player's lack of talent; but their indulgence endeavours to find excuses for it. It is difficult to shake their confidence; but as soon as a suspicion finds its way into their worthy minds nothing can get it out again. They inspect the bogus Italian, all unknown to him, with conscientious deliberation; and then, when they are at last convinced, instead of becoming indignant with the charlatan and expelling him from their midst, they enact a little comedy at his expense.
They encourage him to lie, to boast, to exhibit his foolish pretensions, and laugh in their sleeves while feigning to admire him, until the moment when Caraffa, in consternation, realises that they have been laughing at him for weeks. In this way they induce him, despite his prudence, to betray his insignificance, by showing them some of his works; and to ensure that he shall not have recourse to his usual method of composition, which is one of shameless copying, they succeed in shutting him into a dressing-room and watching him from outside. "Caraffa is working with all his might. He hums, he drums with his hands, he raps on the table, he sings, he beats time with his head and feet. No working-man occupied in the most laborious trade toils as he does. After an hour and a half of this the sweat is pouring over his face and back, and he has not yet thought of a melody. Now he tries to set pen to paper; he dips it in the ink; he writes, but always erases what he has written; he spoils paper, tears it up and begins again. He tries another method; he rises and marches furiously across the room as though he intended to break down the doors and the walls; this continues for a good quarter of an hour. Finally he resorts to the
