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be highly edified, and certainly showed no signs of seeing anything ludicrous in the performance; though their attention, I must confess, was at times somewhat divided between us and the puppets. When we arose to go, the manager again appeared, though the play was not quite over, and warmly thanked us for having honoured him with our presence.

At Siena this year, there was a similar exhibition, to which the country people flocked from all the adjacent country, and which had such success that it was repeated every day for weeks. Sometimes, also, stories from the Old Testament are played, such as the afflictions of Job; the sacrifice of Isaac; the story of Susannah and the Elders; and the Prodigal Son. A short time since, there was a representation of the Life of Samson, in which the puppet covered the stage with the bodies of the Philistines literally according to the Scripture, "heaps upon heaps.” But while making a long speech preparatory to quenching his thirst from the jaw-bone of an ass, he, unfortunately, forgot that it was filled with water, and in his spasmodic gesticulations he sprinkled and spattered it recklessly over the stage and into the faces of the orchestra to such effect, that finally there was not a drop left when the time came to drink. To do him justice, however, he never lost his countenance or self-possession at this trying moment.

But of all the feats of the Fantoccini, nothing can be compared to heir acting in the ballet. If the pantomime by actual "personaggi" be extraordinary, imagine what it is when performed by puppets, whose every motion is effected by wires, who imitate the gestures of despair with hands that cannot shut, and, with a wooden gravity of countenance, throw their bodies into terrible contortions to make up for the lack of expression in the face. But, if possible, their dancing is even superior to their pantomime. When the wooden-headed court, almost as solemn and stiff as a real one, have seated themselves on one side of the stage, and the corps de ballet has advanced and retreated in steady platoons, and retired and opened just like the real thing-in, with a tremendous leap, suddenly drops the prima ballerina, knocks her wooden knees together, and jerking her head about, salutes the audience with a smile quite as artificial as we could see in the best trained of her fleshly rivals. Then with a masterly ease, after describing air circles with her toes far higher than her head, and poising herself in impossible positions, she bounds, or rather flies forward with superhuman lightness, performs feats of choreography to awaken envy in Cerito and drive Ellsler to despair, and pausing on her pointed toe that disdains to touch the floor, turns never-ending pirouettes on nothing at all, till at last, throwing both her wooden hands forward, she suddenly comes to a

stiff stop to receive your applause. This is the very apotheosis of ballet dancing. This is that perfection "which we are seeking all our lives to find." Unhampered with the difficulties that encumber her mortal sister, she performs what the living creature can only attempt, and surpasses her as the ideal surpasses the actual. When we see her with her permanent smile and breast that never pants, we are not haunted by the notion of those sad hours of practising in the gloomy theatrical day, when the splendid clouds of tulle and the stereotype smile give way to shabby petticoats and twitching face, and her ear is saluted by the criticism of the master instead of the applause of the audience. Ah, no! the Fantoccina leaps perfect into her art from the hands of her maker, dreams her day away smiling just the same in her box as on the stage, is never harassed by want of food and family cares, disdains to eke out her insufficient salary by prostitution, is troubled by no jealousies, pricked by no vain ambition, haunted by no remorses, ruined by no failures, but without envy, sorrow, hunger, or the fear of old age, keeps a perennial youth and a perpetual smile. How much better to be a wooden Fantoccina than a living Ballerina! Better on all sides-not only for her, but for her maestro, who pays her nothing, hears from her no complaints, and is subject to no caprices. How miserable an apology, how wretched a mask Life seems beside Art! Who would not be a Fantoccino—a painted blockhead, if he could?

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VILLEGGIATURE; HARVEST AND VINTAGE.

S soon as the warm spring days come, and violets perfume the air, and daisies have snowed over the meadows, and the broad stone-pines give out their warm odour under the influence of the sun, the Romans begin to make their villeggiature. The wealthy families who have large villas within a short distance of the city generally go there to pass a few weeks, and every one who owns a vigna, or podere, spends there at least all the festa-days with his family and friends, sunning himself against the walls, or sitting under the shade of his pergola or loggia. This, however, is only a sort of prologue to the real villeggiatura, which commences about the latter part of June, or the first of July, when the heat of the city at midday begins to be oppressive. It is then that the Roman nobility really take flight into the country for the summer-going to their villas and castles in the marches about Ancona, or on the Alban and Sabine mountains. Until the heats of summer have set in, the sea-coast towns are also frequented by those who seek the salt air; but after July all the Roman shore below Civita Vecchia is haunted by the demon of fever and ague, which drives away all visitors. Even Porto D'Anzio, the "goodly city" of Coriolanus, with its curving beach and Neronic mole, can no longer be trusted; and nothing is left for bathers but Civita Vecchia, where the bathing is good-the prices extravagant-the people dirty, degraded, and dishonest-the mole, quay, and fortresses magnificent-the mendicants legion in number-the mosquitoes innumerable-and the sea and shore exquisite. Those who have means generally pass through this disagreeable town, and go on to Tuscany, where the fashionable world of sea-bathers congregate at Leghorn and Viareggio, and where there is every accommodation. On the Adriatic shore there are no conveniences to be found. Here and there a villa is to be hired; but, with the usual thriftlessness of the people, who live from

hand to mouth and from day to day, their beautiful shore is rendered uninhabitable to the stranger, simply from want of decent lodgings.

Nor is it only along the shore of the Adriatic that this is the case. Porto D'Anzio itself, that "most splendid" city, as Dionysius called it, though a favourite resort of the Romans in the spring and autumn, and within forty miles of Rome, can only boast one small bad inn and a single villa, where a stranger may struggle through a week. At Ardea, Ostia, and Nettuno, one is even worse off, and the antiquary who is interested in the remains of the ancient cities along the coast must make up his mind to bad lodging and worse fare.

At Frascati and Albano there are good lodgings to be had. Noble old villas may be hired on the Alban slopes for a small rent, with gardens going to ruin, but beautifully picturesque-old fountains and waterworks painted with moss, and decorated with maidenhair, vines and flowers-shady groves where nightingales sing all the day-avenues of lopped ilexes that, standing on either side like great chandeliers, weave together their branches overhead into a dense roof-and long paths of tall, polished laurel, where you may walk in shadow at morning and evening. The air here is not, however, "above suspicion," and one must be careful at nightfall lest the fever prowling round the damp alleys seize you as its prey. The views from these villas are truly exquisite. Before you lies the undulating plain of the Campagna, with every hue and changing tone of colour; far off against the horizon 'flashes the level line of the Mediterranean; the grand Sabine hills rise all along on the west, with Soracte lifting from the rolling inland sea at their base; and in the distance swells the dome of St. Peter's. The splendours of sunset as they stream over this landscape are indescribable, and in the noon the sunshine seems to mesmerise it into a magic sleep.

At Genzano two or three families may find a pleasant summer residence in the Villa Cesarini Sforza, which lies among gardens on the slopes of Lake Nemi, whose still waters sleep far below in the bottom of this green volcanic crater. In the town, also, lodgings may be procured, but they are very indifferent. At Albano and L'Arriccia are good inns, where apartments may be had at a small price, and many of the houses are also let to strangers,

But in the Sabine mountains, where the air is far more wholesome, and the scenery equally grand and beautiful, no villas are to be leased. In some of the towns there are good iuns, in some no inns at all. But where one is in the latter case, a bed can always be found at some house, where the family are willing to receive you and do their best to make you comfortable for a day. It is astonish

ing that the people have not the thrift to turn some of the houses or villas in this beautiful country into apartments for the accommodation of strangers during the summer months. There can be no doubt that they would be thronged; for, as it is, every room which can be had is in demand. At Subiaco, Palestrina, and Olevano, one might pass a charming villeggiatura within reach of Rome, among enchanting scenery; but there is not a house to be had.

Do you remember, my dear friend, the delightful days we spent in these old Sabine towns, and the evening at Palestrina, where there was no inn, and where the hospitable old woman who took us in could not bring her mind to kill the chickens she loved for our supper? As we sat at our table we saw her taking one after another out of an old basket under the long bench of the ante-room, smoothing down its feathers, pressing it to her heart, and muttering an almost inaudible soliloquy, of which we only caught fragments of words expressive of passionate affection and ejaculations of regret. "What are you doing?" we cried to her.

"Oh! signorini miei (it is years ago, and we were still pleased to be called signorini), I am trying to make up my mind which of them I shall kill for your supper-but I cannot-I cannot-they are so beautiful-so dear."

"For heaven's sake, don't kill them for us!" we cried.

What a smile of satisfaction she gave us as she heard this!

"Really-really-don't you want them? But in truth I could not kill them-they are so beautiful, so dear," she kept repeating as she came in, and seated herself at our table, and began to tell us her history.

"I had thirteen children," she said; "thirteen children-most of them sons-strong, broad-shouldered fellows, di buona pasta, like me," and she struck her broad solid breast as she spoke. "But one of them last year died. He was the eldest—what a man he was! There is his portrait on the wall-an artist who stayed here painted it for me. Oh, what a beautiful strong fellow he was! But he is dead-Dio mio, he is dead!" and the tears that began to ooze out of her eyes she wiped away with her apron. "So beautiful-so good-an angel-so strong and broad-shouldered-and now dead!" and she gave herself up a moment to her emotions, ejaculating, "So good-so beautiful!" as she looked at his portrait on the wall. But happening in the midst of this to glance through the open door of the kitchen, where a donna di faccenda was superintending the cooking of our supper, her attention became distracted, and she mixed up her sorrow for her son with her care for our meal in the oddest way. "Turn that steak, you fool," she cried out, "it will be spoiled! How stupid these people are!—Ah, he was so good, so

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