trymen, and then went to the Theatre Capronica, to see a folks-theatre and folk-life there. But I do not advise any body else to do so, for it is neither amusing nor instructive, unless it be to teach how people ought not to play, and ought not to sing. The grand Roman women, in their splendid popular costume, were the only beautiful objects to look at. It was, however, amusing to see the spectacle in the streets, on our way home. In one rather narrow by-street, a group of figures in costume, were dancing the saltarella, to the sound of the tambourine, with such enthusiasm as not to be disturbed by the carriages that rolled past, nor even by one that actually went right through the dancing group. One of the dancers fell by this means, and let go his tambourine, but the next moment he was up again on his feet, dancing away, light and graceful, so that it was a delight to behold. When we reached the Corso, we heard a lovely, rather melancholy Neapolitan melody, played upon the mandolin, and along the muddy trottoir came dancing silver-glittering figures, light as a couple of children of the air; after them followed a mandolin player, and some ladies and gentlemen. Light-footed, and apparently light-hearted, the young pair sprang forward with inimitable grace, along the trottoir, keeping time to the music, and vanished as if into the dark night, whilst the light of the street-lamps here and there, lit up their shimmering forms. The night-air was damp and raw; a few pale stars sought in vain to find their way through the clouds. The public houses on our way were lighted up, and crowded with people, and far into the night we could hear the tones of the mandolin player wandering by.
