amusingly enough: round and round the pulpy animal, who keeps himself safe beneath his roof, will he go with singular politeness; but not succeeding with all his coaxing, and being unable to overcome its powerful muscle, he leaves in despair this intended victim, and hastens after another, who may be wandering less cautiously on his way.
I never saw a crab succeed in his designs, although I have watched for hours the retreat of the little troop as they crawled down the two planes and the intermediate steps.
At last I am able to say that I have seen a comedy. Yesterday, at the theatre of St. Luke, was performed "Le Baruffe Chiozotte," which I should interpret the "Frays and Feuds of Chiozza." The dramatis personæ are principally seafaring people, inhabitants of Chiozza, with their wives, sisters, and daughters. The usual noisy demonstrations of such sort of people in their good or ill luck, their dealings one with another, their vehemence, but goodness of heart, commonplace remarks, and unaffected manners, their naïve wit and humour,—all this was excellently imitated. The play, moreover, is Goldoni's; and as I had been only the day before in the place itself, and as the tones and manners of the sailors and people of the seaport still echoed in my ears and floated before my eyes, it delighted me very much; and, although I did not understand a single allusion, I was, on the whole, able to follow the plot pretty well. I will now give you the plan of the piece. It opens with the females of Chiozza sitting, as usual, on the strand before their cabins, spinning, mending nets, sewing, or making lace. A youth passes by, and notices one of them with a more friendly greeting than he does the rest. Immediately the joking begins, and observes no bounds. Becoming tarter and tarter, and growing ill-tempered,
