agrant ham nor well-seasoned omelettes, transfer
their nutritive properties through his system. Any indulgence in these
wholesome articles of food is considered direct destruction to the
tender organ of the tenor. A hunting breakfast every day, or a glass of
wine at an improper hour, if persisted in for any length of time, it is
supposed would ruin the most delightful voice that ever sung an _aria_.
A large cup of _cafe au lait_, with an egg beaten in it, is all the
morning meal of which the poor _artiste_ (as he styles himself,) is
permitted to partake. This feat accomplished, he takes up the newspaper
in which he _spells out_ the puff which he paid the reporter to insert,
and after satisfying himself that he has received his _quid pro quo_, he
lounges away the morning until a sufficient space of time has elapsed to
render the use of the voice no longer deleterious, as it is immediately
after eating. And then come two or three hours of study that is no
trifle. The tenor is a man; and it seems to be a great moral law, that
whether it come in the form of labor, disease, ennui or indigestion,
suffering shall be the badge of all our tribe. Even prima donnas, who
defy gods and men with more temerity than all living creatures, are
constrained to concede the obligation of this universal moral edict. The
tenor then yields homage to human nature and the public, in the labor of
climbing stubborn scales, rehearsing new operas, and sometimes, though
not often, in receiving the impertinence of arrogant prima donnas,
during several hours every day. After these fatiguing efforts, he makes
his _grande toilette_, and prepares himself to astound the town no less
by his personal attractions than by his song. The chief promenade of the
city, where he condescends to mete out to highly favoured audiences the
treasures of his organ, is made the day-theatre of his glory.
Accompanied by his friend the _primo basso_, he saunters along very
quietly, attracting the gaze of the curious, and calling forth the
passionate remarks of enthusiastic young ladies, who feel it would be a
pleasure to die, if they could only leave such a gentleman behind on
earth to sing "_Tu che a Dio_," in the event of their being "snatched
away in beauty's bloom."

The basso is the chosen male companion of the tenor's walk; firstly,
because he is no rival, and secondly, because the gross physical
endowments of the former are such as to bring out the latter's
symmetrical p