prompting. But this does not seem to annoy their neighbours, unless the latter happen to be strangers or accidental visitors. The seats here are narrow, hard, uncushioned, and by no means comfortable, but the Italians neither complain of this, nor of the terrible smoke of oil-lamps, which have not yet given way to gas in some of the theatres. There is this odd peculiarity among Italians, that though they are not sensitive to bad odours, such as the smoke of an oil-lamp, the hot, thick human odour of a crowd, or the reek of garlic, yet they have a general dislike to what we call "perfumes," which they rarely use, and are fastidious even about the scent of flowers, which they consider to be neither agreeable nor wholesome in a close room. If you have foolishly (for the Italians are right in this) placed a bouquet of flowers in your sleeping-room, it is nine chances to one that your chamber-maid will throw it at once out of the window, without even consulting you.

It is not ordinarily difficult to procure a box for a night at any of the theatres, unless there be some very unusual attraction, for whenever the owners of boxes have other engagements for the evening, as it happens to a certain number nightly, they send the key of their box to the office to be sold on their account; and, on even a night of special interest, the houses are so large that it is rare to find all the boxes on the second and third tiers occupied.

The boxes are ill-furnished, with common straw-bottomed chairs without arms, sometimes a mirror, and generally a velvet cushion in front on which to rest the elbow or arm or to place the operaglass; no carpets are on the brick floors, which, in the winter season, numb one's feet with cold. One of the servants of the theatre, however, always comes to the box to offer footstools, for the use of which he asks a few baiocchi. But comfort is not an Italian word, nor an Italian thing; and if you are dissatisfied and begin to grumble at the desolate and cold boxes, and contrast it with the cushioned and carpeted ones at home, please to pause and count the cost of that comfort, and remember, that here you pay three sixpences and there a guinea to hear the same singers. I was never so struck by this as once on coming from Italy into France. I had just been hearing the "Trovatore" sung by the troupe, in which were Beaucardé, Penco, and Goggi, for whom it was written; and when the season came on in Paris nearly the same company were advertised to sing the same opera there. I was inclined to hear them again, but after having heard them six months before for three pauls, I experienced a decided sense of unwillingness to pay ten francs for identically the same singing, merely because my seat was an armchair well-padded and covered with velvet. So, too, after for years

purchasing the privilege of listening to Ristori and Salvini for two pauls and a half, or a shilling English, I rebelled in London against paying half a guinea for the same thing; the chair in this case being scarcely more comfortable, and the house much more close and stuffy.

Once in Florence, being at a loss how to amuse myself for the evening, I determined to go to one of the little theatres where I had heard that there was a good tenor singer and by no means a bad company. I found, certainly, no luxury there; the scenery was bad, the orchestra meagre; but I heard Beaucardé sing in the Sonnambula," and paid a half-paul for the entertainment. A cup of coffee and roll at Doney's and a cigar after that finished my evening, which I had particularly enjoyed, and on counting up the cost, I found I had only expended a paul for both opera and supper. I think I never had so much for so little money.

With the French, English, and Americans, the opera is an exotic, for which one must pay dearly. In Italy it is common as oil and wine, and nearly as cheap. The discomfort naturally goes with the cheapness, but is amply compensated for by it. The scale of everything connected with its expenses is low; the actors and singers have small salaries, the orchestra get a few pauls apiece, and nobody makes a fortune out of it; but the people have a cheap amusement, and this is an enormous gain.

All the world goes to the theatre; it is an amusement which never tires the Italians, and despite the heats of summer and the cold of winter the boxes and pit are always well filled. Nothing short of a revolution would empty them. Once, however, during the year 1848, being at Naples, I agreed with a friend to pass the evening at the San Carlino, celebrated for its humorous and admirable acting. On our arrival at the door we found a crowd gathered in the piazza talking excitedly together, and evidently in agitated expectation of something. On inquiry, we found there had been an outbreak among the lazzaroni during the afternoon; and though it was at once suppressed, there was some fear lest another disturbance might arise, and the troops again fire on the people as they had done only a week before. The orchestra, actors, and all the supernumeraries were collected in the piazza and around the door; and we said to each other, "There will be no representation to-night, of course." Our doubts were, however, speedily dispelled by the ticket-seller, who answered our inquiries as to whether there was to be a performance by a "Sicuro, sicuro; favorisca. Che posto vuole?" (Certainly, certainly; be kind enough to come in. What seats?) So we purchased our tickets and went in. The theatre was

quite dark, only one or two tallow-candles burning on the stage and in the orchestra seats. Not a human being was to be seen. We looked at our watches; the time for the commencement of the play had passed; and, after waiting five minutes, we determined that there would be no performance, and sallied forth to retake our money and surrender our tickets at the door. The ticket-holder, however, strenuously insisted that the performance was to take place. "Non dubitino, Signori. Sì farà, sì farà. Favoriscano." (Do not doubt. There will certainly be a performance. Please to walk in.) Then with a loud shriek he sent his voice into the piazza to summon the director and the actors, who, with unwilling steps, came up to the door, shrugged their shoulders, and said, "Eh!" But the director bowed in the politest manner to us, assuring us that there would be a performance, and favorisca'd us back into our seats. It was as black as ever. In a few minutes, however, the curtain dropped; one lamp after another was lighted; the orchestra straggled in, urged forward by some one in authority who bustled about and ordered right and left. In about ten minutes matters were completely arranged; the orchestra took their seats and began to play. We looked round the theatre and found that we constituted the entire audience. At first we felt rather awkwardly, but expected every moment to see the seats fill. No one, however, came in. At last up went the curtain, and the play began to us as regularly as if the theatre were thronged. Vainly we protested; the actors enjoyed the joke, played their best, and made low bows in recognition of the plaudits which the whole audience, consisting of Nero and myself, freely bestowed upon them. Never did I see better acting. Nor did the joke wear out. The curtain fell after the first act, and we were still alone. We made a renewed protest, which had no effect; save that a couple of boys, probably engaged behind the scenes, were sent into the pit; and thus the whole play was performed. When the curtain finally dropped there were only about fifteen persons in the house, and they, as far as we could judge, belonged to the theatre, and came in to enjoy the joke. I doubt whether a complete performance ever was given before or after at any theatre to an audience consisting of two persons for the sum of one piastre ; nor do I believe that even at the San Carlino, renowned as it is, more humorous and spirited acting was ever seen.

At the first night of the season at the opera it is a point of etiquette for all the proprietors of the boxes to be present; and a brilliant spectacle it is, the house being uniformly crowded, and every one in an elegant toilette. On this occasion the impresario

sends ices and refreshments round to all the boxes.

Instead of receiving at home, the Romans generally receive in their loge at the opera. Each family takes a box, and as only two or three of the chairs are occupied, there is ample accommodation for visitors. No entrance fee is required except for the pit, and no expense is therefore incurred in making a visit from the outside. A large collection of friends and acquaintances is always to be found in the theatre, and these lounge about from one box to another to pay visits and to laugh and chat together, not only between the acts, but during the performance. Every palco is in itself a private conversazione, the members of which are constantly changing. Each new visitor takes a place beside the lady, and yields it in turn to the next comer. Often there are five or six visitors all animatedly talking together, and amusing themselves in a most informal way-the music all the while being quite disregarded, and serving merely as accompaniment. The same attention to the opera itself cannot of course be expected from those who have heard it night after night as would be given were it fresh and new. The inferior portions are therefore seldom listened to; but when the prima donna, tenore, or basso, advance to sing a favourite air, scena, or concerted piece, all is hushed to attention. The husband is rarely to be seen in his box when other visitors are there-taking then the opportunity to slip out and make his round of visits.

The body of the house is illuminated solely by a chandelier, the chief light being concentrated on the stage. The interior of the box is consequently so dark that one may shrink back into it, so as to be entirely concealed from view, and take coffee or ices (furnished from the caffè close by), or press his mistress's hand, and whisper love into her ear, "untalked of and unseen." Connected with the private box of Prince Torlonia is an interior one, handsomely furnished, where friends may lounge and chat at their ease and take refreshments. All the other boxes are single.

Much as the Italians like the opera, they like the ballet still more. This is often interpolated between the acts of the opera, so that they who do not wish to stay to a late hour may enjoy it. The moment the curtain draws up and the ballet commences all is attention; talking ceases, lorgnettes are levelled everywhere at the stage, and the delight with which the mimi and the dancers are watched is almost childish. The Italian ballet-dancers are generally heavy and handsome; and, though they want lightness of movement and elegance of limb, they make up for it by the beauty of their faces and busts. This heaviness of make is, however, peculiar to the Romans. In the north they are slenderer and lighter. As Italy gives the world the greatest singers, so it supplies it with the most fascinating

dancers. Ferraris, Carlotta Grisi, Rosati, Cerito, and Fuoco, are all Italian.

They are even more remarkable as pantomimic actors, or mimi as they are called here. The language of signs and gestures comes to them like Dogberry's reading and writing-by nature. What the northern nations put into words the Italians express by gestures. Their shrugs contain a history; their action is a current commentary and explanation of their speech. Oftentimes they carry on conversations purely in pantomime, and it is as necessary for a stranger to learn some of their signs as to study his dictionary and grammar. The lazzaroni at Naples cheat you before your face in the simplest way by this language of signs, and, passing each other in their calessino, they have made an agreement to meet, informed each other where they are going, what their fare pays, given a general report of their family, and executed a commission, by a few rapid gestures. No Italian ever states a number without using his fingers, or refuses a beggar without an unmistakable movement of the hand. This natural facility in pantomime is strikingly shown at the institution in Rome for the education of the deaf and dumb. Comparatively little is done by the tedious process of spelling; but a whole vocabulary of gestures, simple, intelligible, and defined, serves these mutes as a short-hand language. The rapidity with which they talk, and the ready intelligence they show in their conversation, is surprising. Their communications are often more rapid than speech, and it is seldom that they are driven to the necessity of spelling. The head of this establishment, who is a priest, has devoted himself with much zeal and skill to the education of these poor unfortunates, and they seemed greatly to have profited by his instruction. But what struck me more than anything else, was the simple and ingenious system of pantomimic conversation adopted, and, I believe, invented by him.

The mimetic performances on the Italian stage are remarkable. The mimi seem generally to prefer tragedy or melodrama, and certainly they "tear a passion to rags" as none but Italians could. Nothing to them is impossible. Grief, love, madness, jealousy, and anger, convulse them by turns. Their hands seem wildly to grasp after expression; their bodies are convulsed with emotion; their fingers send off electric flashes of indignation; their faces undergo violent contortions of passion; every nerve and muscle becomes language; they talk all over, from head to foot :

"Clausis faucibus, eloquenti gestu,

Nutu, crure, genu, manu, rotatu."