the artist turned his back on Zambetto, and commenced working at a picture. On a table was a vase of elegant proportions, heaped full of fruit. Pomegranates, figs, melons, and grapes were temptingly displayed. Zambetto admired their artistic arrangement, watching the painter, who cleverly copied them; the rich, fresh color just dripping from the brush wonderfully imitating the over-ripeness of the dewy fruit, an effect, alas! so evanescent as to fade away in a moment's time; as it was, Zambetto smacked his lips. "What, not gone yet?" exclaimed the artist. "Please, my master," replied Zambetto, in his most dulcet tones of Venetian dialect, eluding every unnecessary consonant, "strange to say, by the most remarkable accident in the world, I have not breakfasted as yet, nor from present appearances am I likely to do so; but, hungry as I am, I must positively declare, I should infinitely prefer plucking a grape from off that purple cluster that so gracefully hangs down in your picture there, to taking a real one; for yours undoubtedly are riper, sweeter fruit." The artist looked pleased. "But," added Zambetto, "it may arise from the green veil which at present disturbs my vision." The painter frowned, and Zambetto prudently ceased. "Take this, jackanapes, and rub your face with it," said the artist, handing a sponge. Zambetto scoured away, and, after a moment, the charming oval, the merry black eyes, the well-formed nose, the sprightly mouth of the pure Venetian type shone forth. "Now that your eyes are open, tell me what they saw down stairs?" "Absolutely nothing-only a gondola--" "Ah-indeed?" asked the artist quite indifferently. "Nothing particular about the gondola, only two ladies inside." "Are you sure of that ?" inquired the artist, more interested. "Sure, your honor?" and Zambetto looked inquisitively at the artist's face, "Sure? I don't know. Perhaps you would not have liked me to have seen anything, and, accordingly, I am in a state of doubt." 66 Well, Zambetto, I am sorry for your face, which is too good a one to be spoiled. Now, what are you good for? Hop up here;" Zambetto jumped on a stand. "Now put one leg under youSO- -double the other one-right. Stretch out your arms-not so, you awkward booby. There, that is something like it. Now, be good enough to look up at the ceiling, and show the white of your eyes -very good. Recollect you are not to look comical; you will please to imagine yourself some poor devil half starved, and that somebody is holding a bunch of grapes, or a slice of melon, over your head. Here," said the artist, taking a bunch of grapes and hanging it on the easel, within an inch of Zambetto's nose; "there, look at this. First-rateyou have it exactly." "I can't do it; it's more than human nature can stand. I am too hungry! You don't say so ?" cried the artist enthusiastically; "I am delighted to hear it; you are perfection-admirable -splendid-a master-piece!" 64 No wonder," sighed poor Zambetto, "it is no acting on my part." "Could anything be more natural," went on the artist, not heeding him, as he took a crayon and dashed some rapid strokes on the paper. "Superb!—that fellow there would make a model for Murillo's beggar-boys. What a pity he is not older, he then might do for a Tantalus-just a moment more, I am putting in the grapes, and now," he added kindly, "that will do, and, Zambetto, help yourself." By all the stars, my breakfast!" cried Zambetto, as the hungry model clutched the prize. "Here is a slice of bread," said the artist dividing a loaf, "and when you have done, you will find a cup of coffee behind that picture." "Coffee, your grace? This is not a breakfast, it is," here he choked with a big bit of crust," it-is-a perfect banquet. When I have done, may I kiss the hand of my kind host?" "Clear out!" cried the artist in English; "stop your humbug." He, however, watched, with evident pleasure, Zambetto devouring the bread and grapes, and smiled at the gusto with which he savoured his coffee. The repast ended, Zambetto mused a moment, evidently composing some grand complimentary speech. The painter went to the door and locked it. "Zambetto, do not imagine I have done with you. You will hop up there again, and pose exactly as you did before; when I have finished, providing I am pleased with you, this shall be yours," and he drew a small coin from his pocket. Zambetto's eyes glistened. There were dinner and supper for the day, a ticket for the theatre, one onehundredth of a share in the lottery, not counting lots of other minor pleasures in perspective; so, with a bound, he resumed his former position, doubled his legs under him, stretched out his arms, and gazed fixedly at the ceiling. The painter recommenced the study. "Well it is fair-rather-but pshaw! not like the first sketch. I say, Zambetto, that's not it, you dog-look hungry, just as you did before, I tell you." "I will try, your signore. Will this do? Something like a poodle begging for a lump of sugar?" 66 No, no-not at all the expression," exclaimed the disappointed artist. "Is this better?" and Zambetto, anxious to please, tried exceedingly hard to look miserable, and could not. "No, you imp-you are purposely trying my patience. There is a smirk on your countenance; a suppressed smile that makes the expression hypocritical, I might call it a sort of digestive easethat won't do, I tell you, look starved!" roared the artist, now in a rage. 64 "I can't," responded Zambetto, in despair. Your honor found me hungry and miserable, and now, thanks to his bounty, I am happy and contented, and try as hard as can, were you even to hang a turkey stuffed with chestnuts (a dish I have heard of, but never seen) within my reach, I shouldn't feel like the character. Might I dare to give to your illustrious genius a word of humble advice? Supposing you wanted to paint some merry fellow, such as I have seen in the opera-ballets, those little spirits with pointed ears, that look so jolly, cram full as they are with wine and good cheer. Oh! I could do that," and instantly Zambetto sprang to his feet, and stood an admirable copy of a dancing faun. "Bravissimo!" exclaimed the artist, carried away by the change. "You are right-splendid-here you go-do not budge, for your life! Open your mouth, a trifle wider; show those white teeth of yours. You can't make your ears a bit longer, can you? I say, Zambetto, what shall I do with my first sketch? I must positively starve you again in order to finish it." The painter was soon absorbed in his work; as to Zambetto, his mind was so full of the pleasant things he was going to do with the piece of money, that he kept on the broad grin for a full hour. "That will do now. I have finished," said the artist, at last. Here is the Szwanziger. Come here to-morrow, and, mind you, fasting ;" and he showed Zambetto the door. "Am I to come when your signore drops something on my head? Might I take the privilege of ducking?" 66 Enough of that. I should particularly advise you to look straight before you." "Into the canal?" inquired Zambetto. "This seems like most excellent quarters; true, a trifle of suffering, but then the wages," he thought to himself; "and not to look into gondolas !" added Zambetto aloud, as he neared the window. "I know that gondola among a thousand, and, by the holy Saint Marc, there comes the very same boat; the lady puts out her hand and drops the whole bouquet in the water. Shall I run down and get it, signore ?" "No," answered the painter hurried "Yes-a second Venus-and now they have gone in. The play is over, and let us go home. No-by my mother, I see her at her window; she looks wistfully this way-" "What, what? Does she draw to the curtains of her chamber?" "Yes, yes, your honor-but you must be a magician-" The artist no longer heard him; he was striding up and down the room, exclaming in such a barbarous language, that Zambetto set it down for American. "Please your highness, this beats any of Goldoni's comedies-I have seen them all." "Since you are so well informed," angrily responded the artist, "you must recollect the babblers and listeners are always cudgeled." "And serve them right-at the same time, the lover always has a servant of this kind, sometimes this servant is the hero of the play," and Zambetto drew himself up with pride. You may be right." Vandyke Brown (his father was a millionaire in the white-lead business), from his youth, inherited a taste for the fine arts. As an infant, he invariably requested to be taken to the wax-works; as he grew older, his tastes improved, and when of a Saturday, after school, he spent his holiday in the Art Academy of Swopopolis, he got disgusted. The Salvators, Raphaels, Caraccis, "the Spanish schools," and "unknowns," all nicely framed and labeled, failed to inspire him. Though rather an overbearing youth, he did try to humble himself before the tar-colored things, the big and little crackled pictures, so copiously catalogued, and still they bored him. "What," he cried, "after my book of painters are these the works that make men famous? Though I appreciate the spirit that inspired their purchase, I wager these things to be but wooden-nutmeg and pine-ham concerns. When I grow older, I vow I shall see for myself." And so he did. At "This servant is peculiarly shrewd twenty-five, Brown had visited the last and clever-" picture in the Escurial, had found out the Simon Pures, the Salvator Rosas, the Caraccis, and had bowed before them; no longer a modest youth, he had poohpoohed Ruskin, had dined with Theophile Gautier, and was on the eve of going into the desert after Horace Vernet, when he lingered a day in Vienna. There was one picture that he wished to examine, and his artistic traps wanted replenishing; for Brown had become quite a crack amateur, that is to say, when the fit was on him. He was selecting his materials at a color-shop, when a hired drosky drove up before the shop door, and a lady entered. Brown saw her hand a medallion to the shopman.. "Can this be |