necessary sanction, but all of them were forbidden-condemned! But to return. It immediately flew all over Europe, and has remained up to the present time-with the exception of "Guillaume Tell," perhaps the most admired of our composer's operas. and malevolent factions which swell its own list of votaries, by exciting many who have been The Impresario, vexed at all these disappoint- unjustly condemned to exhibit the same feelings ments, and in despair at such prohibitions, at of ill-will to future aspirants; and as for the last bethought himself of the well nigh forgotten" envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitabledrama of "Il Barbiere," which had been origi- ness" it creates, words cannot describe them. nally set by Paesiello, but not successfully; and no wonder, for Paesiello was, to our thinking, more a graceful and touching writer than possessed of a vein of comedy in music. This was at once complied with, and Rossini received the order for the music. Rossini replied (though we acquit him of all diffidence) that it was an embarassing proposal to a young composer to set music to a drama on which so great a master as Paesiello had already been engaged; but forthwith wrote to the veteran composer, fairly stating the case. The old musician immediately replied that he was delighted at the choice made by the Roman police! Dear old man! where was thy vanity-thy amour propre? This quite set Rossini's mind at ease-not very difficult to do at any time; and he forthwith set to work on the libretto, and actually completed it within a fortnight. He prefixed a modest preface to the book, printing Paesiello's letter at full; and it was performed on the first day of the Carnival. Shortly after this triumph, he produced at Naples "Otello," the drama of which, by the Marchese Berio, a dillettanti poet, was a wretched Italian raficamento of the sublime original; and Rossini is even said to have been most reluctant to undertake its composition, for he was slightly acquainted with the masterpiece of our immortal bard. It was, neverthe less, received with undivided applause, and bas ever since been held in high esteem, and more especially by musicians, not admirers of Rossini's works generally; since it was in this work that he first exerted himself in instrumentation, and first adopted that style of orchestral writing which he is said to have borrowed from the Ger mans, but never with greater incorrectness. The Germans, indeed! The School of Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn, and Weber, allied to Rossini No! While Rossini and the Italians, to deceive the ear from discovering its very inartificial construction, use every variety of instrument to swell the loudness of their theme, by merely doubling its parts, Mozarttaking him as the type of the German Schoolin his accompaniments is full of the most inge nious contrivance and exquisite variety and com bination, yet subdued and adapted to the situ ation of the piece and the qualifications of the performer. And the purity of style in Mozart can never be better exemplified than by trying how greatly the introduction of an unnecessary appogiatura will affect and interfere with his har Who, on witnessing the first representation of this opera, could have believed that though it was literally hooted off the stage-and violently,"Hyperion to a satyr!" too-it would now, at a period of nearly thirty years from that time, be still hailed over all Europe as enthusiastically as if it were a new as it is brilliant composition; but so it is, and such was the singular fate attending this opera. The audience-making the most unfavourable comparisons between many of the airs with some of the best remembered morceaux in Paesiello's in their discerning and enlightened (?) indignation would not (and, doubtless, did not) hear it. The critics all said that Rossini's air-"Una Voce poco fa," now so celebratedwas quite out of all meaning, and only a succession of endless cadenzè; making her appear-monies. And so it is with singers; and it is as not a young and inexperienced girl of sixteen, applicable now as then. If they do but possess who, though love had made her ready-witted sufficiently strong lungs to make themselves and manoeuvring, should sing artlessly-but a audible "through the thunder of the tempest woman that partakes far too greatly of the shrew of the orchestral accompaniments of Rossini and and vixen. And the air, "Ecco che ridente il his followers, they have little to fear, and are as cielo," which Almavira sings under her window, free from all restraint as their predecessors a wanted the tenderness and simple grace of Paie- century before. But let the same singers persello's rendering of it. Strange-strange to say, form in one of Mozart's operas, and with the the same audience who had condemned every chaste and subdued accompaniments of that bar without a hearing, on its second night wonderful master, and he will necessarily fail; seemed incited by the most opposite feeling. not so much from want of power as from the Every note was listened to and applauded with habit of having the voice supported by a mass rapture; new beauties were discovered in every of sound, and it is this species of accompaniment bar, and they were enchanted by the brilliancy-aggravated and augmented by Rossini's follow of the music and its great dramatic effect. So much for the boasted impartiality of audiences! Alike in England as in Italy, it is the blind adoration, or abuse and bigoted condemnation bestowed upon composers and singers that has blighted all that is bright and beautiful in art, and tended to bring disrepute upon music: thus blasting the hopes of many a young and deserving artist, and creating those petty ers-that has very greatly impaired Italian sing ing. Forced to oppose the force of vocal strength to that of orchestral power, and, in fine, obliged to obtain the victory, the singer naturally, in the woman, increases the voice into a scream, in the male to a shout; and the Italian school of singing, once so pre-eminent, has lost much, very much, of its former sweetness and soundness. And the slovenly and incorrect mode of harmonisation, too, has tended much to the use of those empty and unmeaning roulades, now the taunt of that school, the purity of which, indeed, they are not at all fastidious about. In the scores of Rossini the most glaring faults of this nature are continually occurring, in direct violation of all rules of harmony. There are some who defend them by affirming they are hardly perceivable, and to a great extent, put in juxta-position with the other gifts Rossini possesses, they should be passed over; but had such things been admitted by Haydn or Mozart into their scores, they would have been perceived at once, as the slightest discolouration undiscovered and unnoticed in the thick waters would be in the lucid depth of the spring fountain ! (To be continued.) THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES. Friends may grow cold, the loved one we lov'd most THAT IS GREATER THAN PRUDENCE. THE WISDOM THAT IS BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. "There is a Wisdom that is greater than Prudence!" says Coleridge; and it is a fine thought, and boldly embodied. Prudence is undoubtedly a virtue, which none but an idiot would disparage; a quality, without which it is almost impossible for man or woman to be successful in the struggle of life—and struggle there is of some sort in every grade and position. And I look upon it that the Wisdom which Coleridge meant goes hand in hand with Prudence, teaches this to be nobler, and makes it more clear-sighted; never displaces it from its due authority. Never was there a word more warped away from its real meaning than this same Prudence. What a vast number of people make it an elastic cloak to cover every act of wrong, extortion, and selfishness! As if it were an act of imprudence to let pass any opportunity of self-aggrandisement, no matter what the cost or sacrifice may be to others. Have they ever heard of a virtue greater, indeed, than Prudence? Ay! as much above it as the blue sky seems above the earthJustice! To be strictly and literally Just in all our doings almost exceeds the power of humanity, fettered as we are by evil habits of thought and action; but even the approach to such a character has something god-like in its attributes. A frightful, soul-degrading Selfishness is the vice of the age, fostered by the thousand common errors of education-errors to which, however, the world seems at last awakening: excused by the example of the throng, made light of by vulgar proverbs, but none the less a source of misery and moral degradation, infinite and appalling! But self-preservation is the first law of nature!" cries some one, who has been accustomed to make self-interest the law of his conduct; and perhaps he adds, "Every one for himself, and God for us all!" thinking this last wish a sort of crowning benevolence. Nature! The nature of noble souls has some laws higher and more absolute than that of selfpreservation, as countless deeds of self-devotion might testify. "Self-preservation" is but a savage instinct; and self-aggrandisement, at the expense of all the rest of the world, is only a vice of civilization grafted upon it. Everybody who observes at all-must have noticed the number of people who are thought very good folks because they have extended the circumference of their individual selfishness to the limits of their family circle. "Excellent parents," as they are called, who make "justice to their children" an excuse for injustice to all the rest of the world. It is with a sickening shudder one contemplates these scenes, for the self-delusion of the case only makes it more monstrous. These are the people who deem that "justice to their children" demands they should provide for them competent instructors, yet will grind down the accomplished governess to the lowest salary which she-driven by competition to the saddest need of subsistence-will consent to take; and treat her as a generous mind would scorn to treat the recipient of a favour, instead of with the respect due to one whose services are beyond all measuring by the hireling's gold! These are the men who on the merchant's mart take advantage of some knowledge obtained by accident or stratagem, and cheat a brother merchant (and his family) as ruthlessly as a gamester would throw the loaded dice. And the women are they who slander and cabal against others, obscure and throw in the background the acquirements or virtues of their youthful friends, that those of their own children may, as they think, shine out more distinctly. Trifles, some will say, not worth mentioning! The idea of a lady excluding one acquaintance from her parties because she is too fine a musician; or persuading another to dress unbecomingly; or circulating gentle hints that the temper of a third is not to be compared with that of her Angelina, will to many, perhaps, savour more of the ridiculous than anything else. But as straws thrown up show clearly enough the direction of the wind, so do these trifles mark character with frightful distinctness. I cannot think that the "respectable people" who do these things would scruple at performing acts of greater injustice, if they thought them "but justice to their children!"" There was an instance, not long ago, of a man of substance dying suddenly; his will having been drawn out, though not signed. To his family this omission was of little consequence, for he had left his property to his widow and orphans, who would still inherit it, with the exception of a few legacies to acquaintances, who wanted them not, and one annuity. Perhaps this last provision was one of the most just intentions of his life, and, moreover, was the fulfilment of a promise. One of those faithful servants-who sometimes exist in real life as well as on the pages of romance-had devoted the best years of her life to his service. She had been the tender Nurse of his children; had how he could ever have looked upon it as difficult, much less impossible. And then, a few weeks afterwards, when she was to leave the house, in which she had dwelt for above thirty years, they had begged her to stay till she should have found a comfortable lodging. What a parting there was! There was the silver salver, with the sparkling wine gleaming through the fine glass, brought out for old Nurse on that occasion; and the grown-up children, "her" children, as she loved to call them, had most of them a farewell gift to present-value a few shillings. And the farce -or tragedy, as some might think it-was so cleverly acted that the victim herself was deluded. Her savings of £30, and such mementos of respect and affection as these, seemed to her poor of a Life! It was she who wept at the partingsimple heart an ample return-for the Devotion not for the bleak, dim, future into which she was hurled-but at breaking the links of affection and habit. Simple, honest soul! But for her, and such as her, there are ministering angels in heaven and on earth. Desolate as the world is to the Poor and the old, there are warm hearts in it that cheer the desolation and lighten the gloom; and, as if by and injustice finds-how often!-a helping hand a law of compensation, the victim of ingratitude extended from some quarter where it is the least expected, and on which there is the least claim Happy are they whose middle station and competent means save them from the tempta borne them in her arms in the helpless years of infancy; had watched by their beds through many a lingering illness; had ever been a faithful if a humble friend, and had fulfilled not a few of a parent's duties. With the swift rolling of years the prattling, tottering, children had grown to be men and women, possessed of the strong hopeful energies of youth, and the Selfishness of common characters. But, alas for poor Nurse! those swiftly rolling years had brought fact that either extreme fosters the animal instinct her from the meridian of life to its steep decline. of Selfishness. Abject Poverty! Oh, how easy She was a supernumerary in the house where it is to understand that its daily pressing wants she had so long been useful and active; but was too old, too worn out, to enter on a fresh ser vice. The father, as I have hinted-partly from an impulse of personal and perhaps grateful regard, and partly from a sense of justice-had purposed to leave old Nurse £40 a year, so that her last days might be passed removed from the pinching of want or the dread or reality of a Workhouse. tions of Want or Riches. For it is a curious and corroding cares must narrow the sympathies to Self, and dull the human mind to all those nobler emotions which are its rightful heritage! And yet all experience proves that the other extreme of enervating luxury has an equally demoralizing tendency, creating factitious wants and troubles, which are almost as hard to be borne as real ones. see the Fitness and Justness of all things; where this exists too strongly to be coerced, it will break the bonds of even riches or poverty. By this light we see that all are brothers, and each learns to make allowance for the faults of others. Carlyle says, with as much truth as aptness of expression, "The wealth of a man is the number of things which he loves and blesses, which he is loved and blessed by!" And none can be rich, computing by this wealth, who does not possess I believe that our usefulness and activity, which are the chief means of human happiness, How many an event is there in life which are in proportion to our Sympathy with the joys looks, when viewed in the future, as some im- and sorrows of our fellow-creatures. It is the possible thing-some barrier not to be passed-spark of light in the human mind by which we and yet which does give way, when reached, readily as a snow bank in the sunshine! To one not well versed in the world and its ways, it would indeed have seemed an "impossibility," a barrier not to be passed, for that gentle-looking, courteous-mannered widow to take advantage of the want of formality in the Will, and turn adrift to the charity of the stranger the long tried and faithful friend and servant. But she did it in the easiest manner possible, and all under the plea of "justice to her children!" Yes, the impossibility was achieved by the softest of phrases; as she sat on her damask sofa, cambric-handkerchief in hand, and begged old Nurse to be seated likewise. The thing too was done in such an easy fashion, than an eavesdropper would only have been amazed to think whether he know it or not-the "Wisdom that is greater than Prudence;" a wisdom which teaches him to practise Justice and Benevolence; and, while doing to others as he would be done by, to do only for himself, where the Balance of Justice is to be held, as he would do to them. Oh, if we acted thus, instead of plot ting and planning with a near-sighted Prudence | But instances crowd on the memory, and a vo for the present, what a Future would wreath lume of illustrations might be written; ay, illusitself for us, by the most natural consequences, trations to prove that, even in a worldly sense, even in this world! Why, the Wisdom that is even in the weaving of that strange chain of cause greater than Prudence, and Prudence itself, are and effect, which we can trace so clearly in the yoke-fellows. If life be spared to see the ripen- past, and but by so dim a light in the future, there ing-which, it may be granted, is slow some- is a Wisdom greater than Prudence. Who cannot times-every unselfish act bears rich fruit in the recall instances of Selfishness over-reaching itself, sequel. Example is something; the genial in- and a false step blighting fair prospects; and, on fluence on all who contemplate this "acted wis- the other hand, of noble conduct being indeed dom" is more; and the elevation of the Doer's "bread cast upon the waters," to be found after own mind is the most priceless guerdon of all! many a day? LITERATURE. PEN AND INK SKETCHES OF POETS, PREACHERS, AND POLITICIANS. p.p. 275. London: Bogue.-This is a right charming book: it tells us much that is new of the illustrious dead, linking the living with their memories! The past and present spirits of real genius and talent are beautifully blended; and we have the actual experiences and impressions of the writer himself, as he beheld and conversed with these luminaries of mind, with no common eye and ear. The volume is enriched with an exquisite portrait of T. S. Coleridge, from a sketch by Washington Ailston, a speaking likeness of the great original: the poet is represented sitting with bosomed hand, thoughtfully composed, and with a finely placid and meditative look. Our greatest regret, on reading the volume, was its seeming brevity, so growing was the interest felt as we turned over its haunted leaves. "Pen and Ink Sketches" though they be, each is a treasure for all right-minded readers. In brief and rapid succession we find ourselves introduced to a Robert Hall, John Foster and his Bristol contemporaries; now having a day with Hannah More, and there meeting Dr. Aiken and Mrs. Barbauld, in the beautiful, and, to us, familiar grounds of Barley | Wood; and pursuing, throughout, the pleasures before-named with memories and portraits of Mrs. Hemans, Miss Jewsbury, Dr. Raffles, Crabbe, Legh Richmond, Milman, Buckland, Dr. Pusey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lamb, Shelley, Southey, Hazlitt, Byron, Johanna Baillie, Lady Blessington, Count D'Orsay, Abernethy, Farraday, Paganini, James and Robert Montgomery, Ebenezer Elliott, Peel, Brougham, Lyndhurst, Macaulay, Shiel, D'Israeli, &c., &c., &c. The following introduction to Mrs. Hemans is interesting, and will best suit our space, though by no means the best portion of the book. However, we earnestly hope our fair and intelligent readers will read and judge for them selves. "My knock at the door was answered by a servant girl-one of the prettyLancashire witches,' by whom I was shown into a small parlour, where I remained whilst my letter and card were taken to the lady of the house. "It was a very small apartment, but everything about it indicated that it was the home of genius and of taste. Over the mantel-shelf hung a fine en graving of William Roscoe, author of the Lives of the De Medici, with a presentation line or two in his own hand-writing. The walls were decorated with prints and pictures, and on the mantel-shelf were On some models, in terra cotta, of Italian groups. choice prints and water-colour engravings; but I was the tables lay casts, medallions, and a portfolio of and so I sat down, anxiously awaiting the entrance too anxious to pay much attention to such matters, of the Poetess. "And never, before or since, have I felt in such a flutter. For years and years I had read her poetry, and imagined all sorts of things about the authoress. I had been told that she was beautiful, and readily believed it--but I anticipated some disappointment in this respect-in fact, I can scarcely tell how I felt, when I heard the rustling of silks, and saw a lady enter the room. which passed through my brain. The lady was in"Well-I am disappointed, was the rapid thought teresting-looking enough, but bore no resemblance whatever to the engraved portraits of Mrs. Hemans; she was much younger, too, than I imagined Mrs. H. to have been: and, to put the reader out of suspense, it was not the Poetess of the Affections, but her close and attached friend, Miss Jewsbury, who had been deputed by Mrs. Hemans to make excuses for a few moments' delay in receiving me. I did not know "Miss Jewsbury was one of the most frank and open-hearted creatures possible. She gracefully apologized for acting as Mrs. Hemans' locum tenens, then who the lady was; but being aware that Mrs. and made me feel quite at my ease. Hemans had a sister who frequently set her songs to music, I imagined that my fair companion must be her. I was not undeceived until after Mrs. Hemans had made her appearance. "It was not long before the Poetess entered the room. She held out her hand and welcomed me in the kindest manner, and then sat down opposite me; but, before doing so, introduced Miss Jewsbury. "I cannot well conceive a more exquisitely beautiful creature than Mrs. Hemans was; none of the portraits or busts I have ever seen of her do her justice, nor is it possible for words to convey to the reader any idea of the matchless, yet serene beauty of her expression. Her glossy waving hair was parted on her forehead, and terminated on the sides, in rich and luxuriant auburn curls: there was a dove-like look in her eyes, and yet there was a chastened sadness in their expression. Her complexion was remarkably clear, and her high forehead looked as pure and spotless as Parian marble. A calm repose, not unmingled with melancholy, was the characteristic expression of the face; but when she smiled, all traces of sorrow were lost, and she seemed to be but a little lower than the angels'-fitting shrine for so pure a mind! Let me not be deemed a flatterer or an enthusiast, in thus describing her, for I am only one of many, who have been almost as much captivated by her personal heauty, as charmed by the sweetness and holiness of her productions. If ever poems were the reflex of the beauties, personal and mental, of their writers, they were indeed so in the case of Mrs. Hemans. "We talked of L. E. L. Mrs. Hemans said she had received several letters from her, containing pressing invitations to visit London. A place I never was in, and never wish to be,' she observed. My heart beats too loudly, even in this quiet place, and there I think it would burst. The great Babel was not made for such as me.' She was very much pleased with an anecdote which I told her, with which one of her poeins had something to do. It was this: "Near the city of Bath is a secluded little churchyard, in which, amongst other monuments, is one of pure white marble, on which was engraven the name of a nobleman's daughter, and her age-seventeen. In addition to this was the following stanza from Mrs. Hemans' poem, Bring Flowers :' PEERS AND PARVENUS; by Mrs. Gore. 3 vols. (Colburn.)-Those who can find in the graces of a lively and painted style, a substitute for the sterner requisites of the novelist, will find abundance of entertainment in the writings of Mrs. Gore. True, her delineations do not go much beyond that gossamer film, yclept manners, which covers the surface of society. Indeed it is a general fault in all our fair novelists, from Madam D'Arblay downwards, that the characters of their heroes, and other important personages who figure in their pages, instead of being left to develop themselves by their own words and actions, are made out by the special pleading of the author, who, by constantly assuring us that her hero is a miracle of virtue and wisdom, very naturally induces a suspicion that he is neither. In others we are called upon to love and to hate, to admire and to denounce, more from the dicta of the author than from what we see in the characters themselves. Thus, in the novel before us, Mrs. Gore is perpetually assuring us that the hero (Jervis Cleve) is a genius; but neither in word nor act does he show any sign of it. He has neither the lofty and impetuous will, the vivid imagination, the strong passions, nor the intuitive insight into minds of others, common to high mental endowment. If the negation of vice, indeed, meant the height of virtue, or the absence of folly the extreme of wisdom, Jervis Cleve might have some pretensions to the character claimed for him, but surely on no other plea. As a delineator of manners, however, and of the petty passions, contests, and in trigues of high life, Mrs. Gore is unrivalled. The manoeuvring mother; the abject, self-seeking daughter; the smiling envy; the shabby triumphs; the perpetual lie, in short, in which the vulgar, be they great or small, live and move, truth. The novel before us has very little story: is detected and exposed with matchless ease and Jervis, the parvenu, is a peasant-genius, who, from his talents and good conduct, becomes a gentle. man and a scholar; George Joddrell is the son of a peer (Lord Hillingdon), who has ruined himself by extravagance and the Turf.' Lady Hillingdon persuades her son to try and retrieve the fortunes of the family by obtaining the hand of Miss Hecksworth, a great heiress; and George, for this purpose, follows the young lady to Naples, where she has gone for the recovery of her health. Hither also Cleve has previously repaired, and has been admitted to the society of the élite; among others, to that of Madame Von Adlerberg, an ambassadress from one of the German courts, who soon begins to show something more than common friendship for the accomplished English scholar. Jervis is, however, in love with the heiress, who is the daughter of his early patron, and secretly returns his love. Among the coteries of Naples is a Colonel Cleveland, a soldier of fortune, for whose social and agreeable qualities Miss Hecksworth shows considerable admiration. The Colonel becomes her suitor, and follows her to England. After the lady's departure, Cleveland is discovered, by means of a ci-devant mistress, to be an impostor and villain, stained with every species of crime. Cleve follows Miss Hecksworth to England, to rescue her from the snare into which he supposes that she is about to fall. The Colonel, on being detected, turns out to be Dick Cleve, Jervis's brother, who, having in his boyhood been unjustly convicted of an offence against the game laws, took to the habits which have ended in making him such an accomplished villain. Dick is turned over to the magistrates; Miss Hecksworth dies; Jervis retires to the cloister; and George Joddrell, now become Lord Hillingdon, marries the next heiress to the Hecksworth property. This is not, on the whole, one of Mrs. Gore's best novels: the story wants interest and concentration; the incidents are too few for the length of the tale, but it contains abundance of the writer's sparkling and sarcastic humour; she has a hawk's eye for fashionable folly or meanness. For examples, we must refer the reader to the character of the Clutterbucks, a family of city parvenus; to that of their aunt, Lady Hillingdon, the ruined peeress; and to the |