King Hal." It was then a "royal" fish, as the sturgeon is now.

The little "pig" porpoise is a pretty fellow, and bears much the same proportion to his bigger brother, as the sprat does to the herring. He also is a voracious feeder, and is frequently taken in the nets of the fishermen whilst he is endeavouring to share with them the prey they have extracted from the sea.

Pig porpoises may be often seen gambolling in shore, along the rocks, and feeding on small fish. When a "pig" sees a fish, he makes a deliberate dive, swallows it, and then ascends to the surface of the sea, shows his little plump back, gives a snort, and immediately dives after another fish, when the whole process is repeated.

These small porpoises are sometimes seen at the mouths of harbours and also in the harbours themselves; this is often the case at Ramsgate, and is a certain sign of a severe winter. The writer of this paper confidently predicted this as far back as the month of November, from the great number of porpoises tumbling about inshore, during that month. Nobody, after our experience of the last few months, will now deny that the winter of '66-'67 was one of those which may fairly be termed "old-fashioned."

I have lately been informed by a gentleman, whose word is beyond question, that one or two porpoises frequenting Plymouth harbour are almost tame, so much so indeed as to be made pets of by the sailors. I have had no actual experience on this point personally, but I know from one of my brothers who has visited the Cape of Good Hope, that porpoises will follow in the wake of a ship for days, and eat whatever pieces of biscuit or salt-meat may be thrown over to them. Fish as a rule possess no high degree of sagacity, but there are exceptions. I know that carp may be to some extent tamed, and there are probably other kinds of fish capable of a sort of halfdomestication.

Be this, however, as it may, I can say little on the subject from my own knowledge, since, though I may truly say that I have great experience of all sorts of fresh and salt-water fish, that experience has been confined to catching and cooking them, and has not included any attempts at their domestication. Owners of the now fashionable "aquaria" could enlighten the readers of ONCE A WEEK better on this point than I can do.

Porpoises contain a large amount of oil, which, I should certainly think, might be turned to commercial purpose, if there were any way of taking these fish in sufficient quantities, which there is not. The porpoise is rarely caught with a hook, and when taken

in a net, the occurrence is purely accidental. Indeed, so uncertain are they in their peregrinations, that although you may now and then see a shoal of some thousands, you may afterwards wait six months without the sight of one. I am speaking now of the large porpoises. The little "pigs" are much more common. From the shy and uncertain habits of the porpoise, very little is known concerning it by naturalists; and when occasionally one is caught and exhibited, it is looked upon as a sort of curiosity, although in fact it is common enough. A kind of leather, called 'shagreen," can be made of the hide of the porpoise, which, if properly cured, makes good tobacco-pouches and purses.

The porpoise, like the whale, is, I believe, warm blooded, which is the case, I think, with all living animals that bring forth their young alive, and with some of the "ovipara,"

- all birds, for example, and the turtle, whilst spawning fish, which of course are oviparous, are naturally cold-blooded.

ASTLEY H. Baldwin.

WISHES.

THREE sisters stood beside the Wishing Tree,
As the sun rested on the crimson sea;
In its full autumn beauty lay the land,
And Ella pointed with an eager hand,—

"Down where the meadows lie so fair and green,
Where the corn trembles in a golden sheen,
Where the brook whispers to the trees above,
There would I peaceful live with one I love.
There-far from all the world, in glad content
And love intense,-should our two lives be spent.
And you, my sister?" Hilda raised her head;
Gazing afar with flashing eyes, she said,-

"Beyond the hills, where lies the world unknown,
A lordly castle I would call my own.
In dazzling splendour I would move a queen,
To conquer by my beauty-yet to lean
On one-of all the highest and the best,
To stoop to him, unbending to the rest;
He-first and bravest of a noble crowd-
Should see, with love immeasurably proud,
How to my every wish the haughtiest bowed.
Now, Una?" But she stood with shaded eyes.

"There, where across the Bay the sunshine lies
Among the graves upon the green hill-side,
Still and unmoved above the beating tide,
It seems most fair and beautiful to me.
Between this spot and that the way will be
Traced by a Father's hand. I would not dare
Turn from the strife-my Master's flag I bear,
And would be brave and earnest. If He will
I should not feel the tempest, but lie still
A quiet sea hushed by the Will Divine,
My will is merged in His-His will is mine.
On all His works I see the glory shine;
And I can look, above them, up to Him,
E'en though sometimes my weary eyes are dim.

THE ENTERPRISING IMPRESARIO.

CHAPTER VI.

THE last two concerts of the first week of the tour were announced-Friday evening at Glasgow; Saturday morning at Edinburgh. They were both well attended, and brought the first week to a happy termination, much to the satisfaction of the Impresario.. The Sultan kept his promise as regards the ambitious pianiste; but the result of the performance did not transpire. On the Saturday afternoon the party had to hurry off to Greenock, where, according to the plan of the tour, they were to embark on board the steamer for Belfast. The basso on the road to Greenock experienced a surprise, which at the time alarmed him considerably, and threatened to be a more serious matter than even the mistake, of hands in the tunnel. On the Greenock line the guard passes along the carriages while the train is going at full speed. Of this none of the party were aware. A short time after we had started, cigars had been lighted; the basso was indulging in a doze and the luxury of smoking in a corner seat of the carriage. The window was open. Presently a figure made its sudden appearance at the door. Jacko and Bibi were smothered with cloaks instantly; but not before the phantom-like guard had caught sight of them. No one spoke; but the man quietly put his hand towards the slumbering basso, and removed the cigar from between his lips. The basso gave a bound. "No smoking allowed, sir," said the guard. "Ich—ich, smoke nicht," replied the

Basso.

The Impresario interfered, and settled tho matter by substituting something more negotiable than the cigar in the guard's open hand.

"All right, sir, only must do my duty," said the man. "I won't trouble you again." The party had a calm passage to Belfast, but were nevertheless very glad to get on shore the next morning. The other five weeks of their tour were a repetition of the daily work of eating, drinking, singing and travelling, at least so I was told. I had to leave my pleasant companions early in the second week, and heard but little of them until they returned to London, when the prima donna, and all except the basso, assured me they had had a most agreeable tour. The basso had been more or less tormented by his fair friends, who on one occasion nearly frightened him to death by putting Jacko into his bed, and frequently reminded him of, and made him regret his venturesome proceeding in the tunnel.

The concert tourists came to see me in They had all had a pleasant tour,

town.

and seemed to regret their daily travelling and concerts, although, during the time, some of them had complained loudly enough of fatigue. Their complaints, I fancy, must have been attributable to that love of grumbling which seems inherent in some natures.

Whatever the Impresario may have had to say to the result of the tour, the rest of the party came home with their pockets full of money, having, as is usual in such undertakings, had all their expenses paid, and nothing but agreeable recollections of the time they had passed in the country. There was one, however, of the party who might have reproached himself with rash conduct in a love affair; even he said nothing of the torture to which his behaviour had exposed him; but in common with the rest, was sorry that the tour was over.

My next opportunity of participating in the joys and sorrows of artistic life was when I joined a company brought together for the purpose of giving operas in the provinces.

Grisi and Mario were of the party. From my youth up, all my musical recollections are associated with these two distinguished singers. It is my greatest "pleasure of memory" to recal the days I have passed in their societyto remember the delightful evenings they have afforded me-their successes-the friendly relations that have so long existed between us.

The name of Giulia Grisi seems to be the last link in the chain that connects the Italian opera of times gone by with that of the present day. Of the quartett, Grisi, Lablache, Rubini, and Tamburini, for whom "I Puritani" was composed, Grisi is now the only one to be heard. Rubini is no more. Tamburini has left the stage, and never appears in public except upon the Boulevards.

Lablache died at Naples on January 23, 1838, at the age of 62, in the villa now inhabited by his son-in-law, Thalberg. A very interesting notice of the great basso is to be found in the 14th vol. of the "Revue des Deux Mondes." We shall never see his like again. The Jove-like head, planted on a colossal body, seemed the incarnation of every priestly attri bute, when the grand old Druid Oroveso trod the stage. Who that ever saw or heard him can forget the majesty of his look and the thunder of his voice ?

Rossini, writing an account of the first night of "Puritani" in Paris to a friend at Boulogne, naïvely declared it was quite unnecessary for him to say anything about the duet "Suono la tromba" between Lablache and Tamburini, for he was quite sure it must have been heard all over the country. There never was, and probably never will be again in our time, such a marvellously-toned bass voice

as that of Lablache. In private life, Lablache was a most delightful companion, full of anecdote and repartee. His power of facial expression was remarkable. I have seen him portray a coming storm, every phase of a tempest, and the return of fine weather, by the mere changes of his countenance-Grisi sitting opposite to him at table, and commanding the appearance of the different phe

nomena.

His travelling about was always a serious matter. No ordinary vehicle was safe to hold him. His enormous weight rendered it necessary for his servant to take about a chair and bedding for his especial use. It was difficult to find a carriage the doors of which were large enough for him to pass.

On one occasion, the rehearsal at her Majesty's theatre terminating sooner than was expected, and before his brougham had come to fetch him, a street cab was ordered. The cabman looked alarmed when his fare issued from the stage-door and showed the test which the vehicle had to undergo.

"He'll never get in, sir," said the man, despairingly to me, as I was shaking hands with Lablache, who seemed also to have his doubts upon the question. We approached the vehicle; the door was open wide, Sideways, frontways, headways, backways, the prize basso tried to effect an entrance, but in vain. Without assistance it was impossible. Two men went to the opposite side and dragged with all their force, while two others did their utmost to lift him in.

"It's no go," cried the cabman; "he'll ruin my cab."

One more effort. A long pull, a strong push-a pull and a push together-the point was gained-Lablache inside, puffing and blowing from the exertion. But the difficulties had not yet come to an end. Wishing to change his position-he had inadvertently sat down with his back to the horse-he rose, the whole of his prodigious weight was upon the few slender boards forming the bottom of the cab. Imagine the horror of the cabman, the astonishment of Lablache, and the surprise of a large crowd which had been attracted by the terrible struggle that had been going on, when the boards gave way, and his feet and legs were seen standing in the road. The driver swore-Lablache grinned-the crowd roared. No scene in a pantomime was ever more ludicrous. Fortunately, Lablache sustained no injury. Had the horse moved, the consequences of the accident might have been serious. The same process of shoving and pulling, but reversed, was necessary to extricate him. Whether greater violence than at first was used or not, the door in this in

stance was torn from its hinges, and the cab (previously a good looking vehicle) now presented the most melancholy appearance of a complete wreck. The cabman uttered curses loud and deep, but was pacified by the assurance that the damage should be made good, and his loss of time remunerated. I do not think the great basso ever again attempted to ride in a hack cab.

Throughout her extraordinary career, no one individual can boast of possessing a greater share of that mysterious quality which is called "good-luck," in addition to transcendent talent, than Giulia Grisi.

Grisi has often told me the story of her début. How, when hardly fourteen years old, she sang the part of Emma in the "Zelmira " at Bologna. It was at an hour's notice. There was no one to be found to replace the singer who had suddenly been taken ill.

Giulia, to the surprise of all her family, offered to relieve the manager from his embarrassment; was accepted, and acquitted herself admirably. So satisfied was the Impresario with her success, that he gave her an engagement for all the season. From Bologna Grisi went to Florence, and thence to Milan in 1831. On every occasion the same "good luck" attended her until her first appearance in London in 1834, when, strange to say, the young débutante was but coldly received. She had previously sung in Paris with great success, when Laporte had heard and engaged her. Grisi was disconcerted with her reception in "La Gazza Ladra," the opera in which she first appeared, and expressed her disappointment to Laporte. "Cela ne fait rien," said that enterprising Impresario, "it will be all right." His prediction was fulfilled. Before the termination of the first season, Grisi had become a popular prima donna, a position she maintained in spite of the opposition of innumerable rivals.

Perhaps no singer ever paid so little attention to her voice as Giulia Grisi-none whose great dramatic efforts were less premeditated, and more impulsive. When the two theatres, Covent Garden and Her Majesty's, were open some seasons ago, I called upon a prima donna of the latter house, and found her reclining upon a sofa, with a cold-water bandage round her throat. "What's the matter?" I exclaimed, fearing she was indisposed. "Oh! nothing," was the reply, in a very low voice, "but I sing this evening, and am making preparation.' On leaving this lady "in pickle," I had occasion to call upon Grisi. Knowing she was announced to sing in the "Huguenots" that evening, I was uncertain whether she would receive me. My doubts were, however, soon removed when I reached the

house. "Madame is in the garden, sir," said the servant as I entered, and pointing to where he supposed his mistress to be. I followed his direction, but tried in vain to find the Diva, who presently came running out of the kitchen, excusing herself by saying she had a new cook, to whom she was obliged to give instructions.

A more domesticated woman or devoted mother than Giulia Grisi never lived. It is an interesting family tableau to see her watching the performances of Mario's three daughters. Rita, the eldest, a handsome girl of sixteen, is seated at the pianoforte, accompanying the two younger, Clelia and Cecilia, who, standing on each side their sister, sing duets admirably, their sweet little voices in perfect tune blending charmingly together. Grisi directs them with affectionate assiduity, while Mario hovers about the piano, listening with evident delight to the singing of his children.

The campaign of the Opera Company before mentioned was announced to commence in Dublin. The Impresario had formed a very attractive party, consisting of about fifteen well-known names, chosen with due regard for the operas he wished to give being efficiently "cast." In the arrangement of an operatic provincial tour, this is a matter of some difficulty-similar in its character to making out a concert programme. The principal singers will not sing every night, and where a company includes more than one great attraction, as was the case in this instance, it is desirable to divide the forces, allowing the favourite tenor to sing alternate nights with the popular prima donna, and giving an opera in which they both appear together as a bonne bouche to the public once a week.

In order to effect this, it is necessary to engage a double company, including a tenor to support the prima donna, and a prima donna leggiera to sing with the primo tenore. The baritones, basses, and other tourists must be "up" in all the operas that are to be performed; and it is astonishing what versatility of talent will be displayed by them on these occasions.

Oroveso, Bartolo, Gubetta, Don Pasquale, Ferrando, Banco, Sparafugile, Don Bucefalo, Tristano, Duke Alfonso, Macbeth, and Leporello, will be sung in succession by the same artist as they were by the versatile Ciampi during the tour of which we are about to speak; Adelgisa, Sonnambula, Nancy, Donna Elvira, and Rosina find a representative in the same prima donna. The tenors are more limited in their range of characters, a tenore di grazia being seldom worth hearing as a tenore robusto, although we had one with us, on the occasion in question, who is incomparable as

Count Almaviva and Raoul, but then he is an exception to every rule, and perhaps the greatest tenor of this or any other age.

Besides the casting of the operas, the Impresario has to provide dresses for his party, and these cost him no little trouble and expense. Real silks and satins, costly velvets and moirés antiques alone satisfy the requirements of the queens of song. The theatrical wardrobe of a first-rate opera company constitutes a property of no little value to its owner, but, singular to say, of very little importance in the opinion of anybody else. Nothing is more expensive in the first instance, and no property falls so rapidly in value.

The journey to Dublin had occupied the thoughts of many of the touring party some days before we started. The sea passage from Holyhead was looked forward to in fear and trembling. Visions of rocking steamboats and angry waves had troubled the sleep of nearly all the foreign magnates.

"Shall we have fine time?" I was asked by an attenuated Frenchman, whom I afterwards found to be the tenore d'utilità of the party.

"I cannot say," I replied. "Are you ill at sea ?"

"No," he replied, looking very miserable at the thought, "I am nay-vare ill, but I am alvays vary seeke."

We were at the old starting place, Euston Square, all the party having been summoned there to leave by the night train for Dublin. Lucrezia had laid in a stock of antidotes and eau de Cologne for the mal de mer, enough for all of us had we wanted them. The Duke Alfonso had a zinc belt fastened so tightly round his body as to threaten quite a contrary effect to that intended. Amina, who was closely followed by her mamma (very unlike the contralto's relative whom we met a short time since), looked very timid, and asked the Impresario anxiously, S'il y avait des rochers près de Dublin?" She had evidently been dreaming of the sea, and was nervous in consequence. Gennaro, who seemed more accustomed to travelling than any of the party, provided himself with a reading lamp, which he carefully affixed to the cloth lining of the carriage. We were told off by the Impresario, and conducted to the carriages that had been reserved for us. The Impresario's secretary came to count us when we were all seated. He went to the second class compartment to see that the costumiers and servants were all right. A mysterious lady in a green dress was observed to get into a carriage with her maid. The signal was given for the train to start, and we were on the road to Dublin.