people in their circumstances would do in this country. If the singers are not excellent, they are still sufficiently good to please their audience; and many of the old stagers, though they are worn out and can sing no longer, have yet great taste and a highly-finished musical education, (as they mostly have fallen from higher theatres,) which are not lost either upon an observant audience, or those debutants who form the junior part of the company. Thus the popular theatres are the school of taste, of music, and of acting; and most of the singing wonders, who are afterwards distributed over every province in Europe, have at one time or another appeared, and received instruction on these humble boards. The people who attend, gain refinement, as well as find amusement; they are taught to sympathize with their superiors, for they can draw pleasure at a rivulet of the same fountain with them; and they learn content, for they can partake in the same enjoyments, though less in degree, as their masters and rulers. What a blessing would it be for England could there be similar establishments under proper restrictions, in order, by their means to rescue our inferior classes from the tyranny of gin-shops, demagogues, methodists, and other causes of evil under which at present they pine and labour, without hope of alleviation!

Another object to which the popular theatres are devoted, is the display of local manners, costume, history, and language. Small as Italy is, its people exhibit more variety, in every respect, than perhaps the people of any country of equal size. Each Italian state has its own dialect, as well as its own costume; and these dialects are not like our Yorkshire or Somersetshire slang, loose corruptions, which can claim no separate existence when put in competition with the current language of good society; no-each Italian dialect is to a certain degree fixed, has in most instances, and perhaps in all, a published glossary or dictionary of its terms, and can boast its books and its authors. Nor can they be called vulgar, for their expressions are frequently pleasing and even elegant; and many persons of fashion and education affect a dash of some dialect which happens to suit their fancy. The late King of Sardinia delighted to talk Piedmontese, which, however, is rather a separate language than a dialect; and the Teatro San Carlino, or little. San Carlo, at Naples, is said to be occasionally visited by members of the royal family, for the sake of its Neapolitan idioms. The Italian states consider themselves almost as distinct nations, call each other forestieri, or" foreigners," and have each their separate history. Hence the demand for a popular theatre, to illustrate the peculiarities of each.

At Rome, to which I must confine myself, the Teatro Pallacorda undertakes that office. It stands not far from the Borghese Palace, and is a little, dirty, narrow house, built in the usual oblong shape, where, at á very cheap rate, one may see popular performances, hear Roman slang, and occasionally have a specimen of the old Italian comedy of characters, to which Harlequin and Scaramouch are necessary appendages. The price of a pit ticket is 6 bajocchi, or 3d. of our money.

The Teatro Pace is a much less remarkable place of amusement than that last mentioned. In design and arrangement it is much the same. as the Pallacorda, except that it is a little larger and a little cleaner. But airiness and neatness are qualities which a modern Roman will never put into competition with amusement; and so the dirty Pallacorda was full of spectators, and the clean Pace empty. I find a memorandum,

that the principal actress here had only one eye, and that it gave her considerable trouble to turn her blind side constantly away from the audience. Admission to the pit 8 bajocchi, or 4d. English.

To close the list, and complete the subject, I may just mention the two little puppet theatres which are occasionally opened. The Teatro Fiano, in the Corso, is clean, and the exhibitions there are very amusing if one is not too near the stage. The Conquest of Mexico by Pizarro, concluding with a general action in which the puppets fight con furore, was admirably executed. The voice of the persons who read the respective parts was admitted by means of a sort of little Venetian blind on each side of the stage. In the ballet which succeeded, pirouettes, leaps, and various intricate steps, were performed with sufficient accuracy and absurdity to be ridiculous. Pit ticket 5 bajocchi (2 d.).

There is another and inferior, and I believe anonymous theatre in the Piazza Navona, the leading characteristics of which are sentimental comedy, drums and clarionettes. Admission to the boxes 5 bajocchi, (2 d.); to the pit, 3 bajocchi (1 d.).

D.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS,*

A BALLAD.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

KING Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,

And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;

They bit, they glared, gave blows like bears, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another,
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;
Said Francis, then," Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;
She thought, The Count my lover is brave as brave can be ;
He surely would do wond'rous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled;
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat ; "No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a task like that."

* See the story in St. Foix's History of Paris, who quotes it from Brantome.

A FRIEND IN NEED IS A FRIEND INDEED.

"THERE is nothing in the papers, and nobody in the streets," said Charles Bouverie, as with a disconsolate air he flung down the Times," and turned away from the window. "I may as well write to Audleyplace, and say that they must kill their own partridges this year; I can't leave town." Charles went towards the table, but he had no lady-like powers of filling four sheets with nothing, and the letter was soon sealed. Again he was thrown upon his resources; which have always appeared to me the very worst things on which an unfortunate individual can be thrown in the way of amusement. He looked round the room: there was one gentleman asleep-Charles envied him; and another reading the third side of a newspaper, he was one of those who never omit even an advertisement-the fourth side yet remained, and Charles envied him too. The fact was, that though, of course, it is the most enviable position in the world, that of having nothing to do, yet one requires to be used to it. Now our hero had been accustomed to the very reverse. Left an orphan to the care of three uncles,-the first intended him for a clergyman; saw to his Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; and fully impressed upon his nephew's mind the paramount importance of University honours. However, he died; and the second uncle insisted on the senior wrangler taking a place in his countinghouse. A will of his own in a young man without a shilling is a superfluity, and Charles took his place on a high stool at a high desk. Just then the third uncle died. He had troubled his head very little about "the only hope of the family" during his life; but after all, the last recollections are often the best, and he recollected his nephew to some purpose. Charles Bouverie was left sole heir to a fine fortune; for the elder Mr. Bouverie died just as he had realized the sum on which he meant to enjoy himself. To the best of our belief, he had seen the pleasure; for the enjoyment of spending money is nothing to that of making it. Charles gave up the ledger as he had given up Euclid; removed to an hotel in the gayer part of town; devoted his mornings to the club instead of the counting-house; and intended to be the happiest of men, in the full indulgence of the dolce far niente. Unfortunately, the art of doing nothing requires some learning; and Charles, though he would not have owned the truth on any account, was the least in the world puzzled what to do with himself. London was very empty, and he had as yet but few acquaintance; while he could not help regretting his annual visit at Audley-place. A month of partridges and pheasants is a very real pleasure to a young man country-bred-and forced to spend the other eleven in town.

Our hero approached the window, that resource of the destitute. There was nothing to be seen, even in St. James's-street! Three hackney-coaches, and two women in pattens passed by; also a man with an umbrella dripping, which he held rather over a brown paper parcel than himself: at last, a bright spot appeared just above the palace, the rain seemed to melt into luminous streaks on the sky, and the rain-drops that had sprinkled all over the panes of glass began to gather into two or three large drops, and to descend slowly along the surface. They

would have done to bet upon, but there was no one to bet with. The pavement began to dry, and Charles decided on a walk. He reached the clubs; and stood there for five minutes deliberating whether he should turn to the right hand or to the left, having no necessity for turning to either; and here we cannot but say that necessity is "an injured angel." He, she, or it is never but harsh, stern, and unpitying; and cruel necessity" is the phrase par distinction of all parted lovers. Now I hold that necessity merits more amiable adjectives;what a great deal of trouble is saved thereby. To an undecided person like myself, the inevitable is invaluable. Before Charles had done standing like Hercules in the allegory between Pleasure and Virtue, alias the right and left of St. James's-street-a cabriolet drove rapidly up to the door.

"My dear fellow!" said its occupier, "I am in search of you. I want you to go down with me to my aunt's, and stay there till Wednesday. Her house is within three miles of Croydon, so you could be back in town at an hour's notice. Let me take you to your hotel, and thence I shall get you to drive me down."

Charles accepted the offer with the gratitude of a desperate man; it was just what suited him, and he sprung into the cabriolet in the gayest spirits. Horace Langham, the knight who thus had delivered him from the dragon ennui, had long been the object of his especial envy. He was a young man about town, good-looking, well dressed, with all the externals of a gentleman, quite unquestionable. The few needful · preparations were soon made, and as they settled themselves in the stanhope, Langham said, "I have made you drive us down, for my horse has been overworked lately. My aunt unluckily has a great prejudice against strange servants; but there is a nice little country-inn close by, so yours will do very well."

The conversation was for a time very animated, for Horace knew something about every one who was anybody; and was very well inclined to tell all he knew. Anecdotes though, like other treasures, must come to an end; and Charles took advantage of a pause to ask if Mrs. Langham had any family.

"Only a niece," was the reply.

"Is she pretty?" asked his companion.

"Not if you put it to my conscience," said the other; likely to be rich: will that do as well?"

"but she is

Charles coloured, from "a complication of disorders." First he was quite shy enough to be annoyed at its being supposed that he cared whether there were any young ladies in the world or not; and, secondly, he was quite romantic enough to be shocked at the idea of money supplying the want of a pretty face. He was relieved from his embar rassment by Mr. Langham's snatching the reins from his hand, and exclaiming, Bouverie, we must drive back to town immediately! I have forgotten my aunt's netting silk-she will never forgive me!-old ladies are so cursedly unreasonable. Why did she plague me about her horrid silks? However, if we make haste, we shall yet be in time for dinner. I wonder why old women are left in the world!"

Without waiting for Charles's reply, he put the horse to its utmost speed, and drove furiously back to town. The drive was now any thing but agreeable: a heavy shower of rain beat directly in their faces, and

Horace's conversation was confined to maledictions on all elderly gentlewomen, and lamentations on his own ill-luck, in having any thing to do with them. The particular shop was reached; the silk was proeured, and again they took the road to Croydon.

The rain continued to fall in torrents, and Langham's spirits seemed to have fallen with the barometer. In sullen silence he continued to drive at a furious rate, till Bouverie's sympathies were awakened on behalf of his horse: he was just about "to hint a fault and hesitate dislike," when the clock of a church in the distance struck six.

"It is of no use now," exclaimed the impatient driver, slackening his speed. "We are too late for dinner,-the thing of all others that puts my aunt out; I must lay the blame upon you, she can't say anything to you as a stranger. We must go and dine at that confounded inn."

Wringing wet, they arrived at a disconsolate-looking inn, 'The Swan.' Truly such a sign only could have swung in such weather. A fire was hastily lighted in the best parlour, from whence the smoke drove them; and they took refuge in the kitchen redolent with the smell of recently fried onions, varied with tobacco; for two men sat on one side the fire employed with two pipes. A very tough beefsteak was produced after some delay, badly dressed, for the chimney smoked; this was washed down with some execrable wine,-half cape, half brandy, but called 'sherry.' Charles could far better have endured these minor discomforts than his companion's ill-humour. Controlled towards himself, it broke with double fury on the heads of the landlady and the kitchen-maid. Charles wondered at this in a man whom he had always seen so full of gaiety and good-humour; but Charles had still many things to learn.

Dinner over, time given for "my aunt's afternoon nap not to be disturbed," they set off for the 'Manor-House,' as it was called. The rain was quite over, but the glistening drops on the green sprays of the hawthorn and ash reflected the moonlight, which was now breaking through the masses of dark cloud. A sweet breath came from the late primroses and the early violets in the hedges of the lane through which they had to pass. Had Bouverie been alone he could have loitered on his way; but his companion had long since merged the poetical in the sarcastic, if the former quality had ever entered into his composition. They soon arrived at the place of their destination, and entered by a picturesque old gate overhung with ivy; a gravel-walk, and a few stone steps, led into the hall. A sedate-looking butler met then there, and said, with a tone and air equally solemn, "Mrs. Langham, my mistress, waited dinner for you one quarter of an hour; the Major's rice was sadly overdone."

"No fault of mine, my good Williams, I assure you," exclaimed Langham, hurrying on to the sitting-room.

It was large, square, and dark; and a voice, that seemed to Charles singularly shrill, came from the upper end,-"Caroline, my dear, you have spilt the water."

He had no time for further observation, when he was led up to a very tall, upright-looking old lady, in a very tall, upright arm-chair, and was presented in turn to Mrs. Langham, her brother, Major Fanshawe, and to Miss Langham.