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 they told her 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 behavior, 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 in terested 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 or which he designed to base his claim to be ranked among the firs artists of his country, was a representation of the last great strug gle 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

ISOLA THE PAINTER.

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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 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.

go

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.

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. Last 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. I 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 ered the city on a plunging

COLUMBUS' MANUSCRIPTS.

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trot, and there being no carriages or horses in the street to intercept our progress, we did not slacken our speed. As we approached a narrow street, into which we were to turn, I saw a little donkey ambling along with a load on his back; but not dreaming he was going to interfere with my motions, I paid no attention to him till just as I was turning the corner, when, to my surprise, I saw him also wheeling into the same street, and not hugging the wall either so closely as I thought he might conveniently have done. Being under full speed, I saw in a moment that a collision was inevitable; but I supposed his donkeyship would have the worst of it, as I carried both more momentum and more weight. But the load I took to be some soft substance proved to be blocks of marble, against the corner of which my leg came with all the force a rapid trot could bring it. The donkey, load and all, went spinning into the corner of an old palace, but my leg was battered most cruelly by the blow. After I dismounted, I found myself unable to walk for a long time, and have limped ever since. This, you would say, should learn me to ride slower, while I would say, it should learn all donkeys to keep their own side of the road.

The other day I went to see the manuscripts of Columbus, presented by him to the city of Genoa. They are kept in an aperture made in a marble shaft, that is surmounted by a bust of Columbus. The little brass door that shuts them in, can be opened only by means of three keys, which have been kept till lately by three different officers, in three different sections of the city; so highly is the legacy prized. These letters are written in bold, plain characters, and are filled with the noblest sentiments. Several were translated to me, and one expression struck me as peculiarly characteristic of the man. Speaking of his preservation in his long voyages, and through his great perils, he says: "I am one of the most favored by the grace of God." I never held a treasure in my hand, that had to me such an ines timable value, as these noble letters of the noblest and greatest of

men.

I have seen and heard much of an Italian's love of music, but nothing illustrating it so forcibly as an incident that occurred last evening at the opera. In the midst of one of the scenes, a man