New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1843-12-01
III e T r [ B u N e
Foreign Correspondence.
settlers from ftaIp.......No. XIV.
ny ]. TYLER HEADLEY.

Ro,rl, April 1913.
!, know YOU are tired of Rome, and | am be-
.ou;nr to be myseG-though not of writing
sant l. Each hour here would make a letter;
N, not to weary you longer, / will give you my
l.,v without writing it out In full, and then we
,,1l oH for Florence and the green, free, open
country.
Tuesday ereaing, 5th--Have just returned
from hearing an IMrRowsATRlcE. Bah what
world of disappointment. l had read Comma
i'll expected to behold In an Italian Impsovisa-
,,ice an embodied inspiration. She sung TO
.nsv audience in one Of the rooms of the Thea
t,e Argentina. An Urn was left at the door in
which every one, who wished, dropped on bit of
,,ner the subject he wished hes to improvisato-
noe. This Urn was to be handed to tflr Impro-
r;satrce from which she must draw, by chance,
the number of topics she was to render into verse
during the evening. sat all on The 'qui ere,
waiting her appearance, expecting to see enter
a TALL queenly beauty, with the speaking lip and
flashing eye uttering poetry even II their repose
expected more, from the fact that these inspired
birds are getting rare even in Italy and this was
the second opportunity there had been Of hearing
one during the entire year. Well, at last she came
aarge, gross looking woman, somewhere between
thirty.fve and fifty years of age, and as plain as
pke.staff. She assembled the platform, some
what embarrassed, and sat down: the Urn was
handed her, from which she drew seven or eight
papers, and read the subjects written upon them
They were motley mess enough TO turn into
poetry in the full tide Of song. l looked at her
somewhat staggered, and wished very much to
ask her, if, (as we say at home) she did not want
to back out of the undertaking. However, she
started off boldly and threw off verse after verse
with astonishing rapidly. After she had finished
she sat down, wiped the persplration from her
forehead, while a man, looking more like Bacchus
than Cupid, brought her d cup Of nectar in the
shape of Coffee, which she coolly slipped before
the audience, and then read the next topic and
commenced again. Between each effort came
the Coffee. Some OF the subjects were unpoeti-
cal enough, and staggered her prodlglousy The
spawned dactyls would not bulge an inch, and
she would stop-smie her forehead-go back
take new start and try TO spur over the clasm
with boldness that half redeemed her failures
sometimes it required three four distinct efforts
before she could clear it, The large drops Of
moisture that oozed from her forehead in the
excitement, formed miniature rivuets down her
checks, till exclaimed to myself, well there is
perspiraton there, whether there be inspiration or
not and after all, who can tell the difference.
will do her the Justice however, to say that
her powers of versi6caton, in some instances,
were almost miraculous. She would glide on
without a pause, mindlng the difficulties of
rhythm rhyme and figures no more than Apollo
himself Columbus was one of her subjects, and
she burst forth, give the sentiment only,) /" Who
is he that, with pallid countenance ard neglected
beard. enters, sad and thoughtful, through the
Citys gates. The crowd gaze OH him as, travel
worn, he walks along and ask, Who is he p
Christopher Colombo, is the ans,ter. They turn
away, for It is an unknown name" Then, with
sudden fling, she changed the measure, and
standing on the bow Of his boat, flag in hand, the
bold advcnturer strikes the beach of Ne World.
The change from the slow, mournlul strain she
first pursued, to the triumphant bounding measure
on which the boat of the bold Italian met the
shore, was like an electric shock, and the house
rung with bravo, bravo. But, alas there was
no Comma there; l had rather heard the fair.
poud.looking pianist that accompanied her.
My good old friend, the Marquis di Negro on &c
unprecedented better for me. AS sat on a mild
day in his beautiful viletta-the windows flung
open to let in the air laden with perfume, and the
soft breeze from the sea that slumbercd below-he
brought out his harp and told me to give him
subject. We had been talking ofhuman freedom,
and gave him Liberty He swept his hand
over his harp.strings and sung, while be played
an accompaniment, one of the sweetest little odeS
ever heard He composed both the poetry and
music while he sung.
Wednesday, 6th.-My good friend, Mr.. Van
B called for me In his carriage this morning
to accompany him and his lady in ride over the
site of the ancient city. We went first to the
pyramid of Caius CeStus and then to the Eng
hsh Burial Ground. There saw Shelly's tomb,
plain marble tablet only. On it's written:
PERCY BYSSIE SHELLEY Cor Cordium.'
Nothing of him tina, doth fade,
BIT doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich aud strange
Cor Cordlum. heart of hearts, is an alluSion
to the singular fact that when Byron and Hunt
burned his bodyon the gulf of Spezia his heart
alone remained unconsumed. With all his scep-
ticsm, he was kind hearted man His Italian
teacher was mine at Genoa, and he told me that
Shelly was nobler man than either Byron or
Hunt. In an adjoining cemetery sleeps John
Keats A small marble slab, half hid amid
tha Low, ct,pdS tho yo,,,r moot a.,