often partaken with delight at the table of the great millionaire, and which Careme had sent him by one of the Baron's own couriers. Rossini was so touched and gratified by the attention that he improvised on the spot (only imagine, dear reader, the illustrious Maestro jotting down an inspiration over the patés whereon his eyes were feasting themselves, and on the contents of which he was revelling in anticipation!) an aria apropos to the incident, and gave it to the courier to deliver to Careme; but as the courier was leaving the room, he called him back. "Stay," said he, "I have omitted to put my signature to it. There!" And he gave it back, having inscribed on the first page of the (interesting!) MS., “ Rossini à Careme."

His quiet, sarcastic humour cannot be better exemplified than by the following :

One day, shortly after the production of "La Gazza Ladra," Rossini was sitting yawning in his robe de chambre-who shall say upon what the mind of the great man was pondering? however, he was yawning-perhaps over the sickening puff of some senseless critic, perhaps from occasional fatigue-when a poor wretch, miserably clad, and to all appearance without a scudo in his pockets, was shewn in (for Rossini sees and receives the visits of all), eager, of course, to have his fortune made, and certain that Rossini could and would make it. The composer is very generous to all those miserables. "Well," said he, "what can I do for you? An artist? What sort of a voice have you got?" "No voice, Monsieur Rossini, I am an instrumentalist. Ah! if you will only now "Ah! what instrument then?"

And if you

The other drew himself up proudly. "The drum, Monsieur! the double-drum, Monsieur ! will only allow me to play to you "Oh! par Example," exclaimed Rossini, bursting into a fit of laughter. "No, thank you; and, besides, you have no drum here?"

“But I have brought one with me." "Diantre! but I cannot think of you taking so much trouble. You play beautifully I am certain. I had better at once give you a note to Monsieur Tilmant, the conductor of the orchestra of the Italian opera. Pray don't bring it in."

But the professor was not to be got rid of so easily. In came an enormous drum, and Rossini screwed himself up for the infliction. "I shall have the honour," said the severing suitor," of playing to you the overture to La Gazza Ladra."

per

"Ah! ah!" And Rossini laughed again. The performer began without more ceremony,

But were we to go on quoting the many interesting incidents with which the composer's life has been fertile, we should never complete our memoir; and so, for fear of outstripping our limits, and perhaps the reader's patience, we are constrained to pass them over.

Rossini is still living; though it is currently and painfully reported that he is in ill health. Heaven grant that it may not prove the truth! May he yet live to give to the world another Barbiere or another Guillaume Tell! May the glory of his genius yet shine with greater effulgence to brighten earth for ages yet to come, imperishable and undimmed, clinging to the hearts of men

"As the ghost of Homer clings

And yet

Round Scamander's wasting springs,
As divinest Shakspere's might
Fills Avon and the World with light-
Like Omniscient Power, which he
Imaged 'mid mortality."

to turn to and reflect on that which must come! When-dust to mingle with dust-the form of Rossini shall lie before us, cold, tenantless of its bright soul-when that form is hidden from our tearful, lingering eyes, for ever and ever during this mortal being,

BY CAMILLA TOULMIN.

Epochs there are in Life, when seem to crowd

Events, the deeds of others bring to be; Though they entwine them in our destiny, And weave their threads before us, unavow'd; Either for Hope's bright raiment—or a shroud,

Wherein the silent heart may learn to see, Cold as a corse, some cherish'd memory, Which yet for decent burial thus allow'd, Smiles mutely grateful in its quiet rest!

Anon we follow on Life's pilgrim path, Where weeds seem many, and the flowers down press'd.

But Time for every grief a solace hath;
GOD kindles joy in every human breast,
Where Love forgiving quenches human wrath!

introductory march of the overture, he looked at Rossini triumphantly, delighted with the noise

he had made.

(Page 294).

BY GEORGE J. O. ALLMAN.

An old, old man, upon whose brow
Sat Wisdom; and whose silver hair
Was frosted as the drifted snow,
Pass'd with a child, blue-eyed and fair!

It was a lovely, rural scene

Of cottages and well till'd land, Of nature clothed in sunniest green, Through which they wander'd, hand in hand! And ever stopp'd he, lessons fair

Unto her opening mind t'impart,
Which might take root, and rip'ning, bear
Immortal fruit within her heart!
"My child!" thus spoke the hoary sage;
"Life is a clear and open page,

For mortal eye to scan.
There's not a bird, a flower, or stream
Dumb-yet most eloquent doth teem

With sermons' sweet to man;
Mark yonder HEN, whose flutt'ring brood
Could scarce obtain their daily food,

Save by a mother's care;

Mark it, my child! for it doth teach (Better than most inspired speech) Woman! a love as rare!

Mark, too, yon wretch, whose bloodshot eyes Flash hideous passions as they rise,

Gaming hath been his BANE! Take lesson by his fate, and shun That minister of th' Evil One,

And keep your soul from stain;
For that, he mingled in the draught
The deadly henbane, which, when quaff'd,
Laid his sire beneath the sod,

To gain that squander'd, horrid pelf,
He had indeed lost heaven itself,
His Saviour, and his God!"
May 2, 1846.

BELLS AND POMEGRANATES: No. 8 AND LAST. LURIA; AND A SOUL'S TRAGEDY. By Robert Browning. (Moxon.)-With this eighth number Mr. Browning closes the first series of those infinitely various productions which he has published under the fanciful title of "Bells and Pomegranates ;" and as it is one which seems to have puzzled many of his readers, perhaps we cannot do better than quote his own explanation. In reply to inquiries he says

"I only meant by that title to indicate an endeavour towards something like an alternation or mixture of music with discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought; which looks too ambitious thus expressed, so the symbol was preferred. It is little to the purpose that such is actually one of the most familiar of the many Rabbinical (and Patristic) acceptations of the phrase; because I confess that, letting authority alone, I supposed the bare words, in such juxtaposition, would sufficiently convey the desired meaning."

It signifies, however, almost as little by what general title these poems are to be known, as the binding in which they are enclosed might do; and a few numbers back we had occasion to dwell more fully on Mr. Browning's claim to be ranked as a true and great poet than we have now the space to do. "LURIA" is essentially an heroic production; a beautiful truth idealized;

a creation that could only have emanated from a mind accustomed to find its daily food in the noblest aspirations of humanity. We do not apprehend this drama was ever intended for theatrical representation, although we can understand how actors of genius might in its embodiment delight a cultivated and sympathising audience; but it possesses none of the claptrap effects and bustling activity which are necessary to please the general taste, lowered and corrupted as it has been by the greedy seekers of an evanescent popularity.

Luria is a Moorish captain of Florentine troops, faithful to the death, but doubted by the ungrateful city of his adoption, surrounded by spies, and exposed at last to all the temptations a discovery of their falsehood could present.

But he is above and beyond them; loving Florence with that sort of human love that makes us blind to weaknesses and ready to forgive faults. The five acts of the tragedy comprise five periods of one day-morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and night; into which is crowded a life-time of emotion. Extracts can give but a very faint idea of the peculiar beauties of this drama; for its unity of plot and purpose is one of the greatest. There are single and short passages of great power-the power of a fresh coinage, stamping some truth which we instantly recognize in the glowing words which make it Poetry; but even these passages belong to the work in such a manner that they are weakened by isolation. We must try, however, to make a selection from the many we have scored. The following seems to us full of beauties not to be appreciated at a first hasty reading :—

Luria.

Ah, noon comes too fast!
I wonder, do you guess why I delay
Involuntarily the final blow

As long as possible? Peace follows it!
Florence at peace, and the calm, studious heads
Come out again, the penetrating eyes;
As if a spell broke, all's resumed, each art
You boast, more vivid that it slept awhile!
'Gainst the glad heaven, o'er the white palace-front
The walls are peopled by the Painter's brush;
The interrupted scaffold climbs anew;
The Statue to its niche ascends to dwell;
The Present's noise and trouble have retired
And left the eternal Past to rule once more.
You speak its speech and read its records plain,
Greece lives with you, each Roman breathes your
friend-

But Luria-where will then be Luria's place?

Domizia. Highest in honour, for that Past's own

And shepherd-pipes come into use again?
For very lone and silent seems my East

In its drear vastness-still it spreads, and still
No Braccios, no Domizias anywhere—
Not ever more! Well, well, to-day is ours!

The utmost danger was at hand. 'Tis written? Now make the duplicate, lest this should fail, And speak your fullest on the other side. Secretary. I noticed he was busily repairing My half-effacement of his Duomo sketch,

Not one of you, and so escape the thrill
Of coming into you, and changing thus-
Feeling a soul grow on me that restricts
The boundless unrest of the savage heart!
The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land,
Breaks there and buries its tumultuous strength;
Horror, and silence, and a pause awhile;
Lo, inland glides the gulf-stream, miles away,
In rapture of assent, subdued and still,
'Neath those strange banks, those unimagined skies!
Well, 'tis not sure the quiet lasts for ever!
Your placid heads still find our hands new work;
Some minutes' chance-there comes the need of

mine

Dom. How plainly is true greatness charactered
By such unconsciousness as Luria's here,
And sharing least the secret of itself!

Be it with head that schemes or hand that acts,
Such save the world which none but they could save,
Yet think whate'er they did, that world could do.
Brac. Yes and how worthy note, that those same
great ones

In hand or head, with such unconsciousness
And all its due entailed humility,
Should never shrink, so far as I perceive,
From taking up whatever offices

Involve the whole world's safety or mishap,
Into their mild hands as a thing of course!
The Statist finds it natural to lead

The mob who might as easily lead him

The Soldier marshalls men who know as much--

Statist and Soldier verily believe!

As the Mage Negro King to Christ the Babe.
I judge his childishness the true relapse
To boyhood of a man who has worked lately,
And presently will work, so, meantime, plays:
Whence more than ever I believe in him.

Lur.

And towards the close of the last act, after the victorious but mistrusted Luria has taken the fatal draught, and when one by one his spies and enemies are learning to believe in him :How nearer God we were! He glows above My own East! With scarce an intervention, presses close We feel Him, nor by painful reason know! And palpitatingly, His soul o'er ours! The everlasting minute of creation

Is felt there; Now it is, as it was Then ;
All changes at His instantaneous will,
Not by the operation of a law

Whose maker is elsewhere at work!

His soul is still engaged upon his world—
Man's praise can forward it, Man's prayer suspend,
For is not God all-mighty? To recast

The world, erase old things and make them new,
What costs it Him? So man breathes nobly there!
And inasmuch as Feeling, the East's gift,

Is quick and transient-comes, and lo, is gone-
While Northern Thought is slow and durable,
Oh, what a mission was reserved for me,
Who, born with a perception of the power
And use of the North's thought for us of the East,
Should have stayed there and turned it to account,
Giving Thought's character and permanence
To the too-transitory Feelings there-
Writing God's messages in mortal words!
Instead of which, I leave my fated field
For this where such a task is needed least,
Where all are born consummate in the art
I just perceive a chance of making mine—
And then, deserting thus my early post,
I wonder that the men I come among
Mistake me! There, how all had understood,
Still brought fresh stuff for me to stamp and keep,
Fresh instinct to translate them into law !
Me who
Dom. Who here the greater task achieve,
More needful even who have brought fresh stuff
For us to mould, interpret and prove right-
New feeling fresh from God, which, could we know
O' the instant, where had been our need of it?
-Whose life re-teaches us what life should be,
What faith is, loyalty and simpleness,

....

All their revealment, taught us so long since That, having mere tradition of the fact, Truth copied falteringly from copies faint, The early traits all dropped away-we said On sight of faith of yours, so looks not faith

now,

That I shall in this very letter write

What none of you are able! To it, Lapo!
[Exit DOMIZIA.

This last, worst, all affected childish fit
Convinces me: the Past was no child's play;
It was a man beat Pisa-not a child.
'Tis mere dissimulation-to remove

The fear, he best knows we should entertain.

But still the truth was shown; and tho' at first
It suffer from our haste, yet trace by trace
Old memories reappear, the likeness grows,
Our slow Thought does its work, and all is known
Oh, noble Luria! what you have decreed
I see not, but no animal revenge,...
It cannot be the gross and vulgar way
Traced for me by convention and mistake
Has gained that calm approving eye and brow.

Spare Florence after all! Let Luria trust To his own soul, and I will trust to him! Lur. In time!

"A SOUL'S TRAGEDY" is a very different production from "LURIA." On a first perusal we were inclined to deem it inferior, and we still think it obscure; but a light dawns as again and again we refer to its pages, fascinating enough from the philosophic truths and quaint similies in which they abound. We suspect that its purpose is to the full as lofty as that of Luria; and that its text might be a warning for them to "take heed" who "think that they stand." Robert Browning's genius is so much in advance of all that is vulgar and trite and common-place, that as has been the case with so many great poets-his appreciators must be a gradually enlarging circle. That it is already so large as it is, we look upon as a hopeful sign of mental advancement in the popular mind; which shows that this is becoming of a different quality from that which had to be taught to recognise so many of its now acknowledged masters.

A BOOK OF HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY; by Mrs. D. Ogilvy; with Illustrations by R. R. M'Ian. (Nickisson) pp. 272.-This is one of the most charming books of the season, and we speak of it in the superlative degree without any mental reservation whatever. There is a delightful freshness, vigour, and originality about it not to be described; and Mrs. Ogilvy appears to have gone out of the beaten track of Scottish history and tradition into their by-ways, just to prove what "flowers" of story have been permitted to "blush" there unseen. The ballads are twentynine in number, each being preceded by a prose introduction, and nearly every one illustrated by M'Ian, than whom it would have been impossible to find an artist with genius more kindred to his allotted task; he has been completely the poet with his pencil, entering fully, it is evident, into the writer's ideas and feelings. This young poetess is already favourably known to many readers of Fraser's Magazine, and other publications, though hitherto only as an initialist, and we remember a prose article of hers in the "Book of Beauty" attracted, from its power and feeling, universal admiration; but this is her first book-the herald, as we fondly hope, of a bright career.

Mrs. Ogilvy has not only original thoughts, but an original and most graceful manner of expressing them; with a feminine depth and tenderness of feeling, combined not seldom with masculine vigour. Thus she already possesses that instrument of genius which is often acquired but slowly-an easy and excellent style. Her prose is as flowing and polished as that of a long practised writer; and her verse is what must proceed from a poet's heart, joined to a fine ear, which renders her mistress of rhythm; and a natural as well as cultivated taste. But an extract will speak more eloquently in her favour than all our praise, however warmly and honestly we would lavish it. We choose one of the shortest ballads we can find, rather than

"THE HERDSMAN'S DAUGHTER." "Oh, but the sun is bonny,

Shining abune the cluds!
Oh, but the hyacinth's bonny,
Blooming amang the wuds!
"Sae was the heir o' Lyndsay,

First o' his haughtie kin;
Sae was the herdsman's daughter,
Lowly, and pure frae sin.
"He saw her ae summer morning
Doon by her father's door;
He went to the Ladye Alice
And the proud old Earl no more.
"He followed her last at sunset,

First when the lark is heard;
And aye the answer she gied him

Was, Spier for my father's word!' "The Earl is a proud old noble,

The herdsman is proud as he;
He hath said that his winsome Jessie
Shall wed in her ain degree.

“The Earl hath baronies chartered,
The carle has a wheen puir kye;
But or ever he'll sell his daughter
He'll see her lie doon and die!

"The Lyndsay he raged and threatened, The herdsman he vowed and swore, 'Gae back to your Ladye Alice,

And sorrow my bairn no more.' "Wroth was the heir o' Lyndsay,

Sad was the bonny May;
Her cheek it grew white as cannach,
That waves on the mountain brae.
"She didna greet at the milking,

She didna girn at the fauld;
But she withered awa' wi' sorrow
Till she looked baith bleared and auld.
"The nicht it is mirk and misty,

The moor it is wild and lone;
He stood by the herdsman's shealing,
She span by the ingle stone.
"Open to me, my Jessie,

Mickle have I to say;

The herdsman is out on the mountain, And canna be hame till day. "Open to me, my Jessie,

Your shadow I see on the wall;
Dearer I lo'e that shadow

Than the fairest lady in hall.'
"I daurna see you, Lord Lyndsay,
And I daurna let you in;
By Mary Mother I promised,
And I daurna do this sin.'
"Ye canna then lo'e me, Jessie,

If siccan an oath ye sware;
Your heart it has found anither,-
Your love it is light as air.'