chambers, the dusky passages, the sliding doors, the vivid contrast of
gayety and gloom, the dance in the palace and the duel in the garden,
the smile on the lip and the stab at the heart, the capricious
feeling, the impetuous action, the picturesque costume of life and
society--all the substance and the form of our ideas of characteristic
Italian life, are comprised in Rachel's Thisbe and Angelo.

There is one scene in that play not to be forgotten. The curtain rises
and shows a vast, dim chamber in the castle, with a heavily-curtained
bed, and massive carved furniture, and a deep bay-window. It is night;
a candle burns upon the table, feebly flickering in the gloom of the
great chamber. Angelo, whom Thisbe loves, and who pretends to love
her, is sitting uneasily in the chamber with his mistress, whose name
we have forgotten, but whom he really loves. Thisbe is suspicious of
his want of faith, and burns with jealousy, but has had no proof.

A gust of wind, the rustle of the tapestry, the creak of a bough in
the garden, the note of a night bird, any slightest sound makes the
lovers start and quiver, as if they stood upon the verge of an
imminent peril. Suddenly they both start at a low noise, apparently in
the wall. Angelo rises and looks about, his mistress shivers and
shrinks, but they discover nothing. The night deepens around them. The
sense of calamity and catastrophe rises in the spectator's mind. They
start again. This time they hear a louder noise, and glance helplessly
around and feebly try to scoff away their terror. The sound dies away,
and they converse in appalled and fragmentary whispers. But again a
low, cautious, sliding noise arrests them. Angelo springs up, runs for
his hat and cloak, blows out the candle upon the table, and escapes
from the room, while his mistress totters to the bed and throws
herself upon it, feigning sleep. The stage is left unoccupied, while