ugubrious and woe-begone than
the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before.
There was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the
absurdity of the thing, and it was all _so natural_, as one half-tipsy
woman remarked.

So it was--intensely natural--for Signor Twittorini was no other than
poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair.
Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father's house, the
miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low
lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. Then he tried to get
employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that
he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain
power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into
which he had staggered one evening when drunk--as much with misery as
with beer. The manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him
and brought him out. As poor Sammy knew nothing about acting, it was
decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being
shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great Italian singer in
low society.

But Sammy had over-rated his own powers. After the first burst of
applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half
open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and
making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed
burst of laughter broke forth. When it had partially subsided, Sammy
once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and
rushed from the stage.

This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they
seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual
demand for an _encore_ with tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor
Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish
off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond.

"I see,--you can improvise," said the manager, quite pleased, "and I've
no objection when it's well done like that; but you'd better go on now,
and stick to the programme."

"I can't sing," said Sammy, in passionate despair.

"Come, come, young feller, I don't like actin' _off_ the stage, an' the
audience is gittin' impatient."

"But I tell you I can't sing a note," repeated Sam.

"What! D'ye mean to tell me you're not actin'?"

"I wish I was!" cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes a