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necessity. I dared no longer write those strains which my spirit sang, but must force the lines to assume such form as would ensure us daily bread. It was no longer my soul that poured itself out, but my necessities which laboured." "And yet you were always equally successful," remarked Adèle.

"Unfortunately for me! Had it been otherwise, I should long ago have resigned the drudgery and returned to Nantes. Yes, my won public approbation, and I was

poems

chained to the oar.

it of the other?
you as a sister.
"It is too late!

Let me watch over and nurse You will come!"

My days are numbered; but I have no right to murmur. Why did I not remain in Bretaigne? Why was I not content with the happiness I then enjoyed? Why did I forget that poetry, like all other holy things, ceases to be a blessing, and becomes a curse, when we degrade it to earthly purposes? No; I would not regret the near approach of death, were it not that another thought, darker than the grave, mother! God conheart-my fided her to my charge; how shall I answer, when He requires from me an account of my fulfilment of that holy trust?"

my

She wrung her transparent hands, and her features were distorted with mental hearts'-anguish. Adèle arose solemnly, and taking Eliza's hand, said gently and firmly-"Eliza, I hope mother for many years all you ever have been to still that you may recover, and be to your her; but should it prove otherwise, I here solemnly promise you, before that Almighty Being who beholds the least of his creatures, that I will cherish, and care for her, as if I were her own regard your mother as my own, love, console, child. I cannot replace her Eliza, but she shall ever receive from me the love and duty of a daughter; and should it please God to make me rich or poor, I will share what I have with her. This I do swear to you, by all my soul

overshadows With what joy did I write my first work, listening to the song of the birds, watching the sunbeams sparkling in the bright Loire, inhaling the fresh breeze laden with nature's own perfumes, leaving off when I would to pluck a flower or chase a butterfly! Oh, then, what a blessed thing was poesy to me! now, how different! When the sun shone, and the cool spring breezes blew, I must sit in my close room and work. I was bound by contract to conclude a book within a certain time, and on a given subject. I dared not lose an instant -I dared not look on the face of nature, lest it should change the artificial current in which my thoughts were compelled to run. How often have I lain my weary head on the desk, and suffered my tears to wash the paper on which I wrote--how often have I felt my brain exhausted, my mind blunted! But it mattered not: I must write. Had I not loved poetry so much, I might have suffered less. Thence came another sting to my crown of thorns. I felt thoughts dying in my soul which must be buried with me. I knew myself capable of better things, and felt God's holy gift degraded. My spirit required freedom, leisure, calmness,

to enable it to achieve that of which it was capable: it had none of these. I was no longer a poet, but a book-maker. They were volumes, not masterpieces the world required of me, and paid me for; and I wrote on until the hand could no longer hold the pen, the body support itself, or the head connect two thoughts."

"But you will recover, dear Eliza, and then you will reap the reward of all your past labours. Surely all you have done must ensure you a competence and a quiet future."

"Alas, no! In the literary world there is no calm; nothing but a daily struggle. One victory gained, does but involve the necessity of attempting another."

"Why not, then, give up this terrible life, dear Eliza, and return to Nantes, where you were so happy and contented?”

"I could not: my lips had tasted of the intoxicating chalice, and, like Prosperpine when she had eaten of the seeds of the pomegranate, there was no return for me: besides, blinded as I was, I"-she sunk back exhausted.

"But now there is yet time! Let me take you from this poisonous atmosphere, which injures both body and spirit. In your native air you will soon be better, soon be yourself again. Do you not remember our parting vow-Should either require consolation or assistance, to seek

holds dear!"

Eliza's large dark eyes seemed to drink in every word; she folded her hands in grateful thanksgiving; a flood of tears relieved her oppressed heart, and sinking on her friends' bosom, she murmured, “Adèle, I believe and

bless thee!"

A few weeks after this, two women, attired in deep mourning, knelt by the side of Eliza's grave, which some unknown, but friendly hand had decked with bright spring flowers. Long and fervently they prayed; then the youngest arose and whispered, “Come, my mother, come, let us quit this dreadful city!"

and laid it in her bosom : it was the last memoMadame Mercœur plucked one of the flowers, rial she would ever have of her beautiful, her lost child! and followed Adèle with lingering steps.

THE YEW-TREE

In Preston Church-yard, Kent.
How long hast thou been lingering there,
Melancholy tree?

No forest friend thy watch will share,

Nor sympathize with thee.

All see thee lonely, yet thy presence shun,
Save few wild children of the earth and sun.

Thou hast not dwelt 'mong laughing streams,
Or the fair daisied meads-
Or glens where, when the eve-star beams,
The wild deer sports and feeds;
Still, in thy kirk-yard home, a mournful few
Will come and gaze on thee, thou drear old Yew!

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RECORDS OF COMPOSERS.

BY GEORGE J. O. ALLMAN.

"Vergiss die heuen Tödten nicht.”

KORNER.

"Their's is the merit, mine 'tis to record."

POPE'S HOMER'S ILIAD.

"Genti di lingua stranie e dì coshémi
Organte a sentir vàrio è diverso

E l'Indo stesso; e il messicàno, e forsè
L'Ottentotto medesmo, ed il Galone
Tutti van prési a qual sublime incanto
Di Rossiniani numèri !"

BARBIERI.

RECORD II.-GIOACHINO ROSSINI.

to seize them; nor the deep and passionate tenderness, the joyous and sparkling vivacity of

Mozart,

German school, have done-would be to deny a just tribute to him who has often and often (aye, more often, perhaps, than any other composer) "filled our ears with measures sweeet;" and though not of the highest and most classical style, yet the romantic pathos pervading them has inspired us with a feeling of reverence for his most undoubtedly great abilities. With him music was indeed

"The food of love!"

To enter into a disquisition of the revolution uninteresting to the best part of our readers, and caused by this composer would be as ill-timed as

At the head of the Composers of Modern Italy, and even as the Founder of a New School in Composition, indisputably stands the Name "Whose spells can steal the spirit while it sleeps ;" placed No. 2 on our Records. When we say that Rossini is the Founder of a New School, yet to say that he is not a man of great genius we mean that he it was who first introduced-which some, who delight only in the ultrainto the Art the Romantic Style of Music, the indefinite expression, the bold outline and effects, the lavish use of orchestral instruments, filling up, as it may be, the real void caused by the endless variety and profusion of incoherent images and daring innovations that constitute this school; deceiving the ear, perchance, as to its real poverty and lack of design: but this style, so different from all others, has not failed to gain Rossini a name that will be renowned for ages. And if to him be not reserved the Undying and Eternal Fame that is accorded to the memory of a Beethoven or a Mozart, yet, as one whose works when living are echoed in the most distant lands; as one who has delighted the ears of people of every colour, and "nations (as the poet Barbieri has truly said, in the charming lines prefixed to this record) of strange manners and language, possessed of differently constituted organs, to think and feel-the Indian, the Mexican, nay, perhaps even the Hottentot and swarthy Moor;" who all own the sublime power of the "Rossiniani Numeri," as one, too, whose name the four winds of heaven have wafted to the utmost confines of civilized earth-we think that such fame will be very little less; and albeit he does not possess a of the vast learning and genius that enkindled the breast of a Beethoven or Mozart; although in him we never can possibly find the stupendous effects that a Beethoven alone could wield with impunity; although in his works it were hopeless to meet with the grand and enormous masses of sound, which, like the bolts of Jove, would consume to dust the wretch who attempted

tithe

we shall therefore hasten to effect the aim of our

present undertaking; and in a short sketch of his career and writings pourtray, as well as we are able, the characteristics of this great composer.

Gioachino Rossini was born in 1792, at a small town in the Papal States called Pesaro, on the Venetian Gulf. His father was a horn player of no very striking eminence in his profession; his mother, a woman of remarkable beauty, and enjoying a tolerable rank as a singer They seem to have led a wandering sort of life, travelling about the country, obtaining engagements where they could—

and actress.

"Trusting to fortune for their daily bread;" the one by singing on the stage, the other as an adjunct to the orchestra. And it was during their chance sojourn at Pesaro that our composer was born.

His parents removing to Bologna, the seat of their famous school of music, Rossini, when only seven years old, commenced his musical studies. Possessing a voice of sweetness, he was soon able to add a trifle to his parents' small store by singing at the churches. By dint of much study, and being gifted with a quick and ready tact and observation, he gradually mas-"mobility;" waltzes, quadrilles-in short, me tered the difficulties of accompaniment and the rudiments of counterpoint; and at the age of fifteen received a few lessons from the Padre Mattei, then a celebrated maestro in the Conservatorio at Bologna; but the thoughtless and volatile disposition of our young student made him slight the lessons of his learned instructor. A cantata called "Il pianto di Armonia" first brought him into notice, and gained him the appointment of Director of the Academia di Concordia, a small musical society at Bologna.

The years 1810 and 1811 witnessed the success of Rossini as a composer for the theatres at Venice and Bologna in two or three dramatic pieces long since-with other juvenile effusions -gone to the "tomb of all the Capulets." The first work that can be classed as the head of the list of his operas was "L'inganno felice." It was this opera that led to the foundation of a fame which the appearance and enthusiastic reception of "Tancredi" the year after established. The Venetians, susceptible to either the most intense admiration or to dislike the most violent, hailed the music as something almost superhuman. There was something, they thought, in it so different from anything they had before heard; it was so full of freshness and sparkling melody. The heroic and romantic character of its structure so admirably adapted to the style of the drama to which it was united, its airs abounding with the most graceful and captivating melodies; the simple yet brilliant and effective accompaniment completely met the tone of their own feelings, and this success decided Rossini to pursue the new style; he had abided by the hazard of the die in this opera of "Tancredi,"--and won. Nothing was heard over all Venice save the airs in this opera. From the noblest patrician to the meanest of the gondolieri

"From prince and peasant, peer and serf,
Naught else was heard-"

all and every one were humming snatches of its
most catching melodies. At the tables of the
"great," if a question was put to any one, the
answer was clothed in the soft measures of "Ti
rivedio," or the enticing roulades of "Di tanti
palpiti." The musical dillettanti were in a per-
fect furore, exclaiming, in their delight—“ Our
beloved Cimarosa has reappeared in the world;
his spirit breathes again amongst us"—
"Aye! lives and breathes, and echoes back once

more

His former glories."

It was this opera, as we said before, produced on a new style, that made the name of Rossini imperishable. Since its production

almost to the present time, an endless succession of performances in theatre, chamber, and concert-room, in every locality, the foot of Euterpe has pressed; its airs ground by a myriad of barrel-organs; screamed into tatters by boarding-school misses; whistled with indomitable spirit and gusto by all the young scions of the langes of every possible feature; simmered down into lessons for the "such a clever little child" of a family, and " pretty little practice for pretty little fingers," who could hardly, even with a mighty stretch of their "genius" (according to parental dictionaries) play two notes on the pianoforte consecutively correctly; mountainized into a gigantic succession of sequences and difficulties that few of the "disciples of Mother Earth" could hope to conquer - have proved the surest and most infallible test, the severest ordeal and most unimpeachable verdict that could be passed; and yet, like the pure ore which comes from the crucible untouched, undiscoloured, pure as that only can be which be fore was pure, it has stood the test of years, the variety of tastes and ideas of different nations, and yet never palled on the ear or ceased to afford pleasure. And if this be not a true sign of intrinsic value, we candidly confess we do not understand the meaning of the word. Even now, when the cycle of revolving years hath sped in many evolutions, and when the burning thirst for novelty must necessarily be slacked in other and fresh springs of music; yes, even now, when the tide of popularity has of neces sity ebbed, in the calm and slowly-formed opin ion of musicians it ranks even higher than when in the first blaze of its popularity it chained the public attention and directed the public taste. But yet, it must be added, this opera is not a "Fidelio," nor a " Flauto Magico ;" far, very far, from either.

After the success of "Tancredi," Rossini produced in rapid succession "L'Italiana in Algieri," "La Pietra di Paragone," "Demetrio e Polibio," and "Il Turco in Itàlia." These operas were all most favourably received, and enhanced the reputation of their composer greatly, but never became to any extent very popular. The overtures to the two latter have long been stock overtures for both theatre and chamber, to which latter fact our "young ideas" can amply bear testimony. These operas conbeautiful airs, among which we may name the tained, however, many of this composer's most fine impassioned tenor_cavatina "Languir per of which, we think, excels anything else Rossini una bella," from the "Italiana," the tenderness aria, "Ecco pietoso," from the "Pietra;" the ever wrote for a tenor; the sweet and touching duetti, "Questo cor," and "D'un bellosi di Turchia," from the "Demetrio” and “Turco.” In the last ("Il Turco"), as well as in "L'Italiana," there are several fine concerted pieces of great comic humour and effect.

In 1814, Rossini wrote for the Scala, at Milan, his opera "L'Aureliano in Palmira." Succeeding grea tly on its onset, after a little time, and

when its representations had lost their freshness, it fell into distaste, or rather lacked sufficient interest to ensure its frequent performance; and in a short time the opera was quiety laid on the shelf, there, amongst the mass of others, "to take its rest;" and there, "with its honours" (i. e., the dust of ages) "thick upon it," it has remained till the present time, and so doubtless will remain; for it is not likely that

"That which hath slept

The sleep of many years unwoke" will be regenerated from the womb of futurity. Connected with this opera is a little anecdote, worth relating. On the first rehearsal of it, Velutti, whom Rossini had never before heard, and who performed the principal character (Auteliano), clothed the air allotted to him with such a variety and profusion of ornaments and roulades, that Rossini involuntarily exclaimed—“ Io non conosco la mia musica"-(I do not know my own music!) It is generally believed that it was this very circumstance that induced Rossini ever afterwards to write his airs with embellishments to prevent their disfigurement in the hands (or rather mouths) of the singers by either their conceit or bad taste. But alas, Rossini! add roulades of the utmost difficulty of execution as thou wilt, throng every bar with a multitude of notes so that they seem more fit for twenty than for one, and yet thou didst find that the Rubinis, the Grisis, and the endless list of" belli cantanti," even then swelled their numbers. Impossible almost as it would seem, all-all sacrificed to the quenchless passion to vie with and excel each other in the difficulties (it's a poor word!) of their fiorituri.

In 1815, Rossini was promoted to the office of Director of the Music at the San Carlo, at Naples. He was engaged to compose two new operas yearly, and to arrange and conduct all the music brought out there. His yearly recompense was 12,000 fr., or £500! The first opera he produced there was "Elisabetta Regina d'Inghilterra," which was very successful. Signora Colbrand, a Spanish singer, considered one of the greatest singers and actresses then living, and in great favour with the Neapolitans, performed the role of the maiden monarch. Of a noble and commanding beauty, possessing a voice of extensive compass, and capable of great expression and intensity of feeling, it is no wonder that her impersonation was a striking one. Rossini is represented to have said, on first hearing her, Ciel; che divina! qual prima donna!" From a short account of this opera, published in France, we quote: "There was nothing theatrical in it; no gestures, no conventional tragic attitudes or movements. The queen's immense power, the consequences of a single word uttered by her might bring forth, were read in the beautiful but terrible Spanish eyes of the actress. Her look, her deportment, her speech, made it impossible not to feel that this superb woman had been for years an absolute queen. It was the oldness of the habits contracted by supreme power, the perfect free

66

dom from any doubt as to the instant obedience which would be paid to her slightest wish, that formed the principal feature in the performance of this great singer. The few moments which interrupted her habitual tranquillity seemed forced from her by the violence of her own contending passions, but never from any desire of making herself obeyed. Our greatest tragedians, even Talma himself, made use of violent and imperious gestures in the parts of tyrants." Be it remembered it is a Frenchman who is writing. Perhaps this kind of blustering is but a sacrifice to the bad taste of audiences; and, however much it is relished, it is not the less absurd. No man is so sparing of gesture as an absolute king. They are of no use to him who is accustomed to see his slightest signs followed by an instant obedience to his will. We have spoken of the signora rather at greater length than we should, but, as we shall presently see, it was Rossini's destiny to marry her; and it is as the wife of this "gran maestro" that she is entitled to more than passing mention.

For seven years our composer's engagement at Naples continued, during which time he produced several operas at the San Carlo, the signora Collbrand still filling the "prime donnè," notwithstanding the visible decay of her vocal powers and consequent fall in the Neapolitan favour; but, like most singers, she had in her "spring time" amassed an enormous fortune. Before he departed from Naples, Rossini wooed and won her; and we will not do him the injustice to suppose that he was smitten by "les beaux yeux de sa cassette," or her charms of person; but that, forgetting alike these, as well as the rapid decay and false intonation of the voice which was wont to enchain the ears of thousands with his music, he had formed a sincere affection for her, and had discovered in her the numberless and nameless graces which a lover, and a lover only, it is said, can find, and thereupon married her!

The terms of his engagement at Naples not precluding him from composing and producing operas elsewhere, he produced at the Carnival of 1816, at Rome, an opera now deservedly forgotten, "Torraldo e Dorliska," and the charming and delicious evergreen, "Il Barbiere di Seviglia," which fairly took Rome by surprise, and created a furore fully equal to that of "Tancrèdi."

This chef d'œuvre of our composer, which is perhaps destined to immortality, the world had perhaps never heard of but for the petty cabals, the miserable disagrémens which at that time existed in the management of musical matters at Rome.

Like the ordeal to which our own productions are submitted by the "Examiner of Plays," no piece that is, the libretto of it-was allowed to be represented without first undergoing the most rigid and searching scrutiny by "Il Censor." A little time before the production of "Il Barbiere," the Impresario had submitted the libretti of several operas-to which he would have had music composed-for the

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