It was in one of these [Italian] theatres, thronged for the nonce, that I happened to be seated, hopeful of whiling away a long idle evening by the aid of the Trovatore — announced for performance by a galaxy of stars that professed to have sparkled in Royal Opera-houses without number — when the ire of the audience, justly aroused by the ladies of the robust tenor — let us continue to call him Signer Malandrino, in recognition of his vocal turpitude — broke all bounds, and gave rise to an episode of riot and clamour compared to which Irving's version of the Brocken orgies might rank as a mild and orderly Sunday-school entertainment of the bun and sky-blue order. Malandrino was a comely and stalwart artist; when he first "came on" his appearance so far prepossessed the public in his favour that he was received with a round of polite applause. But he had not terminated the introductory phrase of his opening recitative, when an apprehensive shudder ran through the house, and a few sonorous voices were heard exclaiming "Non stuonar!" (Don't sing out of tune !). As he proceeded, however, regardless of this timely prohibition, to sing flatter and flatter, the outcries grew louder, more general, and, I regret to say, more objurgatory in their character. Amongst the uncomplimentary epithets hurled at the wretched Malandrino were "Bestial," " Asinaccio!" "Infame!" and others (the Italian popular vocabulary teems with such amenities) less fit for publication; one sustained high note of peculiar atrocity elicited a terrific yell of "Boja!" (executioner), a term of dire reproach throughout the Realm of the Boot. No sooner had the curtain dropped than the occupants of the pit and gallery vanished from the auditorium with extraordinary rapidity.