The lyric stage in Italy takes precedence of the dramatic, and in the large cities, Milan, Venice, Genoa, Florence, Rome and Naples, the production of a new opera is considered a national event, forming for many days previous to its production the chief topic of conversation in salons and caffes.  No such enthusiasm is manifested in regard to the first representation of a new play; and although the house may be crowded and the author called before the curtain, he may deem himself happy if his drama is played four times during the season; whereas a popular opera will be given night after night for two months.  An opera, if it has any merit, may be the means of carrying the fame of Italian genius to the farthest limits of the earth, but it is a chance if the comedy which pleases at Venice will be appreciated in the least degree at Rome or Naples, such are the variations in manners and customs, especially amongst the lower orders, between one Italian province and another.  Hence, opera is greatly fostered and protected.  There are a dozen musical conservatori, public and private, in each of the principal cities, for the training of singers, and prizes are accorded to them out of funds especially set apart for the purpose by the government, which also grants large annual subsidies to the leading lyric theatres, such as the Scala at Milan, the San Carlo at Naples, the Fenice at Venice, the Pergola at Florence, the Carlo Felice at Genoa, the Communale at Bologna, and the Apollo at Rome.  The dramatic stage has none of these aids, the various companies have to pay their own expenses, and, whatever may be the merits of the artists who compose them, they scarcely ever obtain any special recognition from the government.  Although the smallest Italian city possesses its theatre, and some of the capitals—­Milan and Naples, for instance—­at least a dozen, there is no training-school for the stage in any part of the country.  Nor is there such an institution as the English Dramatic College, where decayed artists can retire when their day of glory is past and they have become poor and lonely.  Each city has one theatre, the largest and most magnificent, reserved exclusively for operatic performances, and where the unmusical drama is scarcely ever tolerated.  I once saw Ristori act in Metastasio’s Dido at the Scala for the benefit of the wounded during the war for Italian independence; but this was the only occasion in fifty years on which an actress had declaimed in that enormous edifice, and nothing but patriotic charity would have excused such an infringement of time-honored etiquette.  When, therefore, the Italian opera-houses close for the season, they are never reopened for the accommodation of wandering “stars.”  The consequence of this is, that the drama is banished to the inferior theatres, and whilst thousands of francs are spent on the scenery of a new opera or ballet, the poor player has to content himself with an indifferent stage and wretched decorations.