VOL. V.

as well as any other passion; it has, like every

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CONTENTS relate mainly to the Art of Music, but with glances at the whole World of Art and of Polite Literature; including, from time to time,-1. Critical Reviews of Concerts, Oratorios, Operas; with timely Analyses of the notable Works performed, accounts of their Composers, &c. 2. Notices of New Music published at home and abroad. 3. A Summary of the significant Musical News from all parts; gathered from English, German, French, as well as American papers. 4. Correspondence from musical persons and places. 5. Essays on musical styles, schools, periods, authors, compositions, instruments, theories; on Musical Education; on Music in its Moral Social, and Religious bearings; on Music in the Church, the Concert-room, the Theatre, the Chamber, and the Street, &c. 6. Translations from the best German and French writers upon Music and Art. 7. Occasional Notices of Sculpture, Painting, Architecture, Poetry, Esthetic Books, the Drama, &c.— 8. Original and Selected Poems, short Tales, Anecdotes, &c.

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liness of musical impressions degenerates, with certain temperaments, into an undue vehemence, and the habit of yielding thereto can in the long run induce nothing but a disturbance of the moral balance and a loss of the capacity of enjoyment. This is especially the case with dramatic and concert music, which is more passionate and sensuous than any other. But when one finally has had this sad experience in himself; when Melody, with the whole train of its allurements, no longer says to us what it once said, then it often happens that the taste changes with age; an age, however, which cannot always be measured by the number of years. Fortunately, music contains also in itself the antidote against the evil it has caused. Without loving it any the less, one can love it differently; the pleasure can regain in interest what it has lost in voluptuous fire; and other works invite us then to more tranquil emotions, since they attach the music to the pleasures of the mind, and at least keep alive in it always the warmth, which the language of feeling must have and the heart must enjoy, without unnerving it. These pleasures in their nature are the most enduring; and the works, to which we owe them, are not subject to the mournful changes of fashion, which to-day despises what it yesterday adored. The Dilettante has become a Connoisseur.

The long life ascribed to fugues lies not, as Forkel assures us, in the aesthetic superiority of that species. There can, I repeat it, be no question of absolute pre-eminence between the two parts of musical art, each of which contains but half of its resources in itself, and has not the power to make itself complete. This long duration probably lies in the structure and the technical laws of the Fugue. The changeable and perishable element, Melody, in it is reduced to its lowest value. It is nothing but a subject, a theme, a musical proposition, commonly limited to three or four bars. Moreover the invention of a subject is no arbitrary process, for you must find one suited to the contrapuntal analysis to which it is to be subjected. It is never clothed according to the old or the new fashion, precisely for the reason that makes it impossible for it to follow either. Fashion crumbles before it, as a whim gives way before necessity. And if mannerism cannot insinuate itself into the melodic design of the subject, how much more impotent

NO. 23.

it must be against the whole work! The combinations, the imitations, the canonical 'plays, the many crossing outlines, of which the fugue consists, give a rounded and compact mass, which resists the strokes of Time, as in a beleaguered city the churches built of hewn stones resist the bombs, which shatter the less solid edifices.

And not only do works of the fugued style find the guaranties of a long existence in the natural strength of their putting together; for another reason they escape a misfortune, which is perhaps the greatest next to that of being executed in the judicial sense of the word. These works are never disgraced by coming into fashion; they are not abused and worn out by having to be heard continually and without any mercy in theatre and concert and salons, where there happens to be a piano, in promenades and grand parades. Who has not a thousand times cursed such fashionable arias, which he has met day and night under all possible forms, even where he was expecting a more serious music?

At the time when Counterpoint and Melody were in a state of separation, the musicians, that is to say the contrapuntists and the melodists, must have discerned very different and yet perfectly compensatory facts in the type of the two respective styles. The melodists won glory in their nation and in all Europe, the applause of the multitude, the flatteries of fashion, of which they were at once the priests, the idols and the victims; the laurel wreath, that withered as soon as it was placed upon the head of the victor; gold, that went as rapidly as it was easily earned; popularity with all its advantages and burdens. The contrapuntists reaped the quiet marks of honor, by which the toils of scholars are remunerated, and which are limited to their own circle. A place as a chapel-master in a church, or organist, if fortune was particularly well disposed to one; moderate income, assiduous labors, a few scholars for interested admirers, colleagues difficult to satisfy for judges, and a silent church public for their excitement. The world scarcely knew them. But these men could write freely as God and their own hearts prompted, as MoZART always had so longed to do; they had the consciousness of their merit and the presentiment of a remote but an enduring glory, and they envied not their fortunate and renowned rivals, the melodists. They were free! This explains all, as well their faith in the future, as the stoicism which they opposed to the indifference of their

contemporaries. The best part of their fortune consisted of a draft upon posterity, payable when they themselves should no more need it. So lived, both inwardly and outwardly, those philosophical musicians, of whom JOHN SEBASTIAN BACH will be the prototype for all times.

A few priviledged men reaped the advantages accruing to both classes of composers. They made sacred and profane music with equal talent and success. In their lifetime they made themselves famous by their operas, which are forgotten; while by their oratorios and masses they have won immortality. These were LEO, PERGOLESE and some others among the Italians, and among the Germans, HANDEL, who engaged in the opera merely to support himself. HANDEL was impresario of the Italian opera in London, and usage required that he should ruin himself in this enterprise, struggle as he might to avoid it.

It yet remains to us to cast a glance upon the past of Instrumental Music, the youngest of all the branches of the Art, so young, that our great grandfathers were the first who heard its master-works, and which has already reached that degree of perfection, that we can scarcely conceive how the Future can add to it anything. Until the seventeenth century there was almost no instrumental music in the state of Art. As the companion of vocal melody it vegetated, as melody itself did, in the state of nature, just an accompaniment or complement to some rude song. It had no independent existence, as dance music, military music, and as a necessary addition to certain public feasts and ceremonials. The peasant, who had no voice, blew his artless ballads upon his bagpipe or his reed; the troubadour sought out by ear upon his harp, which lacked neither more nor less than the strings for the semi-tones, an accompaniment, which he had either invented or learned from tradition; and in all probability they both found more beauty in the traditional chords, than did the theorists of their time. Marches and trumpet flourishes led warriors to battle, without a regimental kapelmeister having much to do with it. A purely mechanical routine guided the fingers of the fiddler on the neck of the most despised of instruments, which played alike for the dances of the lady in her feudal castle, and for the frolics of the rustics on the greensward. Honor to these brave players, ancestors of a LAFONT and PAGANINI! They alone possessed, as we have seen, the secret of the true scales, while the learned were still battling with the phantom of the Greek modes.

United in a corporation, and forming one of the least esteemed classes of society, the instrumentists had not the advantage of being counted among musicians; that title being monopolized by the composers and professors of music. They had to be sure, like all mechanics, their customs, their period of apprenticeship, their degrees and masterships; some too no doubt gave proofs of a certain mechanical facility or a true talent. But since all this had nothing in common with the art of composition, of which tradition, instinct and routine formed the complement, we can regard them only as musicians in the state of nature, just as we meet to-day quite skilful persons, in their way, in countries and places where the use of harmony is yet unknown.

An instrument, the oldest of all, since it reaches

back, in name, if not in reality, to heathen antiquity, the Organ, was at an early time exempted from the ban, which weighed upon instrumental music. The introduction of the organ into the Western churches dates back to the eighth century. But this age is entirely lost to the history of the progress of composition, since no monument has come to us in notes, from which we can see how they played the organ before FRESCOBALDI. Meanwhile we take it for granted, that from the eighth to the fifteenth century the achievements of the organist were limited to doubling the Choral Song and giving the key to the singers. What more could he have done in the state in which music was in the Middle Ages, without melody and almost without chords? But from the moment that the progress of counterpoint, improved by melody, had obliterated the groundwork of the periodic fugue, the organ served for more than mere filling up; the science and special talent of the organist necessarily built themselves up by degrees, and from that time it was, as I believe, that the need was felt of a special notation for this instrument, the first printed tablatures of which appeared in the year 1513, but were afterwards lost.

In the next movement, Quoniam, in G 2-4, the music can scarcely be said to begin with the introductory symphony; the chords struck on the violins merely arouse attention by announcing that something is about to take place. The voice parts, consisting of solo, quartet, and chorus, are florid, pretty, and elegant; and relieve, by the contrast of a light and cheerful style, the solemnity of the Qui tollis. Were it not for the melodious and elegant effect of the quartet of voices and the delicacy of the instrumentation, the character of this music would be common; the bass and tenor solos, which open the two divisions of the movement, have this tendency; but the popular in style is still combined with matter for the refined hearer. The history of melody and of instrumental effect might be well illustrated by a compostion so strongly marked by its age as this. We are carried back to the time of 'Artaxerxes' and Dr. Arne, in a symphony ending with this formula of notes-the old and approved method of coming to a cadence :

Cherubini, in the Et incarnatus of his Mass in F, and Beethoven, in the slow movement of his Symphony in C minor, have improved on hints here given for the rise and fall of simple melody.

The last chorus of the Gloria is a model of the choruses of effect, since abundantly introduced into Oratorios, Cantatas, Masses, &c., as final terminations, or at their main divisions. Of these, a fugue forms the chief and prominent feature, though not carried throughout to the end, the subject being relinquished for something more popu lar and effective than counterpoint can afford, and the music brought to a conclusion amidst a blaze of grand harmonies, and of glittering and rapid accompaniments. Haydn's chorus, "The Heavens are telling," Beethoven's final chorus in the "Mount of Olives," the concluding chorus in the Gloria of Cherubini's Mass in F, are instances immediately occurring to the memory in which this plan of composition has been adopted. It needed but to show the way and set the example of some bold and surprising change in the routine of composition, and hundreds were ready to profit by it, and to diversify and even improve upon the original invention.

We shall do very imperfect justice to the idea of the heroic and daring genius of Mozart, from his earliest manhood, if we omit to consider the number of important and beautiful things in music which owe their first discovery to him. It is in this light that we must consider his services to the art, whenever in silent meditation on the progress of music we are enabled to revolve the chronology of composition. He opened the door to the moderns in such a number of new designs, and, by the demonstrations of his skill, so well stemmed the tide of authority and precedent, that there is nothing new and beautiful appearing as a rare effort in the present age of music, which does not owe him tribute.

How much, in spite of the finished specimens of fugued writing contained in the works of the old school, as represented by the Saxon champions, Bach and Handel, the productions of that school require alteration and improvement, to address an audience of the present day, without fatiguing them, we have of late had many opportunities of observing. In going through the library of Handel's works, to prepare them for public per formance, every director feels himself authorized to prune and retrench at discretion, and generally does the composer good service therein. Ap position of pieces, and contrast of effects-all that work in music which constitutes a good design, and carries on the interest of hearers in one uninterrupted succession of pleasing emotionsis so ttle consulted, that, if an oratorio should be performed in its entirety, and one tiresome, uninteresting song permitted to succeed another, as left in the original by the composer, the thermometer of public sufferance and disgust would soon point out the necessary excisions. It ap; pears astonishing that such an animated and enthusiastic man-one so impassioned in his im pulses, should have exercised no authority over his libretto. The common-place and trivial sentiments and subjects of many of the songs set by Handel, show him to have set to work in a dogged and resolute spirit-defying any words to battle him, and apparently ready, as Michael Wise once threatened, to set the gazette or the speeches in Parliament to music.

Exercises in counterpoint took, in this age, the place of inspiration and taste; and themes, extended by imitation and fugue, helped to fill the barren spots in thick volumes, whose intrinsic interest bore a small proportion to their bulk. The musical public of the last century exercised no influence on the composer, by inciting him to condense and mould his work for pleasure.

Audiences were scanty, and the few who understood music well were contented to be gratified at intervals. The pecuniary recompense of Handel's labors was not obtained so much by the performance of his oratorios, as by ths handsome subscription with which these works were supported on their publication. Hence prolixity in the formation of a big book was not discouraged; and, on examining the real treasures contained in his volumes, we find much of the most important duty of the composer still to perform.

Yet when the moment came, and a sentiment or situation of interest was suitably expressed in words for music, who could excel Handel? and especially when he roused himself with lion energy for some fugue-such, for instance, as the closing one to "Alexander's Feast," "Let old Timotheus," with its memorable pedal point, in which all the four subjects are brought in so naturally, and lead with such effect to the final cadence, as to be a model of excellence for all time.

The choral works of Sebastian Bach are only just begining to be known, through the exertions of the society under the superintendence of Mr. Sterndale Bennett. It will be interesting to learn how compositions, produced in the secluded life of Leipsic in the last century, are adapted to the present requirements of music. Certainly, in instrumental music, Bach greatly outstripped his age; and, in music for keyed instruments-the piano-forte chiefly-has left works of such elegance and beauty of expression, as well as profound science, that neither Mozart nor Beethoven can excel them, or excite higher pleasure. When we consider the smallness of the means employed to produce the music of such a work as the Fortyeight Preludes and Fugues-the piano-forte only, and ten fingers-with the result obtained,-the ever-growing life-long interest of the compositions, their variety of character, the beauty of the mere tunes and subjects, and the structure of the counterpoint, which is as interesting to read and think of, as to hear-it is difficult not to give this work the highest place among the productions of musical mind.

In the face of these great authorities for fugue, Mozart broke up the accustomed usage, and opened therein a free territory for musicians. The fugue in the Twelfth Mass is the first specimen of modern art in that style. Its form is entirely new. Instead of ending after the pedal point, as the most natural climax of the composition, it goes into a coda, introducing a crescendo, and a very showy operatic cadenza, in wnich novelty and effect appear as elements of interest in music.

The subject of the fugue may be well remembered, but we venture to quote it :

tr

It is to be remembered that Mozart knew nothing of the Forty-eight Fugues at this time, nor till the year in which he was first settled at Vienna. But the great point of interest in the fugue, is the magnificent pedale prolonged for sixteen bars, and heralded with pompous chromatic chords, and the notes of the trumpet marking the first and third of the bar. The composer knew that he had a good thing in hand, and aroused attention to it with his wonted address. The sudden cessation of all motion in voices or instruments for half a bar before the tenor leads off Cum Sancto, is an example :

The tenor solo begins with those breathing long notes to which a Rubini or a Mario would give the expression; its opening is curiously accompanied with almost the identical notes of the symphony. The cantabile of the tenor, by turns pathetic and sweet, keeps its way amidst such novel resources of accompaniment of voices and instruments, that the listener can hardly do justice to them on a first hearing. But the music becomes simpler as it proceeds, and the subdued tones of the chorus in the expression of the Crucifixus have a solemnity and depth of coloring not to be surpassed. Mozart, as usual, leads us up to his most impassioned effects. The first entrance of the chorus of Basses sotto voce on the words Crucifixus, with the iterated notes on the stringed instruments, produces in the hearer a momentary agitation and renewed attention. After the cadence in F, the music goes on quietly,

Cum Sancto Spi-ri- tu in glo-ri-a De - i Pa-tris, A-men. The counterpoint to this bold and grand subject is extremely florid, and spreads over such an extent of notes -a tenth often in running scale passages for the bass-that the music is not easy to execute, and requires a choir who can vocalize and pass smoothly from note to note. The full and harmonious effect of these wide dispersions of harmony gratifies the hearer; and these bars, as they used to be performed by the old South Street Choir, remain still very pleasant in my recollection :

The joyous character of the whole passage has never been exceeded in music, and the musician who recalls his first impressions of it, will remember his feelings of surprise and admiration. In this fugue the old premeditated science-its curious inversions of double counterpoint, and bringing of several subjects together, is discarded for one general choral and orchestral effect of exultation and triumph. As an artistic work, it is simple and unlabored, bearing traces of passion, eagerness, and haste in the composition. One may even find in it some examples of faulty progressions, octaves and fifths, but the ear is satisfied in these last, by the sound making the forbidden fifth having been heard before in another part.

The structure of the Credo shows a desire to hasten the expression of the text so as to keep the music of the Mass within reasonable limits. The words are declaimed on chords in the most usual style of the progressions of Mozart, who reserves himself for the Et incarnatus est. A minor, Adagio, 4-4. The design of this movement is original, and the effect not surpasssed by any of the maturest works of the author. It is a tenor solo, accompanied by soprano, alto, and bass solo voices, with a chorus, entering occasionally, tutti piano, and orchestral effects of the most exquisite description. The stringed instruments begin the subject in unison :

the greatest movement in the Mass, but one of the greatest in all music. Performed in a vast edifice, with all those accessions of sight and sound, of choir and orchestra, with which the Catholic service is celebrated on the Continent, its effect can scarcely be conceived.

The Sanctus in C, 3-4, is simple and majestic, but is much surpassed by the composer in other works. There is a reminiscence of the Kyrie at Dominus Deus, as if Mozart were afraid that in this long work hearers would forget what he began with. By this resource he gives connection and uniformity of design to his productions. The Benedictus in F opens with the first thought of the minuet in Don Giovanni, and it is curious to observe how it turns off. This piece for a quartet of solo voices and chorus is much too long, and the solos constructed for the display of the compass and florid execution of the singers would now be thought intolerably tedious. They are mere solfeggi in the old Italian taste, made to conciliate the Italian singers, who were the first performers of this work. Mozart gratified his German orchestra with more success. This solo passage for the first oboe is extremely elegant:

The Agnus Dei, in C minor, has a slight correspondence in style with the Qui tollis. It is a chorus in which the voices principally accompany the orches tra, and solos for the violoncellos and first violins have alternate prominence. The instrumental effects are very agreeable, but Mozart did not put out much power in their construction. It is curious that this Mass does not end in the key in which it began. The last movement in C, 2-4, Dona nobis, is remarkable for brilliancy and originality. Though light, and in perpetual motion in its accompani ments, it bears the stamp of creative mind. It resumes, in a new time, the crescendo, the unison, the syncopated phrase of the Gloria, and blends all that had been before heard with something new, binding together and completing the whole

The accompa

niments sometimes career about in double scales with extraordinary activity, and in a manner which the utmost latitude of rejoicing in a great Catholic festival can alone reconcile us to in Church music. Yet this brilliant climax is in keeping with what has gone before, and is the proper conclusion of the musical designs.

The internal evidence of the Twelfth Mass makes us unhesitatingly assign it to the year 1778, when Mozart was seeking to obtain an appointment in the Ducal chapel at Manheim. It agrees in all circumstances with what is known of that period-the advanced state of the Manheim orchestra, the Italian taste of the solo singers there engaged, and the history of an epoch in the art when an important change could only be introduced into music by paying some homage to tradition, and not overthrowing the established system at once. Of the manner in which this was done, the work remains a monument. The immense variety of effects, combinations, and contrasts capable of being brought within the scope of the modern orchestra and chorus, could hardly have been represented in a work less extensive, which had not only to please the solo singers in their own way, but to open new prospects of pleasure in the art, and to show from whose pen they might be expected. Produced under these difficult conditions, the pen hurried, and the composer evidently desirous of reaching the end of his work, we may well compound for some redundancies in it, and wonder to find musical pleasure so long and so well sustained.

For the young composer himself, at the age of 22, the work, as it regarded influence on his own fortune or position, was a failure. Can it really have been that such pure and natural melodies were fifty years in advance of their first audience? Was the magnificent patronage of the century solely lavished on executing artists, and denied to any composer, not a professed imitator, walking reverentially in the old ways? The traditions of the first reception of the work are lost. Here at least we know that within thirty years it has been more liked than any Massthat its simple unpretending style attains by common consent the beau ideal of graceful simplicity, and that nothing continues more to extend the circles of those who love and practice music.

Of the Manheim sojourn of the youthful Mozart much remains to be told, could we only summon credible witnesses. He wrote at this time under the influence of friendship, and of the softer feelings incident to his years, some of his best things. We

see by the bassoon and oboe parts of the Mass that he was on the best terms with the wind instrument players. A quartet for the flute, and another for the oboe, with stringed instruments written at this period for particular players, offered them higher proof of his estimation; while the slow movements of his sonatas for the Piano and Violin are in the greatest esteem for their sentimental beauty. His health was already delicate. He is said as early as 1778 to have suffered from an affection of the chest, complicated with a nervous malady that caused him hours of deep dejection.

The authorship of the following beautiful lines is not known. They are said to be copied from "a late English magazine." Some have ascribed them, on what authority we know not, to Mrs. BROWNING. At all events, they must have been written by one who possesses "the power and the faculty divine." PHILIP, MY KING!

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,

Philip, my King!

For round thee the purple shadow lies
Of babyhood's regal dignities;

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand,
With Love's invisible sceptre laden;
I am thine Esther to command,
Till thou shalt find thy Queen-handmaiden,
Philip, my King!

On the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my King!

When those beautiful lips are suing,
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter love-crowned, and there
Sittest all glorified. Rule kindly,

Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,
For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my King!

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,
Philip, my King!

Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now,
That may rise like a giant and make men bow
As to one God-throned amid his peers.
My son! than thy brethren, higher, fairer,
Let me behold thee in future years;
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my King!

A wreath, not of gold, but of palm, one day,
Philip, my King!

Thou, too, must tread, as we tread, a way
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray;

Rebels within thee and foes without
Will snatch at thy crown; but go on, glorious
Martyr, yet monarch, till angels shout

As thou sittest at the feet of God, victoriousPhilip, my King!

A MUSICAL LAW-SUIT.-The Knickerbocker for this month narrates the following dream of a New York lawyer:

We recollect (for how should we forget?) hearing the eminent David Graham, Junior, narrate one evening in the sanctum the facts' mentioned in the subjoined 'spiritual communication' to the Editor from a legal correspondent: 'It fell to my lot some time since to have a case to try of considerable importance, and pending in a distant county. I spent not a little time in preparing for the trial, and at the time appointed set out to attend it. The whole day was spent upon the rail-road, until midnight, when, fatigued and jaded out, I reached a hotel and took a bed. My body seemed at once to fall asleep. Not so, however, the mind. It had been considerably overworked, and could not at once come to a state of rest. It dreamed, and of course, the theme was connected with the law. I seemed to be in the old Supreme Court in the days of its glory. There was the mild countenance of Kent, the Chief Justice, and the noble head of Spencer; Smith, Thompson, Van Ness and Yates completed the court. The great dignity and good sense displayed in the bearing of Thompson was as charming as the fascination and brilliancy which sat upon the face of Van Ness. The action on trial was brought by

the composer of a piece of music against a musician-some Mons. Jullien of his day-to recover damages for improperly performing the music. The parties prosecuted and defended in person. The author, after stating his case, and showing in a forcible manner how his feelings and his reputation had suffered from the carelessness and unskilfulness of the defendant, proceeded to sing his song in the way it should be sung. He produced his 'tooting-we'pon,' as Natty Bumpo would have called it, blew a clear, shrill note, took the key, and went on to sing. He made a very happy hit. The piece was a fine allegro movement. It pleased the judges exceedingly. It was repeated with evident pleasure, both to the singer and his judicial listeners. Then separate strains were sung and repeated, and the author explained the propriety of his manner of rendering the language and sentiment of his song. Most evidently he had the ear of the Court,' and he put up pipe and sat down with a most satisfactory expression on his countenance. The defendant then arose to argue his side of the novel case. To my surprise he made no objection to the plaintiff's right to maintain such an action: but after a pathetic appeal to the judges, audire alteram partem,' he proceeded to render the song himself, contending that it was most clearly an andante movement, and must be so executed. That rendering he gave it; and, on the suggestion of the dignified Judge Spencer, he repeated it in a still more slow and majestic manner. It was soon apparent that the song with this rendering gave the Court quite as much satisfaction as the other had done. At the suggestion of Judge Kent, the parties sang the song in rotation, in whole, and then verse by verse. The more the Court heard of the case the more evident was it that the Judges were a little at fault; that they could not decide such a case as that off-hand.' Finally, after some deliberation with his brethren, the learned Chief Justice stated that The Court felt some difficulty with this rather unusual case: that, as the parties were probably aware, the Judges had paid rather more of their devotions to the goddess Justitia than to the muse Melpomene: that, in short, they were so much strangers to music, both as a science and an art, that they were really unable to say which of the able and skilful artists before them had correctly interpreted the spirit and sentiment of the song: that, evidently, there was much to be said and much remained unsung' on both sides; much, too, that it would be both pleasant and profitable to hear: that this case was likely to be a leading one hereafter in this class of actions, and that it therefore should and would receive careful and deliberate attention from the Court: and that the Court would take the papers, and he, the Chief Justice, would, as the representative of the Court, immediately devote himself to the study of music: he would both learn to read music and learn to sing, and would then take up this song and learn to sing it as it ought to be sung; and he would then sing it in open Court, at the next or some future general term. And the judgment of the Court would be, that as he should then sing it so it should be sung in all future time!' The papers in the case were then handed to the Court, and the next case was called.

ON A BUST OF DANTE. BY DR. T. W. PARSONS. See, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song. There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn, abide; Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside. Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his life was-but a fight; Could any Beatrice see

A lover in that anchorite?

To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came

Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cuma's cavern close,
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose,
But for the patient hope within,
Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe,
Which, through the wavering days of sin,
Kept itself icy-Chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look
When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,'
With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;
Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the pilgrim guest,
The single boon for which he prayed
The convent's charity was rest.*

Peace dwells not here-this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose
The thought of that strange tale divine,
When hell he peopled with his foes,
The scourge of many a guilty line.
War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O, Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other VIRGIL now:
Before his name the nations bow;
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,

The marks have sunk of DANTE's mind.

rhapsodies about her. She is undoubtedly the finest living type of the peculiar genius of the modern Italian opera; her genius is dramatic; she is Italian passion, fervor and intensity personified. This we imagine is the preconceived idea with which all looked forward to her coming, and this the testimony of the delighted auditors in Castle Garden. But modern Italian Opera may do its perfect work, and yet the larger part of the whole mission of Music to Humanity remains undone. The LIND we heard without the exciting opportunities of dramatic action, and yet she did somehow impersonate to the hearts of countless and insatiable multitudes more of the essential humanity, more of the divinity and ideality of Music than any other, or than was ever composed into the forms of Italian Opera.

We are not saying this to forestal judgment, or to fortify an old joy against the disenchanting spell of a newly arrived magicienne; we doubt not we too shall find great delight in hearing MARIO and GRISI; but we have indicated one of the reasons in the nature of the case why it was idle to expect a repetition of the Lind excitement now. Accordingly few were surprised to hear that the high prices of the first Castle Garden night had to come down the second night, and that the auction premiums, after the first few fancy and eccentric bids, sunk to the level of a mere nominal advance. All the factitious romance thrown about the affair by the mysterious "Coutts" ticket went no farther than to raise some smiles and point the clever pun of the Tribune: "C'est la premiere place qui coute." Hard times, too, and a multitude of other circumstances should have been considered: above all the undeniable fact that the current of public sentiment in this amusement-seeking, music-loving country is setting decidedly against the high

Debut of Grisi and Mario.

As our good fortune did not carry us to Castle Garden Monday evening, we can but collect evidences of the impression produced by the first performance in this country of these famous Italian artists. It was of course an occasion of great excitement and enthusiasm. Yet to foretel the limits of this feeling was comparatively easy, after our last three years' experience of great vocal celebrities from the old world. As we, as every thoughtful one predicted, it has still proved that the great Jenny Lind excitement was an event to occur but once in a century and not to be repeated. You have but to read the natural law of such excitements, regarding merely the excitable material, or public, to be persuaded that it is idle to expect to reproduce them when we please, by any means. And then looking on the other hand to the exciting cause, it is easy to see that GRISI appeals to a class, while the LIND appealed to all classes. Her gift, her genius, was universal. As to wherein resides the peculiar greatness of the GRISI it is quite possible to form an essentially correct idea by inference, after hearing LIND and SONTAG and ALBONI, and after noting well the tone of all the

It is told of DANTE that, when he was roaming over Italy, he came to a certain monastery, where he was met by one of the friars, who blessed him, and asked what was his desire; to which the weary stranger simply answered, "Pace."

Naturally too the first reports of the number of the audience were flushed and in great contrast with the sober estimates that came along afterwards. Some said Castle Garden was full (it will hold some 8,000); some said it was only half full; some report 6,000, others only 3,000 hearers. There is an air of reasonableness in the letter to Traveller, which after a qualified admiration of the performance, adds:

But we shall not satisfy the curiosity of your readers unless we answer this question: "On the whole, was it a great success ?" Frankly, we answer, No. Whether we compare the amount of applause at the beginning with that at the end of the performance, or this debut with similar previous ones, it must be regarded, if a success at all, as a very moderate one. The house was little more than half full, aud a large proportion of the auditors went in on promenade tickets at $1 each, who came down upon the vacant seats, at the close of the first act like a herd of Vandals. Taking into account the number of "dead heads" present, which, from the mixed character of the audience, was evidently large, the receipts of the evening could not have exceeded $8000, if indeed they reached $6000. The cause of this is easily found in the attempt of the management to hold tickets at $3, and $5.

But turning to the more pleasant and purely artistic merits of the case, we cannot doubt that the gist of the truth of the matter, quite in accordance with all that we have been wont to read and to infer, is told by the critic of the Courier and Enquirer, as follows:

Does any one who would understand the information need to be told that Grisi has a mezzo

soprano voice of remarkable compass and power, that her style is eminently declamatory and dramatic, in fact that it is the dramatic style which most prima donnas of the day imitate;-that she sings with great intensity of expression? No one; our critical task is short. Grisi on Monday evening showed all the qualities which were looked for as much as if they had been promised by the item in the programme. It was in the most dramatic and exciting passage of the opera, such as the final duet of the second act and the last scene of the third, that she achieved her greatest success. It is evidently more as a musical tragedian than a vocalist that she has been great. Personally Madame Grisi is an eye-filling woman,-a sumptuous creature who should be brought in upon a silver gilt salver as Jael brought forth butter on a lordly dish. Her brow broadens beautifully over her ox-like eyes and her head is set upon her neck like Juno's. Signor Mario is in the prime of his beauty and his voice, and is undeniably a very pretty fellow. He gets himself up with exquisite elaboration; and if he ever use that sweet voice of his to woo any other ear than that of a paying public he must be a very dangerous person. His singing is that of the light and graceful school. His voice, mellow and full in its lower register, is limited in the range of its upper chest tones; and he transposes, or rather modifies, all high passages of energy; those of a graceful character he executes very prettily by the use of his head voice and falsetto, over which he has obtained marvellous control. The ease with which he sings is partly due to natural advantages, and partly to the excellence of his method, which is irreproachable and founded on the best models. He gave Di pescatore with a remarkable degree of grace and tenderness. At the end of the first act the chief singers were called out to receive the congratulations of the audience. But it was not till the second that the enthusiasm rose to the highest pitch, and that the murmured bravos and other expressions of admiration could with difficulty be suppressed to the end of it, when the storm of applause became tremendous. The audience rose en masse to the three strangers as they moved before the curtain, their faces glowing with the excitement and triumph of the scene. Hats and handkerchiefs waved from floor and balcony, and the demonstration was in all respects decisive.

Fry, of the Tribune, says:

In the first act, on the part of Madame Grisi and Signor Mario, there is nothing very remarkable. Mario's voice is of such superior delicacy and beauty that it was not fully brought out by the kind of music dramatically required in this act; and the eminent tragic powers, too, of Grisi wanted a field in the same act. In the second act, however, their specialities, those things that put them in the first rank in Europe, came forth. The duet of Lucrezia with the Duke elicited the majestic poses, and gestures, and the vocal impetuosity which Madame Grisi has beyond any other performer. It may be remarked, however, as characteristic of her sense of artistic propriety, that there was no resort to coarse melodramatic exaggerations, either in tone or action, but a certain repose was always observable. Her frequent use of the half-voice, and the gentlest details of vocalization, added to noble musico-tragic bursts, must have convinced all of the possibility of connecting in one person the power of representing the extremes of lyrical representation. The trio and the duet following, fully established the reputation of Madame Grisi with the audience. In the trio which was encored, as it did not deserve to be, Signor Mario was inadequately loud. Where his part renders the melody, the soprano in sixths above being really harmonically secondary, he was almost inaudible. Thus where we expected resonant traits of intensity, we found from him little beyond dumb show. There is probably in every opera some particular piece which pre-eminently brings out the quality of whatever singer. The romance, not originally in the opera, and not by Donizetti-gave full scope for the minute delicacies and passionate beauties of Mario's style. We never heard a piece listened to with more earnest attention, or approved