It was at the Paris Opera House that I last saw Beltrami, three years after the death of that terrible woman. Things had gone exceedingly well with me since my student life in Milan, and I can say without vanity that Signor Hugo Urbino holds a very good position among operatic artists of to-day. After leaving Angello I devoted another year to hard study, and was finally pronounced fit to appear before an Italian audience by my last Maestro. This, however, was only half the battle, for now, having gained complete control of my vocal powers, I had to take lessons in scena from Maestro Biagio, or, in other words, I had to study the art of acting. I elected to make my débût in the fine part of Renato in Verdi's opera, "Un Ballo in Maschera," and having learned the music thoroughly, Biagio taught me how to render the character, dramatically speaking. This took some time, as every movement, every action, every gesture had to be studied; but with perseverance I overcame all difficulties, and at length found myself capable of rendering the character of Renato in a sufficiently good style. In passing I may say that, as far as I have found, it is ridiculous to think that acting comes instinctively. No doubt a histrionic genius is able to give a gesture or strike an attitude during the emotion engendered by the performance of a part, but he must always hold himself well under control, and, broadly speaking, act the character, as he studied it, in cold blood. Otherwise, carried away by his powers, he would do things likely to upset the entire mechanism of the scene. I have sung the part of Renato many times since my first appearance, and the critics are pleased to consider it a striking performance, but whatever touches on the spur of the moment I have introduced, the broad rendering of the character always remains precisely the same as taught to me by Maestro Biagio. Being thus in a position to sing and act the part, my greatest difficulties commenced, and I can safely say that I never met a more unscrupulous set of scoundrels than these sixth-rate impresarios who go about Milan, like degraded Satans, seeking whom they may devour. English students, being popularly supposed to be made of money, are their favourite victims, and they demand from these the sum of four or five hundred francs as the price of a scrittura, _i.e_., an appearance on the stage. In a playful, ironical fashion they call this sum a present, I suppose after the fashion of Henry VIII.--I think it was that king--who dubbed his taxes "Benevolences;" and if you do not make the impresario "a present," you certainly will not get an appearance in Italy. With this money they take a theatre in a small town and put on the opera in which you desire to sing, but even then it is doubtful whether the débût so dearly purchased will come off at all.