Argentina are the two principal. The Valle opens immediately after Christmas; the Argentina succeeds in the summer, or after-season; the Tor'di Nona, considerably smaller, performs nearly at the same time with the Argentina. The performances in the two first extend to the entire dramatic circletragedy, comedy, pastoral, &c.; and as base and substratum of the whole, music. The Tor'di Nona follows, "haud passibus æquis." The Aliberti is almost a ruin; and from its extravagant size, reserved for the only use to which it is now applicable-the celebration of the Carnival Festini once or twice a year. The Palla-corda, as its name designates, is a kind of Astley's. The Romans have their old propensity for this sort of amusement; the "funabula" enjoy all their ancient celebrity; and no theatre at Rome has a more numerous or devout race of votaries than the Palla-corda.

The day after Christmas-Day the Valla opened, with the usual gala, and the new opera and ballet for the season. Every thing here must be new; new company, new orchestra, every thing but the faded drapery of the boxes, the painting of the theatre, and the tattered canvass of the scenery. This novelty, however, soon wears out; not more than two musical performances are usually given in the season, and these, such as they are-and they are often of the worst description—are, night after night, as in other parts of Italy, repeated ad nauseam. It is a matter not merely of curiosity, but of party, to obtain a good first hearing. The jury which decides on the first night usually seals the fate of the season. The crowd therefore on such occasions is more than usually tumultuous; every one is anxious to put in his claim to the only franchise which a modern Roman may be said to enjoy. They come, as of old, to sit in solemn Areopagus on the merits of the respective candidates, and seem ludicrously impressed with the high character of their critical functions. The choice divides all Rome: the struggle is carried on with the utmost strenuousness and decorum, and the triumph celebrated with an exultation not unworthy of the election of one of our members of Parliament. I remember seeing a tenzone of this kind between Pacini and Donizetti. Pacini was the conqueror, not without some imputation of secret and even unprofessional machination. He was charged with having bribed the Prima Donna, &c. The moment the piece terminated he was hurried from the theatre, and carried upon the shoulders of his partizans through the principal part of Rome, with flambeaus, music, &c. stopping from time to time under the windows of his fair protectresses (the Princess Borghese was at their head), and returning them thanks for their encouragement and patronage. The defeated party had their revanche; the Prima Donna was tried for corruption, on their appeal, before the Governor, convicted, and fined fifty crowns. In all this there was nothing considered either strange or odd; the people blamed or applauded, but no one stared or sneered.

In this spirit, and with the anticipation of a luxurious critical treat, I was hurried off by one of my theatrical friends, at about half-past six, to the Teatro Valle. We had to pass through a multiplicity of narrow and obscure lanes, in a very populous district of the town (the region of the Pantheon), before we could reach its difficult and encumbered entrance. It has since been repaired, but it was then without any external pretensions whatever. The front, in a town which is all architecture, was unworthy of a village barn. The interior had the great demerit of being perfectly consistent with the exterior. It was large and democratic-truly the theatre of the people; the best portion the pit; the boxes mere cachots, ill fronted and ill ventilated; the corridors, if possible, worse; so narrow, that you ran against the greasy wall and streaming oil, and were offended by the bare and rickety boards which trembled under you at every step. As to gallery, properly so called, there was none; but neither was there populace or rabble to fill it. Populace and people are here one, and conduct themselves with an attention and propriety which would shame our aristocracy. There was but one passage out, and that but ill calculated for a cry of "Fire!" Now all this had been endured for nearly a century in the country, and in sight of the monuments of the Cæsars.

It was not until the absolute risk attending upon the performances had directed the attention of the people and the Government to the nuisance, that it was deemed advisable to correct it. The present structure, raised after various efforts and accidents, by Valladier, is neat and convenient enough; but the description of the former is still applicable, in more than one instance, to the other theatres of Rome.

The first aspect of a Continental Theatre is discouraging enough; and in this particular the Italian exceeds the French. We err in another extreme. Our too much light has nearly the effect of no light at all; or perhaps it is worse it brings before us two spectacles, as many stages as there are boxes, and thus sacrifices to accessories, what, as end and principle, should stand alone. The theatre on the Continent has been much truer to the preservation of the illusion. It concentrates the light, and in a great degree the attention, upon the only object on which it ought to fall. The drawing-room vanities now and then may suffer a little by this improvement, though gallantry, and society, generally speaking, know very well how to repair their loss. This well managed, as at Milan, is admirable, but in the minor theatres it opens a door to every neglect. What is not intended to be seen, or is seldom seen, is soon abandoned. In the Roman theatres, besides, there is no superior police to interfere or correct; the Government, it is easy to perceive, is no shareholder; every thing is dimness and carelessness; the feeble efforts of the princely families to drape and tinsel a tier or two of boxes, make no atonement for the nakedness of the rest: and, as to the people's participation in the business, the people are entitled only to be amused; they pay their money, see the play, and are not so unreasonable as to think of comfort.

I was handed the play-bill on entering. Instead of a sober catalogue of names and characters as with us, I found it to be a puff, beyond the most extravagant magnificence of Elliston himself in that most useful style of writing. Every one was lauded from the public up to the actor himself. "Les pauvres diables sont sans nulle vergogne;" and what is worse, this self-eulogy is exacted by the public with the same punctiliousness as a mere stage bow.* The opera of the night was Rossini's admirable "Tancredi." He was yet in the dawn of his fame, and had not been forced to that spendthrift and careless expenditure of his talent, which, at a later period, has made him even a plagiarist from himself. The Roman piques himself on his " emunctæ naris" style of criticism, and superciliously concentrates his enthusiasm; whilst the Florentine magniloquizes in guttural Tuscan, and the Neapolitan gesticulates away his overburthened spirit, with a fervour and rapidity which defies the feeble imitation of mere word. I shall not forget the reception of the Catalani: it was a good illustration of this temper. Her engagement at Rome was limited to three nights. The first, whether from fatigue or professional indifference to the anticipations of the public, was commonplace and slovenly. The Romans contemptuously pronounced on her merits, and on the succeeding night stayed away. The result was what might have been anticipated: she sung divinely; nothing was talked of on the morning but the admirable music which every one had missed. The third night the theatre was crowded to excess; expectation was on tiptoe: the stratagem

The following is an extract from one of those productions now before me: "Teatro Valle-Aviso-Per la sera di Sabato 10 Gennaio. A benefizio del caratterista Giovanni Boboli. Chi non sa che tutto è Maneggio nel Mondo? L'uomo in società l'a reso così necessario, che per vivere onestamente bisogna far uso di esso. Maneggiamoci dunque (dice il Caratterista della compagnia Blanes Giovanni Boboli) per fare nella Sera suddetta una buona serata di Benefizio, onde poter maneggiare anch' esso Gli effetti della Romana Prodigalità. Ma come farà egli per riuscirvi ? Ecco come farà. Non farà torto al buon gusto di chi seralmente lo compatisce: ed esporra una commedia mai più comparsa su queste scene scritta dal Gran Maestro dell' Arte cioè dall' Avocato Carlo Goldoni, che porta appunto per titolo La Donna di Maneggio," &c.

had fully succeeded: her singing was, if possible, worse than on her debut; she smiled at their disappointment, left the Romans to brood over their fastidiousness, and the next morning started for Naples. A feeling somewhat akin to this seemed to watch over the first representation of "Tancredi." There were no hisses, but little rapture, and less applause. The discipline, indeed, which the Government keeps up over the passions of the audience is a still more adequate cause for such a state of dignified tranquillity, than any deficiency of feeling in the audience itself. The Southerns habitually entertain, through every rank, a very just sense of the luxuries of good order; and this perception is rendered still more lively by the intervention of a judicious number of cocked hats, bayonets, mustachios, &c. An O. P. war would be impossible in Italy: it would be much easier to break up the Conclave. Theatrical opinion is limited to laughs and tears; taking snuff, which may be done with a great variety of accent and idiom; using an opera-glass when the ballet is “ sub judice;" and depositing, much in the manner of a secret ballot, their conscientious verdict with a whisper in the ear of their next neighbour.

I sauntered for some time about the boxes. The custom here, as in other parts of Italy, is calculated on a very scientific view of society. The duty is made as compendious and easy as one of our new sciences in Pinnock's Catechisms. No visits in the morning but one; in the evening obeissances, attentions, visits, and visitations, par preference et par etiquette, to the whole ring of your acquaintance. Thus more intercourse, and, I am willing to believe, as much friendship, and far less ennui, is generated, (as to other particulars, each Italian is adequately provided,) as can be hoped for under our own laborious system of card-acquaintanceship. Each box is the lady's castle or boudoir: she there holds her little court, patronizes, advances, and deposes. The “Chi avvicina adesso ?" is now and then significantly whispered in the opposite boxes, and answered as scandal or jealousy may dictate. Then come the loose wanderers through the circle: the patiti, still in a state of severe probation; the aspiranti, looking up with devout ardour to the place of the patiti, as they to the more fortunate one of amanti; and, finally, the discarded," moping away in melancholy silence in search of some new Dulcinea to fill the vacuum in their heart, and to furnish them with new exercise for that faculty, which in an especial manner seems the living principle of the whole structure of Italian society. To the initiated and philosophic, an Italian theatre is therefore, in the fullest sense, a sort of moral Panopticon: the lady blends by its arrangements all the agrèmens of public and private life: you see her passing, almost in the same instant, from a sort of petite comité society in the twilight of her box to the spectacle and splendour of a salon; and the gentleman, while he has a panoramic view of the circle, and looks at the ever-moving world around him through the loophole of his retreat, may enjoy, with this facility of public observation, all the laisser aller of boudoir communication "sans peur, et sans reproche." A lounge through such a gallery is a most instructive lecture in moral philosophy: strangers, too, have great advantages as long as they continue such; but when once in the drama themselves, the spirit of discrimination vanishes, as a matter of course. Milan is the perfection of the system: there the boxes form two distinct apartments; one looks towards the stage, the other is immediately in the rear: the first is reserved for the more obvious purposes of the opera; affairs of still greater moment, faro, conversazione, and petits soupers, are the business of the second: now and then, at the sound of a favourite arietta, two or three of the more professed amateurs, who have a character for connoisseurship to maintain, will drop in from such enjoyments, dispense authoritatively their nods and bravos, for the instruction of their weaker neighbours, and, after an encore or two, (though in this particular an Italian audience is, no comparison, more merciful than an English one,) slip back once more to the more attractive occupations of their interior.

The parterre is a richly coloured contrast to all this: it is, truly, a hurlyburly confusion of the most anomalous elements. Aristocracy jostles Radi

calism without derogation or scruple: all classes and persons are tumbled together like a game at Lotto. In the front seats you will meet the unwinking and vigilant dragons of criticism, repeating the prompter as the prompter repeats the actors; shaking the powder from their heads, at every passage which is fortunate enough to find grace before them, and screaming and shuddering with sensibility at every trip of the singer or the orchestra. Then come, immediately behind them, their admirers and imitators: the man who yawns, and cries bravo in his sleep, and is a soi-disant beau after French code and impudence; the man who gives the important pinch of snuff at the close of each arietta; the man who cries hush, and never listens; the man who stands on tiptoe behind tall carabineers, and peeps through the loopholes of their arms; in fine, what may without an impropriety be termed emphatically, the spectators and the audience. These are succeeded by, or intermingled with, the mere umbræ, or hangers-on; such, for instance, as the Englishman arrived that morning, with his valet-de-place behind him, flapping the meaning of every scene into his fastidious ear, grave in the midst of general laughter, and smiling in the midst of gravity: the ramblers by profession, the goers out and comers in, without any more decided vocation than the extinguishing of so much unendurable time: the sleepers, evening after evening, immediately under the boxes (for an Italian serious opera, even to the Italians themselves, is no contemptible soporific): these, with now and then a thin sprinkling of clerical three-cornered hats, (for the Abbate is neither excluded by conscience or custom, no more than his predecessors, from these amiable levities,) constitute the great proportion of that play-loving population, who go to the filling up of half the theatres of Italy. At the opening of the theatre, the Governor of Rome gives a "gala." A gala sounds magnificently to English ears; I am sorry to say it is very little more than sound. Servants, in their state liveries, at the conclusion of the opera, come in with wax lights crossed in one hand and ices in the other, to the second tier of boxes (the aristocratic), and retire. The ices are eaten, the lights extinguished, and the Governor saluted and thanked. This ceremonial occupies two minutes, and is meant to typify the treating of the entire Roman people. Some Englishmen looked up from the pit, and exclaimed loudly against the injustice and monopoly which seemed to be going on in this upper world. The Governor was stately and solemn, and did this portion of his duties of Edile with due dignity. Such is the last relic of the munificence of the Scauri and Luculli; the latest trace, perhaps, extant, of the "Panem et Circenses" of the ancient Romans.

The opera was succeeded by a ballet, Barbarossa, the great lion of the evening. It was got up with the most insolent indifference to any thing like illusion. Nothing could be more abominable than the decorative portion of the entertainment; this too in a capital from which all excellence in this department had originally emanated.* Before the performance had yet commenced, we had faces peeping out, of all nations, through the greasy

The decorative portion of theatrical representation was, at an early period, an object of the highest interest and attention. The first artists did not think it below the dignity of their art to apply their time and talents to such purposes. San Gallo was employed in the decorations of the Clizia. Perugino, Francia Bigio, and Ghirlandaio, in those of the Mandragola. Jovius states, that these latter were so admirable, that Leo X. had them removed to Rome at his own expense. Rome, however, surpassed Florence. The other parts of Italy, Milan, Venice, Bologna, were scarcely inferior. The representation of the Calandra at Urbino was said to have been unrivalled. Many of these "macchine," as they were called, were however quite temporary: the performance usually took place in the immense palaces of the nobility; and when over, the decorations were removed. The theatre of the Cardinal Riario was amongst the first permanently open to the public. It appears to have excited some surprise at Rome. "In media Circi cavea, toto consessu umbraculis tecto," says Giovanni Sulpizio in the dedication of his Vitruvius. The ancient theatres, with few exceptions, were open.

apertures of the ragged drop-scene. Then came the performance itself; it was a grand equestrian war-and-love sort of business, where turbans and mustachios, Rugantino voices, and seven-league boots and strides, made up the entire interest. The horses looked like post-horses just caught and sent in from Baccano, and, being naifs and ill educated, did a great deal which stage horses ought not to do. The dancing was miserable: all rush and leaping. Rome piques herself on this species of absurdity. She calls it the "Grotesco;" and it consists in proving how far and how quickly all grace may be blotted away from the form, and the softer sex surpass, in coarseness and agility, even ours. The greatness of the angle, exhibited in these efforts, determines the merit of the performance. It is farce, below the barn farce of England, faggoted together with fustian tragedy of the deepest Germanic dye, and topped with the sublimest burlesque in the scenes of Tom Thumb. This dancing, however, bad as it was, turned out in the end (though I did not exactly see how) a great peace-maker. Turks and Christians, managers and link-boys, shook hands, and came hustling in on the stage together like the famiglia of an Italian nobleman, to exhibit their carnival contrasts with their usual self-satisfaction to the public. I retired at a late hour, but a new imbroglio had started up, destined, I suppose, to be determined by a new congress: a grand pas de quatre was officially announced, and preliminary entrechats had already preluded, by way of protocol to the definitive arrangements of the treaty.

mour.

It is thus that the sort of half-protection extended by the Court, acts much like that timid practice in medicine, which, afraid to kill or cure, permits the patient, at his own convenience, to die. In the other towns in Italy, the Government is usually a contracting party, and caterer-in-chief for the amusement of the public. At Rome, the real spectacle and the real drama, are of a different complexion. It is one vast convent, where the gay and the serious are alike conventual. The high mass of the morning, the vespers and benediction of the evening, the procession, the funeral, the tonzione, of every day and hour, are the amusements and stimulants. For these the coffers of the Camera, and the purse of the noble, are always open. Their superior frequency and magnificence is the point of honour of the city, and the people themselves very visibly prefer them. There is a sort of reflective and reverie indolence about their nature, half the effect of climate, and half of habit and government, the very reverse of the sprightliness or brio of the North, and the rushing and thoughtless revelries of the South of Italy, which, in a very remarkable manner, predisposes the national mind to such sort of indulgences. At the same time, few nations seem better qualified for the full perception of the richer and more recondite sources of comic huTheir pasquinades abound with that "merum sal et lepos," that hinted, rather than expressed, a strain of delicate and keen satire, which is one of the most invaluable ingredients of true comedy. Yet comedy languishes, and tragedy seems nearly extinct: the whole of their admiration is surrendered to indifferent opera and worse melodrame. This, however, is a reproach which may be extended to all Italy. Alfieri, "in odium auctoris," in the first instance, and in the next, from a false apprehension of the influence of his writings on a people who scarcely understand him, was prohibited by the successive French Governments. He has nearly continued so: his political plays, which form so large a portion of his theatre, are comparatively unknown. The insipid and starched drama which preceded him, has fortunately sunk to oblivion. The Merope of Maffei, the boasted chef-d'œuvre of that school, is rarely seen, even upon the provincial boards; and the laborious imitations of the Trissinos and Rucellais are long since consigned to the dust of the closet. Metastasio is sometimes performed, and even without the music; but his sugary style is insufferably cloying to all but Italian ears, to whom poetry consists much more in music than in thought. There is nothing, however, to substitute in his place. The modern dramatists have, no doubt, assumed a bolder and deeper tone: you do not see, particularly in their later productions, the swoln pedantry of Plutarch sown on the