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the end of the "Future Art Work" is to make music, poetry | however, when the hollowness of his doctrine is exposed, (poetry, music-we beg pardon), and the other arts, all so that "Di tanti palpiti" is of more worth than his whole artismany links in one gigantic scheme of SOCIALISM. Herr tic life. Who are the men that go about as his apostles? Wagner has set himself a task more difficult than the nine labours of Hercules combined (or the nine giant-symphonies of Beethoven). He is just now cleansing the Augean stables of the musical drama; and meanwhile, with a fierce iconoclasm, is knocking down imaginary images, and levelling temples that are but the creations of his own brain. When he has done this, to his own thorough satisfaction, he will have to grope, disconsolate, among the ruins of his contrivance, like Marius on the crumbled walls of Carthage, and in a brown study begin to reflect-" What next?" For he can build up nothing himself. He can destroy but not reconstruct. He can kill but not give life.

Now, whoever contemplates with finite wisdom (Herr Wagner must be presumed to be infinitely wise,) the scheme of the world and the nature of things-which Porson, when he came home drunk, and could find no rushlight, swore at*-must perceive what an impossible dream is this Utopia of "the Future." Let us, however-argumenti gratiasuppose it to be possible, and turn to some of the promised fruits, in the shape of Wagnerian "Art-Drama.' What do we find there? So far as music is concerned, nothing better than chaos-"absolute" chaos. The symmetry of form-which the great masters, the musicians, the real "tone-poets," have, through successive ages, been enabled to perfect-ignored, or else abandoned; the consistency of keys and their relations-so delightful to the ear, so satisfactory to the mind, and so consonant to nature-overthrown, contemned, demolished; the charm of rhythmic measure, the whole art of phrase and cadence-without which music becomes a monotonous and unmeaning succession of sounds, simple, or in combination-destroyed; the true basis of harmony, and the indispensable government of modulation, cast away, for a reckless, wild, extravagant and demagogic cacophony, the symbol of profligate libertinage!

"Away with the tyranny of tone families!" is a famous motto for one whose ears are too dull to apprehend the exquisite relationship of keys to each other. Are we then to have music in no definite key whatever? Look at Lohengrin-" that best piece;" hearken to Lohengrin"that best piece." Your answer is there written and sung. Cast that book upon the waters; it tastes bitter, as the little volume to the prophet. It is poison-rank poison.

Shall a thing so beautiful-of all sounds the sweetest, of all solaces the surest, of all delights the most innocent, of all amusements the most untiring-shall music be condemned to the stake and burnt, to satisfy the insatiate craving for destruction of this priest of Dagon Shall the nurse have no lullaby, to sing the child to sleep-no pretty tune, to rock it up and down-no snatch of melody, to make its little eyes glisten through tears? Heaven forbid! This man, this Wagner, this author of Tannhäuser, of Lohengrin, and so many other hideous things and above all, the overture to Der Fliegende Holländer, the most hideous and detestable of the whole-this preacher of the "Future," was born to feed spiders with flies, not to make happy the heart of man with beautiful melody and harmony. What is music to him, or he to music? His rude attacks on melody may be symbolised as matricide. What sings to him in a soft low voice, and should pour oil into that stubborn heart of his, he smites and repels. He must be taught,

* "Confound the nature of things!"

Men like Liszt-madmen, enemies of music to the knife, who, not born for music, and conscious of their impotence, revenge themselves by endeavouring to annihilate it. These are the preachers of "the Future," who hug themselves with Victor Hugo's lying aphorism-Le laid c'est le beau-which their every effort tends to illustrate. Turn your eyes, reader, to any one composition that bears the name of Liszt, if you are unlucky enough to have such a thing on your pianoforte, and answer frankly, when you have examined it, if it contains one bar of genuine music. Composition indeed!-decomposition is the proper word for such hateful fungi, which choke up and poison the fertile plains of harmony, threatening the world with drowth-the world that pants "for the music which is divine," and can only slake its burning thirst at the silver fountains of genuine flowing melody-melody, yes, melody, "absolute" melody. We are becoming as hyperbolical as Richard Wagner himself; but, really, the indignation we feel at the revelation of his impious theories is so great, that to give a tongue to it in ordinary language is beyond our means. No words can be strong enough to condemn them; no arraignment before the judgment seat of truth too stern and summary; no verdict of condemnation too sweeping and severe. To compromise with such false preachers is a sin. To parley with them mildly would be sheer heathenism. Was the mantle of Elijah impuissant? Were not the waters smitten and divided, so that the faithful might pass over to the true prophets? Not to compare things earthly with things heavenly, has Mendelssohn lived among us in vain? Happily not. It is our hope and belief that the man, whoever he may be, upon whom the mantle of the great author of Elijah (the "mighty poet," as he was nobly entitled by the Prince Consort) is destined to fall, that man will smite the waters of error and leave open a dry and easy path to truth, will take away the prophets of Baal, and not sparing one, slay them incontinent with the sword, at the brook which they have attempted to defile.

We have cited Porson, in the dark, and this helps us to an apt simile. Wagner's music-take Lohengrin, "that best piece"-is very much like what the nature of things "seemed to the learned Professor, when he was too drunk to find the candle. The candle is wanting. There is a candlestick, but no candle. Or there may be a candle, but there is no match. The rushlight of Franz Lizt, and the "dips" of Pohl, and Brendel, and Robert Franz, in still unconverted Leipsic, will not do. Lucifer himself could not make them burn fiercely enough to enable ordinary minds to decipher, by their light, the "future" hieroglyph. We cannot see the "whole," of which these demented people rave. All we can make out, by the flaming torch of truth, is an incoherent mass of rubbish, with no more real pretension to be called music than the jangling and clashing of gongs and other uneuphonious instruments, with which the Chinamen, on the brow of a hill, fondly thought to scare away our English blue-jackets." The sailors did not like the music, being used to "Sally in our Alley" and "Black-eyed Susan," ("absolute" melodies); but it failed to scare them. Their sole impulse was to exterminate the ugly rascals who were making such a dismal clamour.

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A very intelligent correspondent of Dwight's Journal of Music (Boston)-Mr. Charles C. Perkins, himself an excellent musician-wrote (from Leipsic) last November, a letter

For the reasons thus given, at some length, we have felt it our duty to warn all who love music and venerate the works of the great masters, who believe that the fine arts are a blessing and not a curse, that they proceed from the Creator and not from Satan, against the preaching and practice of Richard Wagner and his followers-sham prophets, who hoist the banner of "Truth," as the belligerent powers, at sea, put up false colours in order to deceive and annihilate each other, dangerous enemies to music, the more dangerous from their subtle intellect and uncompromising bigotry, men, themselves degenerate, envious of those who possess the generating power. Tear away the gaudy mask that hides their features, and you see a thing of shreds and patches." Listen to their wily eloquence, and you find yourself in the coils of rattle-snakes. Fall down and worship them, and you are irretrievably damned. Göthe foresaw them when he created Mephistopheles. Avoid, then, the destiny of Faust. Put not your faith in Wagner; or when, full of ardent devotion, you inquire his name, he may answer-"I am LOHENGRIN❞—and vanish into the nothingness whence he came.

to the editor, about Wagner and his proselytes, which, when is from the beast, the more worthy of his own soul, and the nearer we can afford space, we intend to quote, among other papers to the godhead which has stamped him with its image. Now on the same subject (since every sane demonstration against in the ideal world nothing but beauty is tolerated; and the the absurdity of that very insane gentleman's doctrines is of soi-disant poet who seeks for plain truth, and would use the value now-a-days). We merely refer to it at present, in plain language of men, is simply an ass. At any rate he is order to acquaint our readers with a felicitous title with no poet. This is Wagner's case. Like many other vain and which Mr. Perkins has dubbed the little knot of musical foolish persons, incapable of creating beauty-with no organic Jesuits, who, while swinging incense before the altars of appreciation of the exhaustless forms and phases which each other's vanities, are endeavouring to thrust out music "the beautiful" may be made to assume, through the agency of from its place among the arts, that it may be a humble mi- the poet, in his eternal but necessarily vain pursuit after ideal nister to their mythic doggrel. He calls them "The Mutual perfection-Herr Wagner has got the word TRUTH eternally in Adoration Society." No fitter name could be found to de- his mouth, and bellows it out all the louder from the consciousscribe the coterie. Only Mr. Perkins overlooks one greatness of his own insignificance. He cannot write music himself; fact that, while every one of them adores Wagner, as the and for that reason arraigns it. His contempt for Mendelsfirst article of their idolatry (we shall not throw the word sohn is simply ludicrous; and we would grant him forty years religion into contempt), Herr Wagner adores nobody but to produce one melodious phrase like any of those so profusely himself-not even Liszt, who, with the bellows of his flatulent scattered about in the operas of Rossini, Weber, Auber, and prose, blew out the author of Lohengrin, from a threatening Meyerbeer. "Opera melody", indeed! Let the man of spark, into the aspect and dimensions of a consuming "the Future" try his hand at one, and see what he can flame. Wagner is Apollo, and these are his satellites. make of it. He is as unable to invent genuine tune as pure Liszt is the moon, which only shines by reflecting the glory harmony; and he knows it. Hinc illæ lachrymæ! Hence "the of the bigger orb, and gyrates incessantly round Wagner. books." We would give something to see Richard at Weimar, with Liszt, and the others, paying him homage, turning somersaults, and uttering grimaces and gesticulations, like the Dervishes to the music of the chorus (there is a tune again; even Beethoven was given to "absolute" melody) in the Ruins of Athens. It would be a ceremony worth witnessing. M. Fétis (we are reminded by Mr. Perkins) insists that the primary object of musical composition is beauty. M. Fétis is right. The first object in all artistic workmanship is to attain an ideal beauty, a beauty that is not an absolute fact of nature, as may be gathered from the very common observation on seeing a woman of uncommon loveliness:"her beauty is ideal." This is to say neither more nor less than that it is not a beauty common to nature, but one so rare, that, in order to find a fitting epithet, you are obliged to turn to the poet, who yearns for that which is not, and has eyes in his mind as well as in his head, eyes that are his better,his poetical eyes, and which can peer into eternity. Wagner, on the contrary-who, though a mythical dramatist, is no musician and very little of a poet, or at best a poet according to some obscure theory of his own-will have the aim of musical composition, and of all art, to be truth-which is as much as to say that the object of art is to get back again to whence it started. The only absolute truth connected with music is in the primary harmonics, which constitute its elements. But these are for the consideration of acousticians and experimental philosophers; they have nothing whatever to do with what is essentially music. That appertains solely to art, and embodies one of the most exquisite contrivances of man to turn the phenomena of nature into a means of enjoyment and recreation to himself. Mozart knew nothing about primary harmonics, and cared less. A knowledge of the theory of brick-dust is not necessary to the architect who built Saint Peter's. The poet is a liar, no matter through what medium he addresses the world. He speaks in a language that is not simple, and being not simple not true. But as man has a soul, and is not like the beasts, he aspires to more than he sees and hears with his direct organs of sensation. There is for him an ideal as well as a real world; and it is this ideal world which the poet explores for our delight-be he painter, musical composer, sculptor, or architect, no matter what. The closer a man is able to hold communion with the poet, and understand the language of this ideal world, the further he

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These musicians of young Germany are maggots, that quicken from corruption. They have nor bone, nor flesh, nor blood, nor marrow. The end of their being is to prey on the ailing trunk, until it becomes putrid and rotten. Instead of life, they would present us with dust; instead of bread with a stone.

There is as much difference between Guillaume Tell and Lohengrin as between the Sun and ashes.

MR. W. F. CROSSLEY, of Altrincham, Manchester, has been appointed Organist and Choirmaster at St. Mary's Chapel, Arley Hall, Cheshire.

these interesting entertainments took place, on Thursday, in presence of a select and distinguished audience. The programme comprised the Sonata in G (Op. 29, No. 1), of Beethoven; Andante Grazioso and Allegrino Alla Turca, in A, of Mozart; Momento Capriccioso, in B flat (Op. 12), of Weber; Caprice in E major, dedicated to Mr. Klingemann (Op. 33), of Mendelssohn; The Sonata Apassionnata in F minor (Op. 57), Beethoven; a Barcarolle in F sharp (Op. 60), of Chopin; and some Studies by Henselt. Mr. Hallé might give another series of these Recitals," with advantage both to himself and his hearers. He has been playing on magnificent pianofortes by Broadwood and

M. CHARLES HALLE'S PIANOFORTE RECITALS.-The last of

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ROYAL ITALIAN OPERA.

THE performances of the last fortnight present but one operatic novelty-Don Pasquale, which was produced on Thursday for the first time this season. Il Trovatore has been most frequently given, and is growing into favour with subscribers and the public. The performance on Saturday last attracted a very large audience, and was one of the most complete yet given. Mdlie. Jenny Ney sang very finely throughout, and displayed considerable dramatic powers in the last scene. We are sorry to announce that she appeared yesterday evening for the last time, her engagement at the Dresden Opera compelling her to leave England to-day. The place of Mdlle. Jenny Ney at the Royal Italian Opera can with difficulty be filled up, more especially in the Trovatore, the success of which is in no small degree owing to her. She will be welcomed back next season with genuine good feeling by the British public. The other operas have been Norma (first act), played on Thursday week, with the whole of the Barbiere; the same opera (entire) on Tuesday, with the second act of L'Elisir d'Amore-and Lucrezia Borgia on Monday. The other nights have been assigned to Verdi's new opera.

Thursday night was a night of "grand revivals," and fraught with reminiscences to the old habitués of Her Majesty's Theatre. Don Pasquale-Donizetti's last, and one of his most genial comic operas-was produced, with the original cast (in Paris, 1843): Mdme. Grisi, Norina; Sig. Mario, Ernesto; Sig. Tamburini, Doctor Malatesta; and Sig. Lablache, Don Pasquale. The ballet of La Vivandière-once so celebrated at Her Majesty's Theatre, under Mr. Lumley's management-was also revived, with Sig. Pugni's music, for Mdlle. Fanny Cerito, the first representative of the heroine, though freely curtailed of its proportions. The theatre was filled in every part. Among the audience were Her Majesty and Prince Albert. M. Meyerbeer was in a box over the stage.

The performance of Don Pasquale by the renowned four was perfect. Hypercritics might point out sensible fallings-off in the voices of the barytone and bass, and even the soprano might be visited with exceptions; but who would dwell on small failings, when so much that was inimitable remained. No stage in the world, lyric or otherwise, could present a more admirable example of elegant comedy, than Covent Garden on Thursday night, with Grisi, Mario, Tamburini, and Lablache-to say nothing of the mere singing, which could not easily be surpassed. It is unnecessary to enter into details about the music, with which everyone is familiar. The opera does not so much abound in melody as the Elisir d'Amore, or the Fille du Régiment, but everywhere betrays the hand of a master, and is sparkling and dramatic throughout. The serenade, "Com 'è gentil," is a spontaneous tune that never fails to please when sung by Mario, and still more as Mario sang it on Thursday night. A unanimous encore followed. The duo, too, in the last scene, "Tornami a dir"-which has some of the true Rossinian colour-was exquisitely given by Grisi and Mario. In pure buffo singing we have nothing left on the operatic stage-with one great exception, Ronconi-like Tamburini and Lablache, who, of course, in Don Pasquale, were perfectly at home. Lablache's Don Pasquale is one of his most racy impersonations, and Tamburini is just as good as the lively well-meaning Doctor, fond of practical jokes when they lead to fortunate results. A more decided success has rarely been achieved for Donizetti's comic work, and "the four," the "old four," were recalled at the fall of the curtain, amidst enthusiastic applause.

Hardly less interest was attached to the revival of La Vivandière. Signor Pugni's music, exceedingly popular during the run of the ballet at Her Majesty's Theatre, had not escaped the memory of the habitués; the plot, it was remembered, was well-liked; the danseuse the original Vivandière, when the ballet was first produced in Paris and London-Fanny Cerito, owned a name intimately associated with everything graceful and fascinating. The consequence was, that everybody remained to see the ballet, and, among the rest, Her Majesty and the Prince Consort. Much pains had been taken to render it complete, as far as scenery, dresses, and grouping went; but many of the most effective points were omitted. However, the least part interfered with was that of La Vivandière, and Mdlle. Cerito had

abundant opportunities of distinguishing herself, of which she did not fail to take advantage. Indeed such inimitable dancing has not been witnessed since the best days of the ballet, when Fanny Cerito herself was (as she is now) one of the "brightest stars." Mdlle. Cerito danced a pas seul, a pas de deux with M. Desplaces, and the pas de quatre with Mdlles. Esper and Battalini and M. Desplaces, and was admirable in them all. The pas de quatre created the old effect, and the variation, called the "Advance," was unanimously encored. Mdlle. Cerito was dressed to admiration, and looked perfectly irresistible in her semi-regimentals. So attractive a Vivandière would set a whole camp by the ears.

The grouping was excellent, and the general action of the ballet entitled to praise. Better late than never. La Vivandière will doubtless have a long run.

Il Trovatore was given for the last time this season (so announced in the bills) last night an extra night, in consequence of the approaching departure of Mdlle. Jenny Ney. The opera was preceded by the favourite scene from La Prova d'un Opera Seria, for Mad. Viardot and Signor Lablache. To-night, La Favorita is to be repeated.

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Conductor-Herr Richard Wagner. Once upon a time things were managed in a very strange and elsewhere-unheard-of fashion in the Philharmonic Orchestra. Its performances were governed by a "Leader" and a "Conductor:" and, as was natural enough under this dual captaincy, various little infractions of strict discipline now and then made their appearance. Furthermore, as if determined to try how far a bad theory might be pushed, the leader and conductor were changed for every concert. There were strength of arm and pride of place to be vindicated in more quarters than one; and as the directors, even at their first start, never dreamt of acknowledging anything beyond a republican kind of equality among themselves, the only way to avert a revolution was to invest each with the purple and sceptre in turn. We have said many odd things used to occur under this dispensation. Not a few reverend heads were shaken at Beethoven, even in his mildest moods, partly from bewilderment, but much more, we believe, out of sympathy for his supposed mental aberration. New works, above the average amount of difficulty, were blundered over for a while, and then pronounced either impracticable or nonsensical, as the humour happened to be. We well remember the fearful mystery supposed to enshroud the Choral Symphony, for example; the awe with which it was regarded, and the unwonted preparations made for its performance. We remember the substitution of the square pianoforte for the grand, at which the conductor was habitually posted, in order that "for that occasion only," he might stand face to face with his orchestra! In spite of these and other little and like eccentricities, matters worked in the Philharmonic Society more smoothly than might be supposed. Its performances were the best, nay the only, expositions of great instrumental music we possessed; its funds were in prosperous plight, and it had already won a European reputation. By and by, however, when listeners had gathered unto them their critical ears, and would no longer accept names for things, or reputation for actuality, the evils of a divided responsibility began to appear. Did something fall out in the orchestra not

quite in accordance with the laws of time and tune, lo! there was a shield at hand behind which all parties might ensconce themselves as safely as under the "forms" of a government "department." He of the bâton had nothing to do but revile him of the fiddle-stick, or vice versa, and there was an end of the matter. Á musical commission, even, with Mr. Roebuck at its head, could not move an inch further except, indeed, by doing what in good time came really to be done-voting the whole system only fit for immediate death and burial. The "leader" having at length retired to his proper place of chef-d'attaque, and the supreme orchestral authority being vested in the conductor, the remedy was as yet but half-applied. There were little vanities to gratify, little jealousies to conciliate; and as no Oliver Cromwell, strong of head and firm of heart, rose up to turn out the Sir Harry Vanes of the council and take the reins of power unobstructedly to himself, a plurality of conductors was persisted in. To the manifest distraction of the orchestra, and the certainty of rendering a fixed style impossible, every concert had a different conductor:-first, Sir Henry Bishop, then Sir George Smart, then Mr. Potter, then Mr. Neate, and so forth; all good men and true, beyond doubt, but, in their differences of opinion and still greater varieties of method, doing all that clever men and a bad system could possibly accomplish to banish every prospect of unity of effect and solid improvement in the orchestra. Things move slowly in this constitutional country; but the time having at last arrived for seeing the utter insufficience of this half-development it has since reached under the strict military rule of reform, the final resolution was taken to appoint but one conductor for the season. Under this last, and only rational, arrangement, the Philharmonic bâton has been alternately wielded by Spohr, Mendelssohn, Costa, and Herr Richard Wagner, and this consummation brings us to the end of our little history. Why this history-thoroughly known as it must be in London -at all? we may be asked. Merely, we reply, to furnish some profitable means for estimative comparison. Having run through its evil days, having experienced and redressed the follies of a system unparalleled for absurdity, and having had now some years' practice in the wiser course, we might reasonably expect that the Philharmonic doings of to-day would shine as the sun to a glow-worm compared with its achievements in olden time. Let us see, then, what takes place in 1855. The directors, from some cause not now worth discussion, found themselves without a conductor for the present season, and of course cast about them to supply the deficiency. The selection was not without its difficulty, but the field was, at least, tolerably wide; and after sundry little coquettings and disappointments, the choice fell on Richard Wagner. Now, in order to treat this selection fairly, let us not lose sight for a moment of who Richard Wagner is and what are his pretensions. He is a poet, musician, dramatist, philosopher, essayist, revolutionist (political as well as artistic), and the assumptive leader of a new musical sect which publicly threatens its determination to overrun and convert the whole of Europe. He must needs have unbounded confidence in himself, for throughout his writings on art we find, either expressed or implied, an unwavering current of assertion that all other musicians are in error, here venially, there flagrantly; and this, not on points of technical detail, but absolutely as to first principles. He alone has discovered the key to their faults; he alone, in his own creations, can exhibit their remedy. Throughout, we perceive the stubborn resolution to cast down the idols of the I world and build himself a shrine from their ruins. It was, then, wise, right, and due to the progress of art, that the Philharmonic Society should bring this man to England. All the great kinds of music are intimately known in this country, and if his mission be really one of truth and power to convince of yet greater things, he could scarcely have a riper field for his labour. Well, then, Richard Wagner came to London, an object of deeper curiosity, we venture to say, than was any foreign musician who ever visited us; and, having had full scope, both as composer and orchestra director, for the vindication of his pretensions, he leaves it, we also venture to say, convicted of making one of the profoundest failures on record. Of his compositions we can only repeat what we have before said

in other words, namely, that they are the clever and dashing
shams of a well-read and ambitious man, who, wholly ungifted
with the faculty of developing beauty-having, in plain phrase,
not a particle of music in his nature-would fain persuade the
world to mistake his idealess and amorphous ravings for the
utterances of a Heaven-descended originality, and thought too
profound for ordinary penetration. As a conductor, it is matter
of notoriety that, with a band containing some of the finest
existing elements, and against which, though it may suit him to
arraign it, he will never obtain a European verdict, he has merely
succeeded in producing a series of performances much inferior
in precision and general merit, on the whole, to those with which
the society was chargeable even in those early times with which
we commenced this notice. We say this generally of the eight
concerts of the present season, and we say it with ten-fold speci-
ality of the last on Monday evening. In those gloriously mis-
taken old days of the "leader" and "conductor," when the band
had not attained the half of its present force, either mental or
material, did one ever hear so many slips, messes, perversities-.
so much bad performance, in short, in a single evening? Could
we, by possibility, hear anything worse? In those olden times
aforesaid, we certainly often heard much that was not perfection.
The performances were occasionally rough and incorrect, very
generally not remarkable for any refined distinctions in the
grades of forte or piano; and precision in the simultaneous
action of the machine had not attained that advanced stage of
Mr. Costa. Yet the instruments went very tolerably well together,
they expressed the composer's intention, on the one hand, with
not, perhaps, the last delicacy of style, but, on the other, without
any affectation or ridiculous mock-sentimentality. Even in the
most novel and complex music then attempted, it was but rarely
indeed that we were annoyed by absolute discord, or put into a
state of nervous trepidation by some hair-breadth escape from a
total break-down. How comes it, then, that, in 1855, since the
band must have greatly improved at all points, since the know-
ledge of all the great music habitually performed must have
deepened and strengthened, and in spite of three years' drilling
by Sig. Costa-who, however his opinions may differ from our
own, is wholly unexceptionable as a disciplinarian-how comes
it that the performances of this season have been so markedly
worse than usual? How comes it, specially, that all the music
of the last concert (except the C minor symphony of Spohr,
which, though less familiar than all the rest, alone went respect-
ably well)-being so thoroughly well known as to be scarcely
in a more than A, B, C condition of difficulty, sounded little better
than though the band were rehearsing it for the first time?
How comes it that Mendelssohn's "Midsummer Night's Dream"
overture was all at sixes and sevens throughout?-that poor
Herr Pauer was accompanied so wildly in that very simple
and straightforward concerto of Hummel ?-that Mdlle. Krall,
with all her energy of voice, could not urge forward that lazy
orchestra to anything like the times she must have known and
felt Weber intended for the various movements of his scena ?—
that Beethoven's B flat symphony was played so generally ill,
and that where the scherzo re-enters after the trio, a catastrophe,
fatal to the renown of the orchestra-to say nothing of the feel-
ings of the audience-was only just averted by the decision of
the performers themselves? that in the overture to Oberon,
the giant stringed-band of the Philharmonic Society became,
for the first time, all but voiceless for the utterance of
passages, and sank murmuring among the general roar
of the mass ↑ There can be but one answer; and
that points to the incompetence of the conductor.
Pundit-Praeger of Hamm may say what pleases him, may hurl
all "the books," and as many more as he sees fitting, at our
heads, and may swagger in all the Trans-atlantic papers that un-
luckily admit his correspondence about prejudices, foregone
conclusions, and anything else that suits his purpose; but facts
are too potent to be overturned by mere talk. Last season the
performances were generally admirable, this season they have
been as generally the reverse. Nothing has been changed except
the conductor, and to what, then, except this change, can the
falling-off be attributable?

The

But there needs no inferential evidence to prove the unfitness of Herr Wagner to conduct a great orchestra. His manner, his attitude, his mere action in the indication of time, are sufficient in themselves. Though square, hard, and abrupt in the last degree, his "beat" is wholly wanting in the decision necessary to fix and carry with him the attention of an orchestra. There is a well-known toy, the delight of baby-hood,—a wooden figure, from the nethermost part of whose person depends a string, which being pulled, the arms and legs are suddenly thrown into contortions of a very amusing, but certainly not elegant, character. To this and nothing else can we compare Herr Wagner, when in the heat of directing an Allegro. He gesticulates with much energy, and the least possible degree of grace, but yet fails to indicate the divisions of a bar with anything like intelligible point. On his new "readings," as they are termed, we have but two short observations to make:-first, that in all the music whereof to assist our judgment we have only English tradition and our own taste, we notice that he applies the same description of alteration to similar parts of every composition, no matter what its style or intention, and this is, therefore, merely a mechanical artifice, and not a suggestion of intelligence; and, second, that in all the music we have heard directed by its composer, we notice that Herr Wagner's version differs essentially from the author's, and therefore, Herr Wagner's must certainly be wrong.

The Times has said, "One more such season will destroy the Philharmonic Society;" and we may add, one more such conductor will annihilate the reputation of its orchestra. It is to be hoped that, in future, no experiment will be made likely to peril either one or the other, for the Philharmonic Society, with all its faults, is far too important an institution to be spared-at least for the present.

THE MUSICAL UNION.

THE seventh regular performance, which took place on Tuesday afternoon, was more crowded than any others. It was the last appearance of Ernst for the season-of itself an event of importance-and the first of a new and clever lady pianist, Mrs. Joseph Robinson. The programme was as follows:Quartet, E flat. Op. 58

Sonata, in F. Piano and Violin
Quartet, E minor. Op. 59

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Spohr. Beethoven. Beethoven. Scherzo, No. 2, B flat minor. Op. 31 Chopin. Spohr's quartet, Op. 58, is one of his best, and, like others from his pen, might be given oftener with advantage. It could scarcely have been played better than by MM. Ernst, Cooper, Hill, and Piatti. The great feature of the concert, however, was the Rasoumoffsky quartet, in which Ernst is unrivalled. His reading and execution of the Adagio molto, in C sharp minor, in this wonderful composition, where the genius of Beethoven is demonstrative in the effulgence of its glory, was unsurpassed for pathos; and, indeed, his whole conception of the quartet is grand and masterly. If this be not the highest order of violin playing, we have only to say, that we have no idea of anything beyond it, and no desire to hear it excelled, if that were possible, which we do not believe. It produced a profound impression.

The charming and melodious sonata of Beethoven was a great treat of another character. It was played to perfection by Mrs. Joseph Robinson and Herr Ernst, and loudly applauded. The lady, whose graceful style and fluent execution bear ample testimony to the justness of the high reputation she enjoys in the metropolis of the sister isle, was no less successful in the scherzo of Chopin, which, however, is far more difficult to interpret than easy to listen to with satisfaction.

Among the guests was M. Meyerbeer, who was conducted by the Director of the Musical Union to a seat of honour in the most aristocratic corner of the room, close to Mr. Ella himself, and between "London" and "Canterbury." As soon as the celebrated composer was recognised, the whole audience stood up, and gave him an enthusiastic reception.

SIGNOR GORDIGIANI, the popular composer of Italian music, "di camera," has arrived in London from Paris, where he gave a concert with the greatest success. Signor Gordigiani will give a Matinée Musicale in Lord Ward's Gallery in the course of a few days.

M. JULLIEN has returned to town.

LISZT AND WAGNER.-The following announcement has appeared in the Neue Berliner Musik-Zeitung :-"The undersigned is empowered to rectify certain fabrications circulated in various newspapers and other prints, with reference to Herr Dr. Franz Liszt and Capellmeister Richard Wagner, by stating that there was never the slightest intention on the part of Herr Dr. Liszt to proceed to America and give up his appointment as Grandducal Hof-Capellmeister, nor any idea on the part of Capellmeister Wagner to leave London previous to the eighth and last Philharmonic concert (which will take place on the 25th instant), since he has undertaken personally to direct the whole series. HANS v. BULOW. Berlin, 16th June, 1855."

MR, CHARLES BRAHAM'S CONCERT.-After an absence for some years in Italy, Mr. Charles Braham has returned to London, considerably improved both in the command of his voice and in his method of singing. His concert took place at the Hanover-square rooms, yesterday morning, in presence of a highly fashionable audience, whose reception of the son of the veteran English tenor was enthusiastic. The artists who assisted at the concert were Signor and Madame Gassier, Miss Harriett Bensal, and Madlle. Krall as vocalists, Mr. Kuhe (pianoforte), Mr. Richard Blagrove (concertina), and M. Paque (violoncello), as instrumentalists. Mr. Charles Braham's voice and style of singing are modelled on his father's; and a better example he could not have selected.

The morceaux chosen for his rentrée were a romanza by Verdi, "Quando le sere al placido,," which was admirably sung; the vigorous aria from Il Trovatore, "Ah si ben mio," in which Mr. Braham was enabled to display the whole power of his voice; a duet with Mdme. Gassier, and another with Mdlle. Krall, in both of which his mezza voce was especially admired. Altogether the début of Mr. Charles Braham may be recorded as an event in the musical season of 1855. Mdme. Gassier, as usual, delighted her audience by her excellent singing, and the other vocalists acquitted themselves well. Mr. R. Blagrove pleased very much in a concertina solo, and Herr Kuhe in a pianoforte fantasia on L'Etoile du Nord. Mr. Frank Mori was the conductor.

BARON CELLI'S MATINEE MUSICALE took place at Willis's Rooms on Wednesday. Baron Celli, an old vocal professor, was well patronized by his friends. The vocalists on the present occasion were, Miss Emilia Milla, Mdlle. Cornet, Mrs. Tennant, Mdlle. Bochkoltz-Falconi, Mad. de Luigi, Miss Stabbach, Mr. Tennant, Mr. Binckes, Signor Belletti, Signor Ciabatta, and Signor Bettini, who were applauded in a plentiful selection of morceaux of a popular calibre. The instrumentalists were Signor Bianchi, who played some variations of his own composition, and the sparkling feu follet of Prudent, with considerable ability. The accompanyists at the pianoforte were Mr. Maurice Levy, Signori Campana and Pilotti.

REUNION DES ARTS.-Herr Louis Ries, the violinist, gave a Soirée Musicale at the rooms, in Harley-street, on Friday (the 22nd instant), in conjunction with Miss Messent, Miss Rhemmeio, Mdlle. M. de Villar, and Mr. Herberte, vocalists; and Herr Pauer (pianoforte), Herr Ernst, Herr Deichman (violins), Mr. Zerbini (viola), and M. Paque (violoncello), instrumentalists. Mendelssohn's second trio (C minor), for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello, was carefully played by Herr Pauer, Herr Ries, and M. Paque, as was also Ferdinand Ries's quartet, in E major, for two violins, tenor and violoncello, by Herren Ries and Deichman, Mr. Zerbini, and M. Paque. Still more acceptable to the audience was Spohr's adagio in E flat, for two violins, by Herren Ernst and Ries. Miss Messent sang an air of Weber's charmingly, and Mdlle. de Villar, who has a beautiful voice, was too nervous in two songs, to display it to advantage. The concert was well attended. The conductors were Messrs. Kiallmark and Francesco Berger.

RE-UNION DES ARTS.-On Wednesday evening a Soirée MusiLIEGE.-Meyerbeer's Etoile du Nord has been given ten times in cale was given by this society, which was attended by a numerous company of artists and amateurs. The first part was devoted

three weeks.

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