is certainly over-long. It is seldom we have to complain of too little modulation in compositions of the present day, the difficulty with most modern writers being apparently to remain in any one key for a reasonable time; but in this caprice of Mr. Salaman we confess we should like to see a few (not many) more flats and sharps. On the other hand there are so many graceful passages, some (as in pages 4 and 5, and later, in another key) à la Weber, and so well written for the pianoforte, that young pianists will do no harm by practising "La Barchetta," as a recreation after severer studies.

"La Poveretta" (No. 5), in F minor, is the best of all, although illnamed “morceau brillant," however—its character being decidedly more expressive than brilliant, and more romantic than anything else. The only weak point we can find in this engaging movement (which, by the way, has a flavour of M. Stephen Heller about it) is in the episode, in A flat (page 7-lines 2-3), where the dominant of the primary key, once attained, instead of F minor being directly resumed, an interrupted cadence re-establishes the key of A flat, which is a disagreeable disappointment rather than a pleasing surprise, occurring, as it does, so near the end. Any other manner of ingeniously putting off the full close would have been preferable.

"Il Riposo" and "L'Agitazione" (No. 7), are graceful trifles-songs without words, but with sentiment enough (begging Herr Wagner's pardon) to dispense altogether with the poet's assistance.

The "Rondo nel tempo della Giga" (No. 8)-in B flat, 12-8 measureis quite as interesting in its way as the cappriccio on Cherubini's melody. A smart and close fugato (page 4), based upon the theme, reminds us-we cannot explain why-of the fugato in the archery scene of Guillaume Tell (Act 3). The whole is, however, clever and highly finished.

"Drops in the Sea of Waltzes" (No. 9), by Herr Josef Gungl, Op. 118 ("opus" applied to waltzes is good!), may be allowed to fall into the ocean of dance music. They will not infect the purity of the great waters, since they have gathered in their course none of the filth and refuse of the common sewers of terpsichorean melody. But, to "drop" metaphor (in deference to Mr. Arthur Chappell), these "Drops" of Herr Gungl are sparkling and pretty, the first two-in B minor and G-being, nevertheless, far superior to the rest.

Of the "First Violet Waltzes" (No. 10), we cannot say as much. Herr Schallehn comes reeking from the sewers of common-place, and presents the world with the dregs and mire he has accumulated during his under-ground investigation. But, again to "drop" metaphor, there is nothing at all to snuff in these first violets except a musty odour of the past.

In No. 11-"Sehnsucht-Mr. Bennet Gilbert makes a great fuss about nothing. He dedicates his notturno, in an elaborate German title-page, to "seinem Freunde," Mr. Robert Barnett (Associate Honorary Member of the Royal Academy of Music), who will have to get a German dictionary to translate it or we are mistaken, which is unlikely. Moreover "Sehnsucht" is not well written, which is unpardonable in a commonplace. If Mr. Gilbert has "nothing to say? (as Herr Wagner insinuates of Mendelssohn), he should at least say it elegantly. He should not utter consecutive octaves, between the base and inner part, thus:

4

6

Mr. Braine's march, in E flat (No. 14), is spirited, if not correctly written; but why, in the name of Turkey and her allies, entitle it "The Siege of Sebastopol ?" When will this folly-this making a miserable pedlar's trade out of events in which the freedom and happiness of the whole world are at stake-be put an end to? Fye on you!-Mr. Braine. You are not fit to bear your patronyme, and should be called Braine-less-(we do not mean brainless).

THE RUSSIANS IN COVENT GARDEN
("L'ETOILE DU NORD.")
(From Punch.)

THE Russians are victorious; we are fairly beaten, and it is nothing been the prime means of introducing the Muscovites into the very heart more than common candour to own our discomfiture. Mr. Gye has of the metropolis; and, whether we will or no, we must own their mastery. We will, however, as plainly as our emotion will permit us, give a brief narrative of the catastrophe.

plain that an attack was to be made. The Russians had, by some means, On the evening of the 19th inst., between seven and eight, it was thronging the house, resolved to dispute the ground, inch by inch. taken possession of Covent Garden Theatre. The English, however,

At eight o'clock precisely, General Costa, with his truncheon in hand, rode into the orchestra, and was received with heavy rounds, which he encountered with the self-possession and true modesty of a true hero. The orchestra opened from the overture battery, and never did we witness such power, such brilliancy and precision of fire. They carried all before them.

until nearly a quarter to one, when the star of Russia-La Stella del The fight raged from half-past eight-with but two brief intervalssubdued and led away captive by the power of Field-Marshal MeyerNord-was hailed as star triumphant. It is impossible for us-although beer, to suppress the expression of our admiration, our veneration of the genius of that little, great man (for in corporal presence we think he hardly tops Napoleon or Wellington). The subdued people flung bouquets and garlands at his feet-the giant of music!

But how admirably was the genius of the General seconded by the genius of his forces! Prodigious was the energy of Pietro Micaeloff Formes; magnificent the power of the Cossack Corporal Gritzenzo Lablache (he fought on foot, we can therefore give no idea of the horse that could carry him). How gracefully, how skilfully did Danilowitz Gardoni bring up his forces-setting them in the most brilliant array! Especially mighty in their grace and sweetness were the Amazons who took the field. How shall we describe Catterina Bosio, flashing

unceremonious manner:

prisoner all about her. And then, that Prascovia Marai-with an innocent face, a face like a flower, yet so invincible wherever she appeared. Unerring sharp-shooters were the vivandières, Ekimona Bauer and Natalia Rudersdorff-picking off unerringly whatever they aimed at.

Finally, the triumph of the Russians at Covent Garden is all to nothing the greatest victory the Russians have had in the present war. There can be no doubt that Generalissimo Gye will "sack" all London. Among the distinguished visitors who were present at this Russian victory, we noticed the Earl of Aberdeen, Mr. Gladstone, and Messrs. Cobden, Bright, and Milner Gibson. We heard that Lord John Russell occupied a box, but, if so, he sat so far back in the shadow that we cannot say we conscientiously saw him.

VERDI'S VISIT TO LONDON.

On Tuesday morning, Signor Verdi quitted London for Paris, accompanied by Messrs. Escudier and Ricordi, his publishers. From Paris, Verdi will proceed to Milan, where he will spend the winter. The arrangements which he has made in London respecting his last opera, Les Vêpres Siciliennes, are understood to be very favourable. The opera has been published, and the copyright disposed of to a house in town-Mr. Gye having bought the exclusive right of representation for the Royal Italian Opera. Should Les Vêpres Siciliennes meet with half the success in London that it has achieved in Paris, the popularity of Signor Verdi will become as thoroughly established here as it is in other parts of Europe. Il Trovatore was performed at Covent Garden eight nights to crowded houses, and would have been frequently repeated but for the departure of Madlle. Jenny Ney. If Ronconi joins Mr. Gye's company next season, Rigoletto will, of course, be revived, and Verdi's last three operas will be among the chief attractions of the season of 1856.

ITALIAN ART IN FRANCE AND THEATRICAL JOURNALISM IN ITALY.

Ir has, for some time past, been a prolific theme with our countrymen to lament over the decline of dramatic art in Italy, and no one has raised his voice to deplore the wretched state of theatrical criticism, which, instead of encouraging rising talent, has either spoiled it by outrageous flattery, or stifled it by exaggerated animadversion, not unfrequently the result of personal antipathy or mercenary considerations. We have now before us a strange and a sad spectacle. Whilst Mad. Ristori and Sig. Rossi are sustaining in Paris the honour of our dramatic art, which, on the faith of our own wretched jeremiads, had long since been considered dead and gone-whilst the French have scarcely yet recovered from their astonishment at seeing this corpse so full of life and energy, and a shout of surprise and admiration has rent the air, and all the French critics have united in a unanimous pœan to the marvellous talent of Adelaide Ristori-what, in the meanwhile, has Italian criticism done? Let us be candid. Italian dramatic critics, whose duty it is to give support to their countrymen, and thank them for having sustained the national reputation, who ought to have heralded such joyful tidings with alacrity, and re-echoed the applause of the foreigner thus appreciating Italian excellence better than we ourselves have done-the Italian critics, who should have said to France: "We have sent you two of our great actors, but there are others as good, in their kind. We have Mad. Sadowski, the actress of grace, elegance, and coquetry, who stands in relation to your Brohan as Ristori to your Rachel; we have Mad. Cazzola, who never fails to excite the enthusiasm of the public, and who promises to be really a great artist; besides Rossi, we have Morelli, a studious and thoroughly conscientious artist, and Majeroni, the actor of dignity and truth; we have Vespri, Pieri, Dondini-all highly distinguished in their different specialities; and, above all, we have Modena, to whom all refer the sceptre of dramatic excellence. You see, then, that we too have our Ligier, our Lemaître, our Bocage, our Regnier, our Rachel, our Brohan, our Chéri, our Denain." But instead of saying and acting accordingly, our Italian critics, with very few exceptions, have smiled, shrugged their shoulders, doubted, and denied, have called it a success of fashion, hospitality, and good nature, and turned the whole into a

caricature.

What more shall we say? While Italian dramatic art was thus triumphant in Paris, in the person of Mad. Ristori, and Italian music gained fresh laurels in that of Sig. Verdi, only one paper, and that an Italian one, spoke of the claque. Alas! that this should proceed from one of your best theatrical periodicals! We have quoted these two facts, because they contrast strongly with the general feeling of the public, who naturally feel that honest pride which proceeds from the triumph of native talent in a foreign country, and its proper appreciation by foreigners. L. FORTIS.

[The above, translated from a Neapolitan art-paper, shows how very strongly that "esprit de corps," which is wholly wanting among English artists, no matter of what profession, exists in Italy. We have the greatest pleasure in transferring it to the columns of the Musical World, and trust it may be read with some advantage.-ED. M. W.]

MUNICH.-Herr Wagner's Tannhäuser is in active preparation.

CONVERSATIONS WITH FELIX MENDELSSOHN.* (Continued from page 467.) III.

ON another occasion, I asked him if he could explain a point which for me was very important.

"I have been informed," I said, " that you make a great many alterations in your works, even up to the moment you hand over the manuscript. Unfortunately, I do the same, and, in fact, a great deal worse, for I cannot name a single production of mine in which I have not found, after it was printed, many passages with which I was discontented, and for which I had hit upon some far superior idea, when it was no longer time to suppress them." Mendelssohn was peculiar for two kinds of smile. The one was inimitably amiable, and played over his features in a quiet contented moment; the other, which was slightly tinged with quiet sarcasm, used to distinguish him when he had to find fault with anything that was not quite bad enough to make him actually angry, which, by the way, he very seldom was, or which, as an accomplished gentleman, he had learnt how to

suppress.

"The misfortune of which you complain certainly happens to me as well as to yourself," he said; "I have erased quite as much as I have left of my writings. Let us console ourselves by thinking of the greatest masters, who were not a whit better off in this respect. Ah! would that it were only weak passages which that cunning conjuror, Imagination, smuggles past our judgment on to the paper! But she plays me worse tricks than that. She sometimes seduces me into writing down a whole piece that, at some subsequent period, I cannot help acknowledging to be very poor stuff! Out of twelve songs that I collected, I thought that only six were worth printing, and, therefore, threw away the other six. My Paul originally contained a third more pieces than it now does, but they are never destined to see the light of day. What say you to that ?" he asked, with a sarcastic smile.

"That, in all probability, you are too severe towards the offspring of your own mind," I replied, "Many would deem themselves fortunate if they had written and could publish what you reject."

"I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion," said Mendelssohn, laughing, "but I do not agree with it. I can adduce another and still better reason for keeping back my compositions, and one which will put the subject in a clearer light. I believe in the motto, Nulla dies sine lineâ.' I do not often let a day elapse without writing something. But on what artist does the Muse always smile? Not on me, at any rate. I can always write something, however, and I do so, in order to keep myself in practice. Just as the virtuoso loses in technical skill certainty, if he abandons his instrument for any length of time, mental operations lose a portion of their light easy character, if you often neglect to practice. In order to keep myself up to the mark, I am always composing, but the mind is not invariably ready with good gifts. Do not, however, believe thatas might appear from what has fallen from me-I am contented with all that I print. Such is not the case. There is a very great deal that affords me but little satisfaction, and that I immediately feel to be nothing special."

and

"Supposing this to be so," I said, "why do you act as you do, since pecuniary considerations cannot be the cause? I always thought it the most lamentable part of an artist's fate, that he is obliged to create for mere bread."

"There are other reasons for the artist who sees the world as it really is," rejoined Mendelssohn.

"I should like to know what they are," I replied, with a feeling of curiosity.

"The world forgets very easily," observed Mendelssohn, "and that is something which the artist, who has once engaged in public life, must endeavour to prevent, by continually publishing new works. His name must not be wanting in any Messver

By the author of Fliegende Blätter für Musik, Leipsic, 1853.

zeichniss. In every fresh one it must again catch the eye of the public, for a long time elapses before the public will bite. Composers are becoming more and more numerous. If they disappear a few years out of the musical catalogues, they are lost, because forgotten."

"That is very true," I replied, "and the public is, perhaps, not quite in the wrong. We may presume that, if a man remains long idle, without publishing anything, the impulse of production and power of creation cannot be very strong and rich in him."

"Such is the case," said Mendelssohn; "and since the artist is not successful in every work, but yet always wishes to prove himself productive, he may, and must, occasionally, in order to retain his position, let something weaker than the rest slip out. If the thing is nothing particular, he at least shows that he works hard, and hopes are entertained that he will produce something better the next time. You forgive a man, in whom you take an interest, if by chance he is ill-tempered, or short in his manner, but you become indifferent about him, if he visits you too seldom, while, finally, you do not care about him at all, if he stops away altogether." IV.

On a subsequent occasion, I led the conversation back again to the "new paths." The idea tormented me, and Mendelssohn's reasoning had in no way convinced or tranquillized me.

"I heard," I began, "your overture to the Midsummer Night's Dream a short time ago, for the first time. It appears to me to surpass all your former works in originality, nor can I compare it to any other composition, for it has no brother, or any family likeness. Might we not, therefore, say that you struck out, in it, a new path?"

"By no means," Mendelssohn answered; "you have forgotten what I understand by 'new paths:' creations in accordance with newly-discovered, and, at the same time, higher laws of art. In my overture I have not enounced a single new maxim. You will find, for instance, in the grand overture to Beethoven's Fidelio, the same maxims that I have followed. My thoughts are different, for they are Mendelssohnian and not Beethovenian, but the maxims which guided me in composing were Beethoven's as well. We should be in an unfortunate position, if, because we followed the same road and created in accordance with the same principles, we could not produce new thoughts and new pictures. What has Beethoven done in his overture? He has painted the substance of his piece in tone-pictures. He has done so in a more than usually broad form of overture, and built up more than usually broad periods, and so have I. But our periods are essentially and entirely formed on the laws according to which the idea of a 'period' presents itself as a general rule to the human mind. If you test all the musical elements in this manner, you will find nowhere in my overture anything that Beethoven did not possess and turn to account, unless, indeed," he continued, playfully, "you give me the credit of striking out a new path, because I employed the ophicleide."

"You impute, then, the originality of invention to the welldefined subject that you had before your eyes when composing the overture?" I inquired.

"

Certainly," answered Mendelssohn.

"Then," I continued, "we ought to be absolutely inundated with original works, for there is no lack of titles, containing a material value, and yet the music belonging to them is frequently of the most common description! According to your theory, Mr. A., Mr. B., and all the Messieurs throughout the alphabet, would have written your overture to the Midsummer Night's Dream, had they only taken it into their heads to render the substance of the piece in tones ?"

"If they had set about the work with the same earnestness," responded Mendelssohn; "and identified themselves with the piece as zealously, they would all have produced higher and

"Fair Catalogue," alluding to the practice pursued by German booksellers of publishing their books at the periodical Fairs held in the principal towns,

more important works than are to be produced without such a

course.

"If a man possesses talent, and yet manufactures ordinary trash, it is always his own fault. He does not employ his materials as he could employ them, were he in earnest. The most ordinary cause of ordinary compositions is a want of self-criticism and of an endeavour to improve. Had I printed everything without altering, there would be very little peculiar to remark in my works. If I am allowed to possess any peculiar characteristics, I am conscious, in my own mind, that I Owe them mostly to my strict self-criticism and my habit of altering and striving to improve. I have turned and twisted the thoughts-how many times have I frequently done so with one and the same-in order to transform their original ordinary physiognomy into one more original, more important and more effective. Just as it may easily come to pass that two or three notes treated in a different manner, tonically or rhythmically, will give a single thought quite another look and expression, so, if we take examples of greater dimensions, an entire period either inserted or cancelled may make something extraordinary and effective out of something ordinary and ineffective. Good Heavens! only look at Beethoven's book of notes! only look at his notes for Adelaide! Why should he have set about altering at the very commencement? Because the first reading is flat and ordinary, while the second is lively, more expressive, and melodious. What will you bet that if you give me a thought, of the most ordinary description, I will not turn and twist it, as regards the outline, accompaniment, harmony, and instrumentation, until I have changed it into something good? And just as in the case of a single notion, I would undertake to change, by alterations and improvements, a most ordinary piece into an interesting one."

"That I believe," I replied, with a feeling of perfect conviction.

"Well, then," said Mendelssohn, "what more would you have? Pigeons ready roasted do not fly into the mouth of the most talented artists. Such a thing may happen, perhaps; but very rarely; as a rule, you must first catch, pluck, and roast them." "And yet you have laid whole pieces on one side, as not having turned out especially well?" I inquired.

"That is very true," answered Mendelssohn; "many come into the world so sickly, that it would take as much, and perhaps more, time to render them strong and healthy than to create new ones. In such a case you prefer producing something new." "But is it not possible," I asked, "by too much alteration, to render a work worse instead of better? Is not Goethe, for instance, right when he says:

"Hast deine Kastanien zu lange gebraten,
Sind dir alle zu Kohlen gerathen.'"*

"Yes, such a thing might happen," replied Mendelssohn laughing. "What did Goethe ever say that was not deduced from facts? But I prefer letting one dish cook too long and be burnt, to having every dish brought up raw to table."

* Your chestnuts you have too much done; They're burnt to cinders ev'ry one.

A NEW SYSTEM OF ATTACK.-In Kertch, Sebastopol, and other of the Peace of Private Families had never penetrated, pianos out-of-the-way places, where you would imagine that Disturber have been found. If the Russians were wise, they would bring all those instruments of torture out upon the ramparts, and begin playing upon them all at once. The Allies would infallibly raise the siege. They would never be able to stand such a terrible attack as that, and would retire as far as possible to get away from the sound of it. The "din of war" would be quite a love-whisper compared to it. Only let them bring forward a girl's-school in full practice, well supported by two or three German professors with a touch of the forty-Broadwood power of Liszt, and, our word for it, they would effectually clear the Crimea in less than a day. Depend upon it, it would be the last thing heard of the Siege of Sebastopol.

does not, in truth, love at all. But a woman who does not love at all is the most unworthy and most repugnant object in the world. Let us here present the reader with the characteristic types of women of this description.

Italian music has been very strikingly denominated a courtesan. A strumpet can boast of always remaining herself; she never steps beyond herself, and never sacrifices herself, unless when she wishes to experience pleasure or to obtain some advantage, and in this case she offers to another's enjoyment only that part of her being of which she can dispose with ease, because it has become an object of her caprice. In the embraces of the strumpet, the woman is not present, but only a part of her sensual organisation; she does not receive individuality in love, but gives herself generally to generality. Thus, the strumpet is an undeveloped, spoilt woman-but she performs, at least, the sensual functions of the female sex, in which-although with regret we can still recognise the woman.

French operatic music passes, with justice, for a coquet. The coquet is pleased at being admired, and, in fact, even loved; but she can only enjoy the delight peculiar to her, at being admired and loved, when she herself experiences neither admiration nor love for the object that she has impressed with both these feelings. The advantage she seeks, is delight in herself the satisfaction of her vanity; to be admired and beloved is the pleasure of her existence, which would be instantaneously dimmed, were she herself to experience admiration or love. If she herself were to love, she would be deprived of her self-enjoyment, for in love she must necessarily forget herself, and deliver herself up to the painful and often suicidal enjoyment of another. The coquet guards, therefore, against nothing so much as love, in order to leave undisturbed the only thing she loves, namely herself, that is to say: the being which still first borrows its seductive power and the exercise of its individuality from the advances of the loving man, from whom she-the coquet-thus keeps back his property. The coquet lives, therefore, on thievish egoism, and the strength of her existence is frosty coldness. In her, the nature of woman is reversed to its repulsive opposite, and from her cold smile, that only reflects our distorted image, we turn in very despair to the Italian courtesan.

But there is another type of degenerate women, which fills us with most repugnant horror: this is the prude, and as such we must reckon the so-called "German" opera.* It may happen that the sacrificial glow of love for the youth who embraces her may suddenly burst out in the bosom of the strumpet-let us remember the God and the Bayadere!-it may come to pass that the coquet, who is always playing with love, becomes entangled in the game, and, in spite of all the struggles of vanity, sees herself caught in the net, in which she then laments with tears the loss of her will. But this beautiful sign of humanity will never befall the woman who keeps guard over her spotlessness with the orthodox fanaticism of belief-the woman whose virtue is founded upon the absence of passion. The prude is brought up according to the rules of propriety, and, from her youth upwards, never hears the word "love" pronounced, except with timid embarrassment. She makes her entry, full of dogmas, into the world, looks bashfully around, perceives the courtesan and the coquet, and, striking her pious breast, exclaims: "I thank thee, Lord, I am not as these!" Her vital power is propriety, and all her will, the denial of love, which she does not know except as displayed in the courtesan and the coquet. Her virtue consists in the avoidance of vice; her influence in infertility, and her soul in impertinent pride. And yet how near is this very woman to the most disgusting fall!

* By "German" opera, I naturally do not allude to Weber's operas, but to that modern phenomenon of which people speak the more, the less it exists-like the "German Empire." The peculiarity of this kind of opera is a something invented and made by those modern German composers who have not an opportunity of setting to music a French or Italian libretto, which is the only thing that prevents their writing French and Italian operas, and awakes in them the proud conceit, and most injurious consolation, that they could produce something quite special and choice, as "they should know a great deal more about music than the French and Italians."

Love never moves her bigotted heart, though common sensual lust excites her carefully concealed flesh. We are acquainted with the conventicles of the pious, and the honourable cities in which the flower of cant has blossomed! We have seen the prude fall into the same vice as her French and Italian sisters, only tainted with the additional crime of hypocrisy, and, unfortunately, without the slightest originality!

But let us turn away from this hateful picture, and ask ourselves what kind of a woman true music should be?

A woman that truly loves, who places her virtue in her pride, and her pride in the sacrifice with which she does not merely deliver up a portion of her being, but her entire being, with the richest abundance of its capability, when she receives. But the act of the woman is: to bring forth, contentedly and joyfully, what she has received-and, therefore, in order to be capable of acting, she only requires to be altogether that which she is, but on no account to will: for she can only will one thing: to be a woman! Woman is, therefore, the eternally clear and distinguishable standard of natural infallibility for man, for she is the most perfect thing, if she never steps beyond the circle of the beautiful involuntariness, to which she is confined by that which alone can bless her being: namely the necessity of love.

And here, again, I must direct the reader's attention to the magnificent musician in whom music was all that it can be in man, when, in the fulness of its being, it is music, and nothing but music. Look at Mozart! Was he, forsooth, less great as a musician, because he was all musician, and nothing else because he could not be, and did not wish to be, anything but a musician? Look at his Don Juan! Where has music ever gained such endlessly rich individuality? where has it been capable of characterising, so surely and certainly, with the richest and most overflowing fulness, as in this instance, where the musician, in obedience to the nature of his art, was not, in the slightest degree, anything but an unconditionally loving woman?

But let us stop, precisely at this point, in order that we may fundamentally question ourselves, as to who is the man whom this woman should thus unconditionally love? Let us consider well, before delivering up this woman's love, whether the love of the man in return be something to be begged, or something necessary and redeeming for the woman? Let us narrowly contemplate the poet. (To be continued).

DRAMATIC.

DRURY LANE THEATRE.-Balfe's Bohemian Girl inaugurated the autumn season, which commenced on Saturday last. The cast included the names of Miss Escott (Arline), Miss Fanny Reeves (Queen of the Gipsies), Mr. Elliott Galer (Thaddeus), Mr. Henri Corri (Devilshoof), Mr. Hamilton Braham (Count Arnheim), Miss Forrest (Buda), and Mr. J. Halford (Florestan). The Bohemian Girl has been played with invariable success both in England and on the Continent. It was, therefore, judicious on the part of the management to reproduce it. A crowded house was the consequence, and the usual encores of "I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls," "The fair land of Poland," etc., were vociferously demanded. The ballet of Miranda followed. The opera has been played every night during the week.

HAYMARKET.— -A new five-act play, entitled Wife or no Wife, by Mr. Heraud, the author of Videna-a drama produced with success at the Marylebone Theatre some time since-was brought out at the Haymarket on Monday. It is finely written and skilfully constructed, but the superfluity of dialogue was distasteful to the majority of the audience, who loudly dissented from the applause of the minority. Miss Edith Herauddaughter, we presume, of the author of the piece-played the heroine, and displayed much talent, but was so frightened at the manifestations of disapproval in the last act, as to be almost unable to get through her part. The play has since been repeated on Wednesday and last night, and goes much more to the liking of the audience.