strange country.

The writer of "Italy and the Italians;" after having passed three weeks in
the only city of Genoa, he reproaches himself by having mistook an italian
lady for a common woman, because she was badly dressed. And because her
good nature prevented her from resenting his innocent mistake, by this
only fact, he thinks that the ladies of Italy have not the dignity of the
american or english ladies. "Dignity and woman's rights," says he, "are
nothing to an italian lady, while victory is every thing." It seems to me
that, had the italian lady pouted, because of his mistake, such a bad
humor would have robbed her of all woman's dignity, and woman's right.
Nothing is more attractive in a woman than her innocent forgiveness. And
the woman, who shows any fear of losing her dignity or woman's rights
before a gentleman, she does but tell him he is not a gentleman. However,
had, here, the gentleman been acquainted with her language, he might have
discovered the lady under servant's garments; and her new dress, nothing
but a reproach on herself by having forgotten, at that moment, that she
ought to have been better dressed before them. There are faults in
innocent woman, which render her still more lovely. It is like that child
who stumbles, for too much eagerness in running to embrace its mother. I
suppose she was one of those good italian ladies, who forget themselves to
please their neighbors; and while her innocent blunders force you to love
the childish woman, who always places you at home, you find yourself happy
in playing the child with her. That which one calls woman's dignity, for
another, is nothing but a chilling pride.

I must here now copy the following lines from Mr. Headley: "I have seen,
and heard much of an italian love of music, but nothing illustrating it so
forcibly as an incident that occured last evening at the opera. In the
midst of one of the scenes, a man in the pit near the orchestra, was
suddenly seized with convulsions. His limbs stiffened; his eyes became set
in his head, and stood wide open, staring at the ceiling like the eyes of
a corpse; while low, and agonizing groans broke from his struggling bosom.
The prima donna came forward at that moment, but seeing his livid,
death-stamped face before her, suddenly stopped with a tragic look and
start, that for once was perfectly natural. She turned to the bass-singer,
and pointed out the frightful spectacle. He also started back in horror,
and