bay, while the masts of a vessel struggling against the blast were painted out distinctly against the clouds. While I was gazing on this war of the elements, suddenly over the roar of the waves, and in the intervals of the thunder, came the dull report of cannon. It was a signal of distress. Some vessel at a distance was driving ashore, and that cannon-shot was her cry for help. Nothing can be sadder than to stand on land and hear above the tumult of the storm, the minute gun of distress at sea. The staggering shipterror-stricken sailors and the wild death before them, rush over the fancy with every shot.

I have heard this morning that a Marseilles vessel was wrecked in the storm, but only two of the crew perished.

Yours, &c.

CLARA NOVELLO.

29

LETTER VII.

The Carnival-Clara Novello-Isola the Painter, &c.

GENOA, 1843.

THE Carnival here, as in all Italian cities, is the gay season of the year. Balls, routes, masquerades, follow each other in quick succession. The Opera is at its height, and the whole population throw off their cares, and laugh, and dance, and sing, as if the world were a flower garden and Italy the brightest bower within its borders. Clara Novello has been the Prima Donna for the last half of the Carnival. Rome and Genoa had both, as they thought, engaged her for the season, and hence when each claimed her there was a collision. The two Governments took it up and finally it was referred to the Pope. It was a matter of some consequence to his Holiness where the sweet singer should open her mouth for the season. In his magnanimity he decided she should stay at Rome. The managers, however, compromised the matter by each city having her half the time. She had formerly been exceedingly popular here, but contrary to the will of the chief bass singer and the leader of the orchestra, she attempted at her first appearance, an air unsuited to her voice, and which she was told she could not perform. Of course she failed and was slightly hissed. Her English blood* mounted at so unequivocal a demonstration of their opinion of her singing, and Dido-like, bowing haughtily to the crowd, she turned her back on the audience and walked off the stage. The tenor and the bass both stoppedthe orchestra stopped-indeed all stopped except the hissing, which waxed louder every moment. She was immediately taken to her rooms by the Police of the city, and for three days the gens-d'armes stood night and day at her door, keeping the fair singer a prisoner for her misconduct. This is a fair illustration of this government. Even an opera singer cannot pout without

* Her mother was an English woman.

having the gens-d'armes after her. On the promise of good be havior, however, she was released from confinement and again appeared on the stage, where the good-natured, music-loving Italians hailed her appearance with deafening cheers, and repaid their want of gallantry with excess of applause.

Poor Clara Novello is not the first who has suffered from the tyranny of this military despotism. The other day I went to see the first painter of Genoa. He is a young man, modest, amiable, and courteous, so much so that I became immediately deeply interested in him. His name is ISOLA. He, too, has fallen once under the ban of the government. Like all geniuses he loves liberty, and the first great historical piece he painted and on which he designed to base his claim to be ranked among the first artists of his country, was a representation of the last great struggle Genoa made for freedom. He showed me the design: in the foreground with his horse fallen under him, struggled the foreign governor that had been imposed on the people, while the excited multitude were raining stones and missiles on him, and trampling him under foot. Farther back, and elevated on the canvass, stood the Marquis of Spinola, cheering on the people, one hand grasping the sword, the other waving aloft the flag of Freedom. Excited men were running hither and thither, through the crowded streets, and all the bustle and hurry of a rapid, heavy fight, were thrown upon the canvass. It was a spirited sketch, and one almost seemed to hear the battle cry of freemen, and the shout of victory. Such a picture immediately made a noise in Genoa, where yet slumber the elements of a Republic. It was finished, and admired by all, and treasured by the painter. But one day, while ISOLA was sitting before it, contemplating his work, and thinking what corrections might be made, his door was burst open, and two gens-d'armes stood before him. Seizing the picture before his eyes they marched him off behind it, to answer for the crime of having painted his country battling for her rights. The painting was locked up in a room of the government, where it has ever since remained. Isola was carried between two gens-d'armes a hundred and twenty miles, to Turin, and thrown into prison. He was finally released, but his picture remains under lock and key. The government, however, has, in its magnanimity, con

descended to permit the artist to sell it to any one who will carry it out of the country. Where shall it go? I would that some American might purchase it. I spoke with him on the subject, and sympathized with him on the wrongs he had suffered. I spoke to him of my country, and the sympathy such a transaction would awaken in every grade of society, and invited him to go home with me, where he could breathe free, and his pencil move free. I promised him a welcome, and a reputation, and a home in a republic, whose struggle for freedom had never yet been in vain, and whose air would unfetter his spirit and expand his genius.

Such language from a foreigner and a republican, he felt to be sincere. He turned his immensely large, black, and melancholy eyes on me, and attempted to reply. But his chin began to tremble, his voice quivered and stopped, his eyes filled with tears, and he turned away to hide his feelings. Oh, when I think of the cursed tyranny man practises on man—the brutal chain, Power puts on Genius-the slavery to which a crowned villain can and does subject the noblest souls that God lets visit the earth-I wish for a moment that supreme power were mine, that the wronged might be righted, and the noble yet helpless be placed beyond the reach of oppression and the torture of servility.

The police of this kingdom is Argus-eyed. Gens-d'armes in disguise are in every coffee-house, and crowd, and party. Two nobles have lately been imprisoned for uttering a few careless words. These spies of tyranny are dogging your footsteps when you least expect it, and report your words long after they have been forgotten by yourself. So afraid is the king of the influence of republican principles, that he has despatched an order to his officers in Genoa to be on their guard and not be very familiar with the officers of our squadron. In consequence, many Genoese officers, who were exceedingly polite, all at once have become shy and distant. Only think of 60,000 soldiers to a population of about 400,000, and for a territory about the size of New York! But these things will have an end. Dream as men will, the world is not merely marking time; it is onward with a steady step to some goal.

Yours, &c.

LETTER VIII.

Columbus' Manuscripts-Ride on Horseback-Death in the Theatre.

GENOA, January, 1843.

Last

DEAR E.-We are back in Genoa. The coming on of the rainy season and the gay season together, made it very uncomfortable so far out of town. Besides, our fleet has moored itself for the winter in port, and many of its officers have their ladies with them, making quite an American society in the city. Our Chargé at Turin and lady have also come down to spend a month or two, so that American stock is quite up in the market. night I was at a tea-party on board the flag-ship, in the captain's cabin. There were eight or nine American ladies present, and nothing has reminded me so much of home since I left it. Commodore Morgan is a frank, brave and noble-hearted man, and every inch a sailor. He has unfortunately been laid up with the gout since he arrived, and hence seldom appears in society; but when he does, his soldier-like bearing attracts universal attention. In the Tangier affair he has been more sinned against than sinning. Such officers also as Lieutenants Brown and Griffin, and others that might be named, are an honor to our flag wherever they carry it. I forgot to tell you that our "locum tenens" is in Strada Balbi, nearly opposite the palace of the king; nearer to it than I trust your house will ever stand to a royal palace at least while it stands on American soil.

Horseback riding along this riviera is perfectly delicious. do not wonder that Byron and Lady Blessington preferred to take their "tête-à-tête" on horseback along this magnificent sea-shore. Yesterday, towards evening, I took a gallop with Mr. Duralde, a grandson of HENRY CLAY, and extending our ride farther than we anticipated, we did not return till in the dusk of the evening. Being somewhat in a hurry, we entered the city on a plunging