and but that I so long fought against Ecelino da Romano, and the imperial interest in Italy, I could readily forgive her all her past errors.  To us of the Lombard League, it was grievous that she should remain so doggishly faithful to her tyrant; though it is to be granted that perhaps fear had as much to do with her devotion as favor.  The defense of 1848 was greatly to her honor, and she took an active part in that demonstration against the Austrians which endured from 1859 till 1866.

Of the demonstration we travellers saw an amusing phase at the opera which we attended the evening of our arrival in Vicenza.  “Nabucodonosor” was the piece to be given in the new open-air theatre outside the city walls, whither we walked under the starlight.  It was a pretty structure of fresh white stucco, oval in form, with some graceful architectural pretensions without, and within very charmingly galleried; while overhead it was roofed with a blue dome set with such starry mosaic as never covered temple or theatre since they used to leave their houses of play and worship open to the Attic skies.  The old Hebrew story had, on this stage brought so near to Nature, effects seldom known to opera, and the scene evoked from far-off days the awful interest of the Bible histories,—­the vague, unfigured oriental splendor—­the desert—­the captive people by the waters of the river of Babylon—­the shadow and mystery of the prophecies.  When the Hebrews, chained and toiling on the banks of the Euphrates, lifted their voices in lamentation, the sublime music so transfigured the commonplaceness of the words, that they meant all deep and unutterable affliction, and for a while swept away whatever was false and tawdry in the show, and thrilled our hearts with a rapture rarely felt.  Yet, as but a moment before we had laughed to see Nebuchadnezzar’s crown shot off his head by a squib visibly directed from the side scenes,—­at the point when, according to the libretto, “the thunder roars, and a bolt descends upon the head of the king,”—­so but a moment after some new absurdity marred the illusion, and we began to look about the theatre at the audience.  We then beheld that act of dimostrazioni which I have mentioned.  In one of the few boxes sat a young and very beautiful woman in a dress of white, with a fan which she kept in constant movement.  It was red on one side, and green on the other, and gave, with the white dress, the forbidden Italian colors, while, looked at alone, it was innocent of offense.  I do not think a soul in the theatre was ignorant of the demonstration.  A satisfied consciousness was reflected from the faces of the Italians, and I saw two Austrian officers exchange looks of good-natured intelligence, after a glance at the fair patriot.  I wonder what those poor people do, now they are free, and deprived of the sweet, perilous luxury of defying their tyrants by constant acts of subtle disdain?  Life in Venetia must be very dull:  no more explosion of pasteboard petards; no more treason in bouquets; no more stealthy inscriptions on the walls—­it must be insufferably dull. Ebbene, pazienza!  Perhaps Victor Emanuel may betray them yet.