The whole of the _andante_ was in this scream, which threw the audience into ecstasies. Then she began, “_Ah bello, a me ritorna._” How she dashed through it—leaping over bars with a racer’s agility, plunging through barriers and ditches of sound—up hill and down hill—over ledger lines and under them—helter skelter—chromatics and ecstatics—flats and sharps—screech and scream—over and over—with face hideously distorted, the veins and muscles of her neck swelled to bursting, while Millefiori’s hands kept thundering at the piano and urging her on to louder labors. Shade of Bellini! was there not one of your chords to stop the throat uttering these musical blasphemies? At last she ended, amid a tumult of applause, for which she gave one of Monsieur Petitpas’ most graceful courtesies, bowing so as to show Monsieur Chevelure’s handiwork upon her head-works in the most effective manner. She was followed by a dozen or more of soprani, mezzo-soprani, contralti, baritoni and bassi, of whose performances I have but a dim, obscure recollection as of so many contests for the palm of superior noise; all of them being exhibited in the tremendous screaming and shouting pieces of the modern Italians. This was my last amateur soirée—and let me whisper a warning word to the world that remains behind me—“Beware of amateur soirées!” But my musical sufferings did not end here. The noises of the streets are agony to me. The oyster and the apple-men; the strawberry and the shad-women—what are they to me but so many liberated fiends, placed on earth to persecute the owners of ears! And as for the news-boys—but I will not recapitulate my sufferings from them. I have for some time been engaged in projects for the correction of these street evils. I leave in my executor’s hands the manuscript of the “Shad-woman’s Complete Musical Instructor,” “The Oysterman’s Apollo,” and “The News-Boys’ Guide to Parnassus.” In these I have arranged to the most beautiful melodies, the common cries of “Buy any Shad!” “Ho, fresh Oysters!” “Herald, Tribune, Ledgee, Ledgee,” “Evening Bulletin,” and the other favorite appeals of these as yet unappeased street demons. A variety of melodies is given to each phrase, and beautiful variations are arranged in the “Guide to Parnassus,” for extras, double-sheets, etc., with a special and elaborate composition arranged expressly for the familiar words, “Another Revolution in France!” I shall not live to enjoy the fruits of my labors. But I shall die happy, since I have just learned that the Legislature is disposed to treat favorably my projected “Institution for the Musical Education of News Boys.” As yet I endure more than the torments of the rack, whenever I venture out of doors; and even within doors, it is scarcely better. When I come in, with ears aching from the hideous cries of the street, to pore over the score of a new opera just received from Italy, how am I to provide a remedy for my home miseries?