in the pit near the orchestra was suddenly seized with convulsions. His limbs stiffened; his eyes became set in his head, and stood wide open, staring at the ceiling like the eyes of a corpse; while low and agonizing groans broke from his struggling bosom. The prima-donna came forward at that moment, but seeing this livid, death-stamped face before her, suddenly stopped, with a tragic look and start, that for once was perfectly natural. She turned to the bass-singer, and pointed out the frightful spectacle. He also started back in horror, and the prospect was that the opera would terminate on the spot; but the scene that was just opening was the one in which the prima-donna was to make her great effort, and around which the whole interest of the play was gathered, and the spectators were determined not to be disappointed because one man was dying, and so shouted, "go on! go on!" Clara Novello gave another look towards the groaning man, whose whole aspect was enough to freeze the blood, and then started off in her part. But the dying man grew worse and worse, and finally sprung bolt upright in his seat. A person sitting behind him, all-absorbed in the music, immediately placed his hands on his shoulders, pressed him down again, and held him firmaly in his place. There he sat, pinioned fast, with his pale, corpse-like face upturned, in the midst of that gay assemblage, and the foam rolling over his lips, while the braying of trumpets, and the voice of the singer, drowned the groans that were rending his bosom. At length the foam became streaked with blood as it oozed through his teeth, and the convulsive starts grew quicker and fiercer. But the man behind held him fast, while he gazed in perfect rapture on the singer, who now, like the ascending lark, was trying her loftiest strain. As it ended, the house rang with applause, and the man who had held down the poor writhing creature could contain his ecstacy no longer, and lifting his hands from his shoulders, clapped them rapidly together three or four times, crying out over the ears of the dying man, "Brava, brava !" and then hurriedly placed them back again to prevent his springing up, in his convulsive throes. It was a perfectly maddening spectacle, and the music jarred on the chords of my heart like the blows of a hammer. But the song was ended, the effect secured, and so the spectators could at

DEATH IN THE THEATRE.

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end to the sufferer in their midst. The gens-d'armes entered, and carried him speechless and lifeless out of the theatre. If this be the refined nature, and sensitive soul, love of music creates, Heaven keep me from it, and my countrymen. Give me a heart, with chords that vibrate to human suffering, sooner than to the most ravishing melody, aye, that can hear nothing and feel nothing else, when moving Pity speaks. But so the world goes, -men will weep over a dying ass, then pitch a brother into the ditch. A play, oh, how they can appreciate, and feel it, they are so sensitive, but a stern, stirring fact, they can look as coldly on as a statue!

The wife of our chargé related to me the other day a curious illustration of an Italian's habit of crying "bravo" to everything that pleases him. During the winter there was a partial eclipse of the sun, and the Turinites were assembled on the public square to witness it. As the shadow of the moon slowly encroached on the sun's disc, they cried out "bravo, bravo," as they would to a successful actor on the stage.

A priest whom L― considers a great bore has just left us. He has one of the most treacherous, sinister-looking black eyes I ever saw in a human head. Mrs. L- says his presence af

fects her like that of a snake. I rather like him as a character, though I would not trust him an inch beyond his self-interest. He is honest in one thing, however-he says there is not a ghost of chance for a Protestant in the next world, and asserts that I am a gone man, with most provoking coolness. He will not let me stop even in purgatory, where the prayers of good Catholics might reach me, but shoves me straight past into the lowest pit of perdition. I laugh at his charity, and hope a better destiny

for him.

Truly yours.

LETTER IX.

A Day's Ramble through the City of Genoa.

GENOA, January 10, 1843.

DEAR E.-I do not know that I can give a better notion of the various little things you meet in Genoa, than by relating the incidents of a single day's promenade.

Yesterday at two o'clock I started out into strada Balbi, and passing the king's palace, Durazzo, and Balbi, and other palaces, came at length to an open square, occupied as a Vettura stand, which was blocked with those old, shabby, shattered, rickety affairs called vetture. The horses standing before them, either eating hay or looking as if they never had eaten any, seemed to have been carefully selected from all the smallest, oldest, sickest, poorest, laziest, rejected dray horses of the world. They all had on old Dutch harnesses, and many were supplied with rope traces and reins, while the dirty drivers looked like “ scare-crowS eloped from a corn-field." You would be amused to see one of these vehicles in motion. Built originally something like a common hack, they have an additional sort of calash top, projecting over the seat of the driver, which, having a decidedly downward pitch, gives to the whole apparatus the appearance of diving at the horses. Take some of the oldest (and they seem cotemporaries of the Ark) and get the team you would take for a pair of poor cows in full motion, and you would be astonished at the certainty with which they reach their destination. It is wonderful to watch how the carriage will keep the general horses, without appearing to follow them at all. seems to be, to keep the main run of the street. a carriage at home performing such evolutions as these vetturas often do, I should certainly halloo to the driver to hold up, in honest fear for his safety.

direction of the The great thing

If I should see

A DAY IN GENOA.

37

As I passed this stand I was hailed of course, like a passenger at a steamboat landing, with "a Milano, a Torino, a Lucca, a Pegli," &c. To the d-1, said a rough voice behind me. It came from an Englishman, who was running the same gauntlet with myself. He cursed, while I laughed involuntarily, thinking of New York, and wondering what the good people of Gotham would say to see such scare-crow establishments in their streets, offered to their service.

Leaving this rabble, I came to a bend in the street where Balbi is changed into Nuovissima. In the side of the wall, in the corner, is a fountain, at which women stood washing clothes, with as much unconcern as if they were not in the Broadway of Genoa.

Coming to another open space where the street takes the name of Nuova, on which there is not a building but a palace, I saw a group of men in that oval shape which always indicates something of interest in the centre. This is a law of bipeds, and knowing its universality, I stepped up to look in with the rest. In the centre was a Neapolitan with "twa dogs," which he affirmed came from the uttermost parts of the earth, even from America. I thought very likely, for one resembled a common bull pup, and the other looked like an ordinary black whiffet. The black one was walking with the most ludicrous gravity around the circle on his fore legs, while his hinder parts were elevated in the air. After he had finished his promenade, the man made a regular stump speech and then introduced the bull pup. He called him up and asked him if he liked tobacco. The little fellow lazily lifted up his fore paws to the man's knees and sneezed.

He then asked him if he liked maccaroni. He slowly turned up his eye, as much as to say, "What an insult !" and then deliberately yawned. "Now," said he to the dog, "we will have some music," On the ground was a piece of carpet, and on the carpet a sort of harp, with a piece of written music fastened at the top. The man knelt on one knee, and played an old, brokenwinded clarionet, giving at the same time a wink to the dog. The little fellow, with all the gravity, if not grace, of a Miss at a piano, squatted down on his hind legs, and, laying his little ears

66

back, lifted his fore paws to the harp and played, or rather pawed a sort of running accompaniment to the tune, amid peals of laughter. I shook my head at the man's first statement, and however much pride I might take in owning such remarkable pups as fellow-citizens, I knew none but a dog, born and educated in a land of fine arts and song, could learn music so early. It was an Italian dog and no other. I passed on through strada Nuova, and, turning to the left, came to another open space and another group of men, women and children. In the centre of this were a boy and girl, brother and sister, about ten and fourteen years of age; and they too were getting a living." They were from the Savoy Mountains. The girl had a sort of handorgan swung around her neck, resembling an old unpainted box, out of which she was grinding music, which she accompanied with her voice, and oh, such singing! The little, shabby, dirty thing, stood with her sun-burnt, pox-pitted face screwed up into a most tragical expression, and shooting forward at intervals, like the opening of a knife blade, to give force to her words, while the strained cords stood out like sentinels on her brown neck and bosom. The ragged urchin also had a box strapped around his neck, in which was a veritable "coon," that he made dance and whirl to the music. A few steps more brought me on to the grand promenade, "aqua sola" (solitary water), under which rest the mouldering bones of 80,000 people, who were swept away by one pestilence. Around me were fountains and flowers ; above me the terraced hills, and far away the sparkling sea. It was poetry all, even to the far off and glorious sky. Just then I stumbled on a group of women and children, sitting against the sunny side of a wall, looking heads, and from the appearance they seemed remarkably successful. This, too, is Italy, I exclaimed, as I turned into another walk, that overlooked the "Grand Paradise," and the residence of Lord Byron. But here, also, I was met by another Italian in the shape of a woman—a beggar—and resembling more a dirty, ragged Indian squaw than an Italian. Her sun-burnt hair hung over her face and shoulders, while an old woollen blanket, that extended from her head nearly to her bare feet, served partially to conceal the rags that covered her. She threw her head on one side, held out her hand, and in a