Russian interests ; but, there are very many
dramatic and operatic performances that lie
under the ban of the Muscovite Boguey, on
the inimical plea. M. Scribe's vaudeville of
the Verre d'Eau is proscribed in Russia.
Rossini's William Tell has, of course, never
been heard there in public. The Étoile
du Nord achieved an immense success ; but,
as there were some inconvenient little
matters in the libretto about Peter the Great's
madness and drunkenness, the title was
quietly metamorphosed into Charles the
Twelfth. So with numerous dramas and
operas with inconvenient titles or inconvenient
incidents. Have any of my readers
ever heard of an opera, usually considered to
be the chef-d'oeuvre of Auber, in which
there is a market chorus, and a tumult, and a
dumb girl, and an insurgent fisherman riding
on a horse from the circus ? That dear old
round-nosed, meek-eyed white horse, that
seems to be the only operatic horse in the
world, for he is himself, and his parallel, and
nought else could be it, in every country I
have visited : — a patient horse, bearing burly
baritones, or timid tenors, or prima-donnas
inclined to embonpoint, with equal resignation ;
a safe horse — never shying at the noise
of the big drum, never kicking out at the
supers, and, above all, never, as I am always
afraid he will, inclining his body from his centre
of gravity at an angle of sixty degrees, and
setting off in a circular canter round the
stage with his mane and tail streaming in
the opposite direction, till brought to a sense
of his not being at Franconi's or Astley's by
a deficiency of whip, and an absence of
sawdust, and a sudden conviction that there
must be something wrong, as his rider is
sitting on his back, instead of standing thereupon
on the saddle with the red velvet tablecloth,
and is uttering shrieks of terror, instead
of encouraging cries of " Houp la ! " There
is a general blow-up and eruption of
volcanoes at the end of this opera, and it is
known, unless I am very much mistaken, by
the name of Masaniello. They play it in
Russia ; but, by some means or other, the
tumult, the market scene, and the insurgent
fishermen, have all disappeared ; there is
nothing left, but the dumb girl and the
beautiful music, and the blow-up ; and the opera
is called Fenella. The other elements (to
say nothing of the name of that bold
rebel : O scour me the Chiaja, and turn up the
sleepers at Naples' street-corners, for another
MASANIELLO ; for we live in evil days, and
the paralytic remnants of the Holy Alliance
are crying out to be knocked down and
jumped upon, and thrown out of window,
and put out of their pain as soon as possible)
—those revolutionary elements would suggest
allusions, and those allusions might be inimical
to Russian interests.

There was a little bird in Petersburg, in
these latter days of mine, who went about
whispering (very cautiously arid low, for if
that big bird the Double Eagle had been
aware of him he would have stopped his
whispering for good), that there was another
reason for the Bagdanoff's secession from
tlie Académie at Paris. The French, this
little bird said, quite confidently though
quietly — the French wouldn't have her !
She had rehearsed, and the minister of
state had shaken his head. The Jockey-club
had presented a petition against her. The
abonnés had drawn up a memorial against
her. They considered her to be inimical to
French interests. Two feuilletonistes of the
highest celebrity and social position had
declared publicly that they would decline and
return the retaining fee, sent by débutantes
and accepted by feuilletonistes, as a matter of
course, in such cases. In fact, the Bagdanoff
was crêvée before she ever saw the French
footlights twinkle, and if she had not pirouetted
away Due North as fast as her ten toes
would permit her, she would in another
week have been caricatured in the Journal
pour Rire — figuration in which formidable
journal is equivalent to civil death on the
continent.

All of which minor gossip on things theatrical
and operatic you may imagine, if you
like, to have been useful to wile away the
time this hot afternoon. Signor Fripanelli
and I have been dining at Madame Aubin's
French table d'hôte at the corner of the
Cannouschnïa or Great Stable Street; and
have agreed to visit the Circus Theatre in
the evening, to see Lucrezia Borgia the opera:
music by the usual Donizetti, but words
translated into Russ. I anticipated a most
awful evening of maxillary bones breaking
sounds. Fancy " Di pescatore ignobile " in
Sclavonic!

Fripanelli and yours truly have proceeded,
dinner being over, to Dominique's café on
the Nevskoï, there to do the usual coffee and
chasse; and at the door of that dreary and
expensive imitation of Bignons or Richards
stands the Signor's droschky (for Frip is a
prosperous gentleman; gives you, at his own
rooms, as good Lafitte as you can obtain on
this side Tilsit; and has a private droschky to
himself, neat, shining lamps, tall horse, and
coachman in a full suit of India-rubber).
"One mast 'ave, oun po di louxe," a little
luxury, the Signor tells me, as if to apologise
for his turn out. " If I vas drive op ze
Princesse Kapoustikoff vith Ischvostchik, sapete,
fifty copeck, zay would take two rouble from
my next lesson. Ah! quel pays! quel
pays!"

"Imagine yourself," (to translate his polyglot
into something approximating to English,)
he tells me as we sip the refreshing Mocha
and puff at the papiros. " Imagine yourself,
I go to the Countess Panckschka. She receive
me, how? As the maestro di canto? Of none.
I sit at the pianoforte, and open the book and
wait to hear that woman sing false as water,
that which always she do. Is it that she