parts equally coarse and shallow.  Her love is the love of a peasant; her anger, though having the Italian picturesque richness and vigor, is the anger of an Italian fishwife, entirely unlike anything in the same rank elsewhere; her despair is that of a person with the toothache, or who has drawn a blank in the lottery.  The first time I saw her was in Norma; then the beauty of her outline, which becomes really enchanting as she recalls the first emotions of love, the force and gush of her song, filled my ear, and charmed the senses, so that I was pleased, and did not perceive her great defects; but with each time of seeing her I liked her less, and now I do not like her at all.

Persiani is more generally a favorite here; she is indeed skilful both as an actress and in the management of her voice, but I find her expression meretricious, her singing mechanical.  Neither of these women is equal to Pico in natural force, if she had but the same advantages of culture and environment.  In hearing Semiramide here, I first learned to appreciate the degree of talent with which it was cast in New York.  Grisi indeed is a far better Semiramis than Borghese, but the best parts of the opera lost all their charm from the inferiority of Brambilla, who took Pico’s place.  Mario has a charming voice, grace and tenderness; he fills very well the part of the young, chivalric lover, but he has no range of power.  Coletti is a very good singer; he has not from Nature a fine voice or personal beauty; but he has talent, good taste, and often surpasses the expectation he has inspired.  Gardini, the new singer, I have only heard once, and that was in a lovesick-shepherd part; he showed delicacy, tenderness, and tact.  In fine, among all these male singers there is much to please, but little to charm; and for the women, they never fail absolutely to fill their parts, but no ray of the Muse has fallen on them.

Don Giovanni conferred on me a benefit, of which certainly its great author never dreamed.  I shall relate it,—­first begging pardon of Mozart, and assuring him I had no thought of turning his music to the account of a “vulgar utility.”  It was quite by accident.  After suffering several days very much with the toothache, I resolved to get rid of the cause of sorrow by the aid of ether; not sorry, either, to try its efficacy, after all the marvellous stories I had heard.  The first time I inhaled it, I did not for several seconds feel the effect, and was just thinking, “Alas! this has not power to soothe nerves so irritable as mine,” when suddenly I wandered off, I don’t know where, but it was a sensation like wandering in long garden-walks, and through many alleys of trees,—­many impressions, but all pleasant and serene.  The moment the tube was removed, I started into consciousness, and put my hand to my cheek; but, sad! the throbbing tooth was still there.  The dentist said I had not seemed to him insensible.  He then gave me the ether