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sugar in his coffee; and whether the contralto eats peas with a knife;-lest, in fact, I should disclose all the little peculiarities and eccentricities which came to my knowledge-I will at once proceed to relate another incident which occurred during the expedition now especially referred to.

Wondrous things have been accomplished by skilled musicians; and their powers of memory are sometimes remarkable; but even the best informed on such subjects will scarcely credit the statement that on this identical tour an entire opera of Rossini's was once played by the orchestra without a single bar of music to assist them. This event occurred at also

on an occasion when "Il Barbière" was announced for performance, and the business at the box-office augured a very large attendance. By some unaccountable accident the music of the opera was left behind in London, and the fact was not discovered until it was too late to supply the omission. The music was not to be obtained in the town; and it was found to be impossible, or at least extremely hazardous, to substitute any other composition for the favourite opera announced. What was to be done? The singers were panic-stricken, and the band began to sound their instruments as if they expected to find new virtues in them. It was left to the conductor to solve the difficulty, and he solved it by saying much to the consternation of all concernedthat 66 they must play the opera through without the music." The band willingly assented, and so successfully was the task accomplished, that not a single fact transpired to indicate to the audience that the music was performed from memory! In token of his appreciation of this important service, the entrepreneur invited the whole troupe to a banquet, where all the "voices" and all the "instruments" sat down together in the most harmonious friendship, and nothing occurred to disturb their enjoyment, save the repeated attempts of the double bass to obtain a hearing, while he expressed his tremendous acknowledgements of the honor which their entertainer had conferred upon them. But this duty, though not left to his tender mercies, was judiciously discharged by another, and Mr.- in responding to the compliment, produced such general satisfaction amongst his auditors, that one and and all gave note of their approval in sounds much more vociferous than harmonious.

One of our journeys on this "grand tour" involved the necessity of our starting at six o'clock in the morning, and as the railway station happened to be at some distance from the hotel, the party were compelled to rise between four and five. The knowledge of this fact rendered one of the tenors any thing but amiable and agreeable on the previous evening; for it was then the depth of winter, and Signor was not accustomed to quit his bed till mid-day, even in the height of summer. However, he had received a telegraphic despatch stating that the morning concert, at which he was announced to sing, could not be postponed, and that if the company did not appear at the time, legal proceedings would be taken. Fulfilment of the engage.

ment was, therefore, unavoidable, and the party were all up in time to eat a hasty breakfast, with the exception of our friend the before-mentioned tenor; and the trouble of awakening him to a sense of our joint responsibility (for I had undertaken to insure his arrival at our destination) was so great, that a stall at the Opera for an entire season would scarcely compensate for it. The panels of his chamber door were almost shattered in the attempt to rouse him; and when at length he made his appearance, it was quite evident that he was fully prepared to be too late for the train, the hour of starting having actually arrived, and the distance to the station being about a mile and a half. A fly was at the door, and some few of his professional brethren were awaiting to accompany him, knowing that, without him, they might as well spare themselves the journey, the magic of his name being an all-powerful attraction at the impending concert. "More asleep than awake," and without so much as a cup of tea or coffee to fortify him for the wintry prospect before him, he was conveyed, almost by force of arms, from the hotel. Arrived at the station, it was discovered that, owing to an accident, the train would be upwards of half an hour after its time. Whereupon the woe-begone tenor was so chagrined at the discomfiting haste with which he had been driven to the scene, that he paced up and down the platform in a fit of the most virtuous indignation; and when steps were taken to pacify him, he expressed himself profoundly disgusted that "he was not informed the train was going to be late, as in that case, he would have had time for his breakfast and to get his voice in order!" To add to the unpleasantness of the predicament, he had been obliged, in common with the others of the party, to array himself, not in costume for travelling, but in such attire as wonld befit the concert room, as the time would no allow of any change of toilet on the arrival of the troupe at their destination. The appearance of these musical constellations, (who are not supposed to shine except in the night time) on the railway platform at six o'clock on a winter's morning, apparelled in such a manner as to be more suggestive of "stepping out of a band-box" than into a railway carriage, was certainly an amusing illustration of the peculiar straits to which our lyric favourites are liable to be exposed; and to their credit it must be said that, although they may sometimes be defective in voice, they are invariably effective in costume. 'Tis true they are amply rewarded for all they do; but who shall gainsay the fact that they sometimes pay dearly for their fame, in submitting to intrusions on their privacy, and in being persecuted by inquisitive and reckless admirers. I need not remind my lady readers with what ardent determination members of their sex often pursue, from the stage to his own dwelling, a popular tenor, whose enchanting strains have so taken possession of their thoughts, that they merge every other passion in the one prevailing desire to catch a near glimpse of him, and, if possible, hear the sound of his voice addressed to their enraptured selves. As an instance of the influence exercised over the gentle

daughters of Eve by the favoured sons of song, the following somewhat romantic incident may be thought worthy of notice.

One fine afternoon, our hero of the tenor voice was walking by the seashore, and was a little perplexed to find that two young ladies, prettily and tastefully dressed, were watching his movements, and evidently guiding their steps according to the direction he took. If he stooped to pick up a shell, or stood to regard, with interest, the rising and receding of the glittering water, he observed that the two fair ones immediately halted; and when he proceeded on his way, they kept within so short a distance of him, that he could not possibly escape their notice. Happy tenor! to be they cynosure of innocent eyes, lighted up by admiration of thy all-absorbing self! At length he discovered that one of the nymphs was walking in advance of her companion, and was approaching nearer and nearer to the brink of the sea. They had now arrived at a spot which was not often visited by pedestrians, and it is not very likely that Signor would have ventured so far, but that he was curious to learn the end of the adventure (for adventure, his little ramble was evidently destined to be) and therefore he continued on his way, even to a jutting rock, beyond which it seemed dangerous to proceed. Turning round for a moment, he observed the foremost of the two damsels take off her shawl and bonnet, and deliberately jump into the sea, which at this point was some two or three feet below the level of the shore. "Save her! save her!" cried the terror-stricken companion of the suicide, "my sister will we drowned!" That the two adventurous damsels were sisters might be easily divined and the perplexed predicament in which they—or at least one of them-had placed Signor may be imagined with equal facility. Here was, indeed, a situation," which demanded all his heroic powers to do full justice to! at a sequestered spot on the lone seacoast one of the "ornaments" of the operatic stage seemed thus lured to his own destruction by two romantic sisters, one of whom had imperilled her life, and the other now loudly implored him to preserve it! He who had so often received the plaudits of admiring thousands, was suddenly called upon to play a part, without the accustomed sounds to stimulate his efforts, and to gladden his ears, in token of the popular appreciation ! The position was imminent, and Signor was equal to the emergency. In an instant he had disburdened himself of his hat and coat, and the fair lady was safely restored to her sister's arms. "What could be her motive for attempting so rash an act?" was the natural inquiry that was made, when the event came to be known; and a truthful solution of the mystery was soon supplied by members of her familily, who stated that she had been so much charmed by Signor formance on the previous evening, that she was resolved to place herself in his way, and to let him see that she was spell-bound by his powers of fascination. Well aware, however, of the impropriety of addressing him, and tortured by disappointment at the fact of his not speaking to her, when so favourable an opportunity presented

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itself, she suddenly conceived the idea of leaping into the water, and thus risking her life, in order that, at least, she might become an object of interest in his eyes! "Truth is strange, stranger than fiction."

"Who could the singer be?" exclaim the young ladies who may chance to read this narrative, and who have themselves experienced a similar passion to that which. was betrayed or this momentous occasion. "Who could it be, I wonder? Was it Mario, or Giuglini, or Gardoni, or-?”

Imagine it to have been all three, and many more, if you please, and there will be no monopoly of your approving rewards.

Such are a few of the more noticeable events which give an air of romance to the travels of our favourite singers; and I have purposely omitted all mention of names, in order that the reader may supply them according to his or her especial predilection.

CATHERINA ZELLER.

A TRUE STORY.

G. H.

TOWARDS the close of September, 1844, a vettura coming from Ferrara, arrived late in the afternoon at Viterbo, a town situate nearly forty English miles from Rome, and among the passengers was a young woman of attractive and lady-like appearance, who immediately on their arrival separated from her fellow-travellers, and put up at the most respectable inn in the place. Her appearance excited not a little curiosity, as no one except the police who called to see her passport, seemed to know her name, or the object of her visit, and the mystery was very much increased by the circumstance that no one afterwards saw her in the town, and that on enquiry at the locanda, it could only be ascertained that she left the second morning after her arrival. On that morning, however, at a very early hour, a young female, dressed in the habit of a pilgrim, might have been seen leaving Viterbo, and enquiring, outside the gate of the town, for the road which led to Rome. She wore a coarse stuff or woollen dress, of a dark brown colour, and the usual oil-cloth cape, with scollop shells and brass medals sewed upon it; the broad leaf of her pilgrim's hat almost wholly concealed her face; by her side hung a gourd; in one hand she carried a small parcel, and in the other bore a long slender staff, surmounted by a small bras 3 cross. Her pilgrim's habit was in fact externally complete; but the coarge outside garments concealed fine and costly ones beneath, which were not at all consistent with the character which the wearer assumed.

The steps of our pilgrim were light enough for some miles of the way, but yet not so quick that she was not overtaken, when little more than an hour on the road, by a man who seemed journeying in the same direction. The new-comer, who might have been from five and twenty to thirty years of age, was a swarthy, dark-visaged man. He wore a loose round jacket of coarse blue cloth, leather gaiters, a red handkerchief tied

loosely round his neck, and a high peaked hat with the leaf turned up on the right side; and from his costume might be taken for a cattle-drover or bottero. On overtaking the pilgrim he slackened his pace, and accosted her with the usual salutation-"Bon' giorno, Signora." Signora is going, no doubt, to the Holy House of Loretto?" said he, after a short pause.

66

"No Signor, I am on a pilgrimage to the holy places of Rome," was the reply.

"Then we shall be fellow-travellers, for I too am going to Rome," he rejoined.

"I travel too slowly for you; I shall not be in Rome these three days, so you had better hasten on your way," quietly observed the young woman, to whom the proffered companionship was anything but agreeable.

“Oh, for my part, I am in no hurry; to me it is quite equal if I don't reach Rome this week; I prefer travelling with a pleasant companion and taking my time," said the bottero with a smile.

"Then I assure you, you would not find me a pleasant companion; I am on a pilgrimage, and prefer being occupied with my prayers; my best companions will be my guardian angel, my rosary and my staff," said the lady, hoping to extricate herself from the society of her fellow-traveller.

"Signora knows it is not safe to travel alone on these roads," he added.

"I think you must be mistaken," she coldly replied; "I am sure a pilgrim has nothing to fear on the road in any part of Italy."

There was a pause, and the man then said, at the same time touching his hat respectfully;-"If sua eccelenza will permit me, I shall be very happy to conduct her safely to Rome."

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"And perhaps farther-Signora is not an Italian," he added.

"Quite true; but you are now inquisitive, friend; you know I have not asked you how far you have travelled," she said.

65 "Oh," he added, with an air of great candor, "I have only come from Viterbo, my native place."

"I am very sorry to hear that," said the lady with some sharpness.

"Excuse me, but why is Signora sorry?" said he. "Because I have heard Italians say that nothing good comes from Viterbo, though I suppose that cannot be true," rejoined the lady, casting a calm and searching look on her companion.

"Ha! ha! ha!" exclaimed the cattle-drover, "they give my town a bad name, but I am sure it is not worse than other places."

The firmness displayed by the lady in this conversa

tion seemed to have the desired effect, for after a while her disagreeable companion quickened his pace, and disappearing in the distance, was not seen by her again that day. On the first evening she halted for the night at Ronciglione, and resuming her route at an early hour next morning, she resolved to make as much progress as possible towards the Eternal City.

The country through which she was passing, in its grand and arid scenery, and its associations, was sublime. The olive-trees and the vineyards did, indeed, afford abundance of verdure for a sweet landscape, hai not the diaphanous atmosphere brought the naked precipices of the far-off hills into such close proximity to the beholder, as to mingle them with the foreground of the picture. The grey tufa, and the loose yellow volcanic earth, shewed themselves every where through the herbage; when the immediate successors of Romulus warred with the Etruscans on that same soil, the traditions of its volcanoes were even then too remote for preservation; and yet at this day the aspect of the country is much the same as if the lava had flowed down its hills within our own memory. The rugged and singular outline of Mount Soracte, whose name has been so strangely metamorphosed into Saint Oreste, rose not far off on the left hand; the Sabine hills appeared in the south-east; on the right hand ran the dreary ridge of high land which separates the old Cassian way and the valley of the Tiber from the road to Civita Vecchia and the sea shore; and the eye of our pilgrim was strained looking out in the south for the distant cupola of Saint Peter's, which the traveller sees, even while the seven hills among which it stands, are still mingling with the horizon. The loneliness of the road might well fill the solitary pedestrian with fear, did not the transparent quality of the atmosphere to which we have alluded, cause the distant towns and villages, perched upon crags, or peeping through remote olive groves, to seem so near, that one felt as if human society and aid were always within one's immediate reach. And thus our pilgrim journeyed on, always sustained by confidence, and only taking rest when she stopped to pray before the road-side crosses or shrines of the Madonna. In her second day's journey she again encountered the cattle-drover. He was waiting on the road-side, and pleaded lameness as an excuse for his tardy progress. He complained of the heat and of his poverty, and the fair pilgrim, out of pity, treated him to some wine at the next osteria.

About noon on the third day the pilgrim approached La Storta, a village of some half-dozen houses situated about seven miles from Rome. Near the entrance was a shrine of the Madonna, before which knelt, as she came up, an old Franciscan lay-brother, with bare head and feet, and wallet on back; while an elderly woman and child, both in the picturesque costume of the Campagna, were kneeling at one side. The group had come to say the mid-day angelus, and our fair pilgrim also knelt for the same purpose. She then placed a flower in a small vase which stood before the picture of the Blessed Mother and Child, and dropping a piece of silver in the hand of the mendicant fiiar, again knelt in prayer. Her

hat hung between her shoulders, suspended by a ribband round her neck, and disclosed the beautiful outline of her face and head. Her features were chiselled after the most exquisite model; her eyes shot forth a light of wonderful brilliancy, and her hair of flaxen fairness was gathered in a knot behind, save that the large goldheaded pin which fastened it, failed to prevent a slight ringlet from stealing down the graceful neck. She was very young-not more than twenty years of age; her expression was thoughtful and melancholy, and the elegance of her deportment, notwithstanding the simple shape and coarse materials of her dress, indicated gentle birth and education. Clasping her hands, she prayed with fervor, and could the thoughts of her heart have been audible, she might have been heard to say

"O Madonna mia! I am near the end of this long, long journey, and yet I am more terrified than ever at what I have done in undertaking it. Alas! why have I left my home? why have I assumed this holy habit of which I am unworthy? I have tried to persuade myself that I am indeed a pilgrim, and that I set out to visit the tombs of the Apostles and the holy places of thy city, but my conscience tells me that there is another and a stronger motive which has brought me here. Oh! what sin and madness have I been guilty of! How grievously have I profaned the holy profession of a pilgrim by making it a cloak for human love! And after all, perhaps I may not sce him in Rome, and if I do, perhaps I may find him changed-his mind absorbed by ambitious hopes in his profession, or his heart engaged to another! And what should he think of the wild rashness of my proceeding if he knows it? And how shall I discover myself to him, should I find him? And is it possible that my long pilgrimage to Rome may lead, after all, to nothing-nothing but despair? O Conrad, Conrad, every thought of thee only brings shame or terror to my poor heart. O father and mother, why have you been taken from me by death, and your unhappy Catherina left guideless in the world; poor, weak, weary, sinful, Catherina ! O Madonna mia! will you not still be to me a mother ?" Thus did our poor pilgrim pray, and sob, and ejaculate, until she felt as if her heart would burst with the struggling emotions; and at length, long after the Angelus hour had passed, and after the others who had been praying before the shrine had departed, she rose from her knees, looked more cheerful, and proceeded with weary steps to enter the village, where no human being was, at that sultry hour, astir out of doors but herself. At the osteria where she stopped for refreshment, she found the cattle-drover seated before her. Her steps seemed constantly to lead her into his preFence, but as his manner had been distant and most respectful ever since the conversation that passed between them the morning they had left Viterbo, his company had ceased to give her any annoyance or alarm; she saw that he was poor, and she paid his fare at the osterias where they met, and began to look upon him as an old attendant in whom she could confide.

About two miles from La Storta, on the road to

Rome, the traveller, in approaching the city, meets at his right hand a fragment of antiquity, to which popular tradition has given the name of Nero's tomb. It is one of the sepulchral monumen's which lined the ancient Cassian Way, according to the old Roman custom, and the remains of many of which are still visible. A partly obliterated inscription, on a large marble slab which faced the ancient road, but is turned away from the present one, informs us that it was erected to the memory of one Caius Vibius Marianus, a Romen officer of high rank, and to other members of his family, probably in the latter days of the empire; and we know, besides, that the Emperor Nero was interred far from it, on the Pincian hill; but tradition, which has taken many a fantastic liberty with the antiquities of Rome, has called this monument on the Cassian Way, the tomb of Nero, and the association with the memory of that prince of all human monsters, has invested it, and will continue to invest it, with a certain character of horror.

On the morning after that which brought our pilgrim to La Storta, a courier passing the way was attracted by the appearance of some unusual object under the mouldering ruin to which we refer. He halted, and a moment's examination discovered to him the body of a murdered woman, clothed in a pilgrim's habit. He conveyed the news to the Roman police, and an alarm was soon spread far and near. It was true; the lovely young pilgrim whom so many had seen, or heard of, was found murdered at Nero's tomb ! There were indeed, no newspapers to circulate the painful intelligence, but it passed with the rapidity of lightning from mouth to mouth. Then came the enquiry, by whom was she murdered? Here, too, public opinion quickly arrived at a conclusion. Several persons had observed the cattledrover in the pilgrim's company, and some waggoners had recognized in him a certain Antonio of Viterbo, a man of notoriously bad character. It was also remarked, that he was seen returning to Viterbo without having gone on to Rome, and that he carried a parcel which he had not the preceding day, when passing through La Storta. Various circumstances, in fine, pointed him out as the perpetrator of the crime, and no doubt whatever on the subject remained, when the police, who arrested him at Viterbo, discovered in the possession of his wife a parcel containing bloody clothes, which were identified as the property of the murdered lady. The character of the man might be judged from the fact, that although married but three months, he had not during more than half of that time lived with his wife, and that he now returned to her only with the produce of his crime.

In the mean time it was bruited in Rome, that the name of the lady was Catherina Zeller; that she was a native of Bavaria, and belonged to a family of high rank; and the romantic circumstances connected with it, as well as the atrocity of the crime, produced extraordinary excitement. Various rumours on the subject got afloat, but for a long while a profound mystery enveloped the whole affair. Some would have it that the lady was a pious enthusiast, who had undertaken so

extraordinary a pilgrimage to expiate an imaginary sin, and this was the report which the friends of her family wished to propagate; but the true version of the story was, that she was coming to Rome to see her lover, who was a student of the Bavarian Academy of Fine Arts in that city; and that she had formed the plan of seeing him without being recognized, and of ascertaining for herself how he lived, and whether he was worthy of her love.

We may imagine the anguish of the young artist when he learned the name of the lady, and conjectured, as he had good reason to do, that it was her love for him which had brought her on that fatal journey. The sacrifices which the fond love of woman's heart is so constantly making, or prepared to make, are seldom fully understood or appreciated, but it was indeed a fearful sacrifice which the beautiful and unfortunate Catherina had made for the object of her affection.

Let us not blame the Roman laws for the facilities which they afford to a criminal to escape from the hands of justice, until we remove the beam from our own eye, and let us rather call to mind the many atrocious crimes which have been allowed to go unpunished in our own country, and in very recent years, through some quibble of our boasted laws, and at the very time that no doubt remained on the public mind, of the guilt of those whom the dexterity of our lawyers had rescued from condign punishment, let us not then be astonished that the murderer of the unhappy Catherina was able to avail himself, to a very great extent, of these so-called merciful provisions of the Roman law. He tried all the appeals from one court to another, which that law authorises, even in criminal cases, and was able to ward off the final judgment against him from the September of 1844, until about the Easter of 1845. In all probability, he would ultimately have escaped, had his victim been only the poor pilgrim which she appeared to be; an assertion which may be made without throwing any slur upon the merciful laws of the Eternal City, when, as has been said, we consider the verdicts which our own juries are coerced by our legal forms to return in the face of their own convictions, and when we recollect, moreover, that the chain of circumstantial evidence against him was not absolutely complete. last appeal was to the mercy of the charitable confraternity, which has the privilege of annually releasing a condemned criminal in Rome: but all was in vain. The friends of the murdered lady were powerful, and the Bavarian Minister, at the Pontifical Court, urged on the prosecution, until the wretched criminal at length expiated his crime on the scaffold, near the Bocca de la Verita. In his last moments he confessed his guilt, and admitted that plunder was his only object in committing the murder. He saw the deceased change a piece of gold one day, when paying his expenses at an osteria, and from that moment he was resolved to commit the robbery. Roman artists have perpetuated the memory of the tragedy by representations of the beautiful pilgrim ; and travellers, when they now visit the so-called Tomb of Nero, associate with the monument the sad fate of Catherina Zeller, on her pilgrimage of love. M. H.

The

MY FIRST (AND LAST) DAY AT
MR. WALKER'S.

WHEN I say at Mr. Walker's, I mean at his daily English and Mercantile Academy, formerly situate in Corkstreet in this city. There is no use in looking for the establishment now; it is gone like its principal; but lest any should be sceptical of its existence at all, I take the trouble of p'edging myself that it did exist, and flourish too in its day. Moreover, I am pretty certain that such young gentlemen as had the happiness of being under the care of Mr. Walker at his English and Mercantile Academy, and still survive, retain to this day lively recollections of that excellent man's system of imparting instruction as I do myself, although, owing to circumstances, my experience of it was limited to one day. How I got into the hands of Mr. Walker, I never rightly understood. I suppose in the absence of satisfactory evidence on the point, my father, who was one of the mildest and simplest of men, had heard a good account of Mr. Walker's academy, as an educational establishment, without having heard anything of Mr. Walker's peculiar discipline, and selected it for me as the best for my promotion in learning, a matter he was anxious about, I being then seven years of age, and enjoying the reputation of being a smart intelligent lad, of whom many warm-hearted friends had thus early predicted that he would, in due time, become “a counsellor." At this period a strong desire possessed me to acquire the distinctions and privileges of a schoolboy, of which the principal in my mind was the carrying across my shoulders in public a full-sized baize bag containing my school-books and lunch enveloped in paper, and strapped thereon. I had up to the time of my transference to Mr. Walker, concerning which I have now to say something, been instructed in my English course by an ancient female, who, in her young days, had been the schoolmistress and playmate of my father, and in whom he had strong faith, and probably, it was my unconcealed discontent at the position I held, and my frequently-expressed desire to exchange to an academy, by which I would acquire the distinction I so much coveted of carrying the bize bag, that led my father to look about for a suitable school, and finally to select Mr. Walker's. The financial and other preliminaries necessary to be discussed with Mr. Walker before I was entitled to have conferred upon me the advantages of his English and Mercantile Academy, were all, I presume, duly and satisfactorily arranged before I was called from behind the counter of my parent's shop, where I was displaying my abilities as a pyrotechnist in the manufacture of a number of simple but effective fireworks, known amongst juveniles in those days as "devils," (and which were to be let off with the usual éclat in crowded thoroughfares, for the gratification of the public, in the course of the evening), to be introduced to Mr. Walker. This ceremony took place in the parlour, where Mr. Walker had been for a considerable period taking tumblers of punch, for which I subsequently

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