SUNDAY MUSIC. (From Dickens' "Household Words.") THIS earth we live on is decidedly a very curious place, and people do the most extraordinary things upon it. "Whatever is, is right," of course-the number of feet in that line of the "Essay of Man" is certainly correct-but still I can't help doubting whether it be quite right to hate our brothers and sisters quite as much as we do. It can't be exactly a proper thing to take that which does not belong to us, and cut the throats of legitimate proprietors because they object to our proceedings; to believe (or say we believe), that some hundred millions of our fellow creatures are bound headlong to perdition, because they believe rather more or less than we believe. It may be right, but it doesn't look like it, to send two honest labourers to hard labour in a villanous jail-to herd with Blueskin, Jack Rann, Bill Sykes, and Mato'-the-Mint-for the microscopic crime of leaving hay-making to see a review; it oughtn't to be right that a Christian priest, consecrated to God's service for our soul's health, should, by virtue of his commission of J. P., have the right to do a shameful and a cruel wrong. only take one slender twig from one of the fascines with which we are perpetually fortifying our stronghold of assumed right or wrong-one splinter of the yule log of inconsistency-Music on Sundays. Let me And, mind, I am tolerant-I am moderate; I am content to blink the general Sunday question-Sunday and bitters, or Sunday and sweetstuff. Meet me on this question:-Is secular music on Sundays right or wrong; and are we inconsistent in our opinions and acts concerning it? I maintain that music is always good; and better on our best of days, Sunday. I shall not be long in finding antagonists who will maintain that Sunday music is wrong, dangerous, nay, damnable. Now, why should secular Sunday music be so dreadfully wicked?or, again, admitting momentarily, that it might not be quite correct, why can't we be a little consistent in the application of strictures, remembering that maxim so time-honoured (in the breach thereof), that what is sauce for the goose is (or should be) sauce for the gander likewise. Did you never dwell, O ye denouncers of Sunday music, in a provincial garrison town? Did you never listen without wringing of hands, or heaving of breasts, or upturning of eyes, or quivering accents-but, on the contrary, with much genial pleasure and content to the notes of the regimental brass-band coming home with the regiment from church? Was not that music of a notoriously worldly, not to say frivolous, character, including marches, polkas, pot-pourris, schottisches, valses-à-deux-temps, many of which, by the self-same musicians, you heard performed only last night at the Shire-Hall Ball or the Dowager Lady Larkheel's Assembly? And yet I never heard of an association in a country town for putting down regimental waltzes on Sundays; and I decidedly never knew the poet's corner of a country newspaper to be ornamented by such a brimstone bard as he who empties his penny phials of penny wrath upon the wind instruments of Kensington Gardens. Tell me, are there of watering-places-pious watering-places, the chosen villegiature of serious old ladies with heavy balances at their bankers -of evangelical young ladies, whose lives are passed (and admirably, too), in a circle of tracts, good looks, fleecy hosiery, beef tea, rheumatism, and bed-ridden old ladies-of awakened bankers, possessing private proprietary chapels, and never-oh! never-running away with the cash-box-watering-places where pet parsons are as plentiful as pet lap-dogs, and every quack, and every ignoramus, and every crack-brained enthusiast can thump his tub and think it is a pulpit-can blow his penny tin trumpet and think it is the last trump? Yet in these same watering-places I never heard of denunciations of the cavalry band, or, very frequently, the subscription band charming the air with sweet sounds on Sunday afternoons, on the pier or the parade, the common or the downs. To come nearer home, who has not heard of the Sunday band playing upon the terrace of regal Windsor? Was not that mundane music patronised by the most immaculate, severely-virtuous of kings-the pattern family-man, George the Third-and who can err who copies George the Third? And to come nearer, nearest home, see where yon palace stands-that unsightly but expensive lump of architecture in eruption-that palace before which stand no unholy cabs (oh, wicked Place du Carrousel, that sufferest cabs, omnibuses, citadines, Dame Blanches, and voitures bourgeoises!)-in that palace the sovereign necessarily dines every Sunday when in town. Do you think Mr. Anderson and the private band play psalm-tunes while the Royal Family are at dinner, indulge the royal ears with the Old Hundredth between the courses, and usher in the entrées with the not scores * Query, Sundane ?-PRINTER'S DEVIL. Evening Hymn? Away, ye hypocrites! Go away, black men, don't you come a-nigh us. You object to Sunday strains when the music is out-door-when it affords a rational, cheerful, innocent amusement for the tens of thousands of overworked humanity. I do not consider myself to be altogether a heathen. I have no sympathy for Fetish rites, or for any form of mumbo-jumboism, be that interesting "ism" found at Eldad or little Bethel, or Saint Trum pington's Cathedral, or on the west coast of Africa. I am not a pagan, a worshipper of Ahriman, a follower of Zoroaster, or a disciple of Tom Paine, yet I am constrained to confess that I can discern no difference at all between sacred and secular music that should render the performance of the first permissible, and of the second obnoxious as impious, on the Sabbath day. Music may be grave or gay, lively or plaintive, but it is always sacred. It is an art. It's every phase can soften, refine, subdue, charm, refresh, console, humanize, elevate, improve. When it is coarse and vulgar, it is not music at all, but sound prostituted. So would I have no bad music allowed either on Sundays or week-days anywhere, but good music; what nice and conceited sciolist is to weigh the nice distinction between the sacred and profane-to tell me which is lay and which is clerical music? The Dead March in Saul, played in quick measure, is a gig; "Adeste Fideles" is as triumphant, joyous, brilliant, mirthful as the "Happy, happy" duet in Acis and Galatea. "My mother bids me bind my hair" is as plaintive as any air in any oratorio in existence-and so is "Auld Robin Gray.* "Sound the loud timbrel," in its actual time, is almost a polka. Who can call that tremendous deep burst of joy and praise-that chorus of choruses, the "Hallelujah" in the Messiah, to which we cold-blooded, fleshy, phlegmatic Englishmen even award the tribute of standing up uncovered whenever it is performed-who can call the "Hallelujah Chorus" sacred in the Sternhold and Hopkins sense of the word? Sacred it is, as the masterpiece of a great musician, but it is no sour canticle, no nasal chant. It is a triumphant pean of happiness and thankfulness; it is the voice of all humanity singing, not miserably, not dolefully, not with a mouth whose lips are cracked with vinegar, and whose tongue saturated with gall, and whose teeth on edge with bitter doctrine, and whose throat half-choked with a starched neck. cloth, but with full, expansive lungs, with a heart beating with pleasure, with nerves strung with strong reliance and cheerful faith, with a whole spirit loudly, jubilantly giving thanks for the sun, the seas, the fields, the seed-time, and the harvest, for the merciful present, the merciful to come. Old Rowland Hill was right in his generation when he declared that he could not see why the devil should have all the good tunes to himself, and followed his declaration by having the words in his hymnbook set to the best secular tunes. But I will go further than Rowland Hill. I cannot see why the devil should have any good tunes. Let us respect and cherish, ennoble and protect the art of music, and there shall speedily be no harm in music, secular or sacred, on Sundays. Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander. In the name of common sense, if the Star steam-packet is allowed to start every Sunday for Gravesend with a brass band on board, that plays gaily all the way to the suburban watering-place-if at Woolwich, towards seven o'clock, you may hear the Artillery Band tuning up for the officers' messwhy should the crowds who now wander purposeless about the streets and parks of London be deprived of a cheap, wholesome, and sensible gratification? Which is best-to listen to the overture to Oberon in Kensington Gardens, or to brood over a tap-room table, muttering out the latest false or true news of the Turco-Russian war, or growling out the odds on the next Derby, or spelling out over a misanthrophic pipe the record of the late prize-fight? Which is best-to go to a Sunday bed in pure weariness, or to stalk about street corners and lean against posts till the public houses open, and gnash your teeth with impotent abuse of the legislature when they close, or maunder over a pamphlet on raw cotton in a deserted club-room-or to saunter on the green grass beneath the green trees, surrounded by happy groups, gay colours, kiud voices, silver laughter, children spangling the sward like daisies, manhood in its prime, beauty in its flower, old age in reverent complacency-all kept together, not by strong excitement, not by frenzied declamation, not by fireworks, or jugglers' feats, or quacks' orations, but by the simple, tender tie of a few musical chords, of a pretty tune or two played by a score of men in red coats? We might have the grass and the trees, the children and the daisies, you say, without the music. If we need recreation, we might walk in the fields or the lanes. Yes: and I have seen a cow in a field, and she was chewing the cud, and a donkey in a by-lane, and he was munching thistles. If I wish to ruminate, to be alone, to be misanthropic and hate mankind, I know where to walk: but if I wish to see my fellows around me pleasantly occupied (for what is happiness but delightful labour, and doing good actions the most delightful labour of all !) and by some harmless music pleased, and thereby rendering the best and sweetest thanks to that Giver whom (as good Bishop Taylor phrases it) we cannot please unless we be infinitely pleased ourselves-then thither will I go; and thither, too, I went only two Sundays ago, into Kensington Gardens, where sixty thousand persons (and not one pickpocket-apparent, at least), of every rank and grade in life, were collected to hear the band play. I forgive Sir Benjamin Hall, much red tape, past, present, and to come, for this one sensible concession of his. The band playing in Kensington Gardens! Till within the last month this celebration, taking place during the summer months, twice a week, was, with some few exceptions, an exclusively aristocratic amusement. Some ragged waifs and strays of bad or miserable humanity-some heaps of tatters that had souls inside, but very little corporeal life-were wont to come here and crouch upon the grass till routed by the park-keeper's cane, dully listening to the music, and wist fully gazing round from time to time in search of eleemosynary pence. But they seldom managed to elude the vigilance of the guardians even sufficiently to pass the gate. By times threadbare men, who did not eat often, pacing the noble avenues in abstract thought, or entranced perusal of learned books, would come, accidentally, upon the aristocratic throng; but they would glance at their shabby clothes and sigh, and hie away quickly on the other side, frightened like unto a fawn leaping out from a covert into some glade of Bushy Park, where a merry picnic party is assembled, and betaking itself, startled, into the umbrage of the oaks again. People dressed to attend the band playing at Kensington. Lines of empty carriages waited outside the gates, while their possessors promenaded the gardens. Round the braying bandsmen were gathered the great London dandies, the great London belles, the pearls of aristocratic purity, and, I am afraid, some other pearls of beauty and of price, but of more Cleopatran configuration, and whose Antonies found here a neutral ground whereon to vaunt their charms and possessions. Could the wiry little terrier in the sulky brougham by Victoria Gate have spoken, he would have told you when the lady in the long black ringlets, with so many diamonds, and with gold flowers on her veil, was gone-the coachman could speak, but would not-he was discreet. The whole scene was a charmed circle of moustaches and tufts (the beard movement was not then), watch-chains, fillagree card-cases, Brussels lace, moire-antique dresses, primrose kid gloves, vinaigrettes, auburn curls, semi-transparent bonnets, varnished boots, and bouquets de mille fleurs. As for smoking, who would have dared to think of smoking in Kensington's sacred garden, save, perhaps, wicked Captain Rolster, of the Heavies, or the abandoned Lieutenant Lilliecrop, of the Lancers? They smoked-those incorrigible young men-but then it was at some distance from the ladies (whose points and paces, by the way, they discussed not quite so respectfully, but with something of a sporting gusto); and there is a very difference, you will allow, between a penny Pickwick and one of Hudson's regalias, at two-and-a-half guineas per pound. Miraculously to say, the swells (so unaffectedly may I be allowed to term the upper classes) remain. They positively, by a charming condescension and inexplicable affability, frequent the band-playing, now that it takes place on Sundays; and, considering the lateness of the season, in no diminished numbers. But to this inner ring of perfumed youths and jewelled dames, to these sons of proconsols, and daughters of prætors, and wives of ædiles, there is now added another beltthicker, stronger, coarser, if you will (like a "keeper" to a ring of virgin gold)-a belt of workers, of peasants, mechanics, artizans, clerks, high middle-class, medium middle-class, and low middle-class men, who come here, Sunday after Sunday, rejoicing at, and grateful for, the boon (infinitesimally small as it is), who bring their wives and children, down to the baby at the breast, with them; who listen patiently and cheerfully to the music, and, wonder of wonders, do not endeavour to stone the musicians, root up the plants, set fire to the grass, dash out the brains of the children of the aristocracy against stones, rend the swells limb from limb, sell the daughters of the prætors into slavery, defile the graves of the ædiles' wives, smoke short pipes in the vicinity of the band, fight among themselves, usurp the chairs by force and refuse to pay for them, carve their names on the trunks of trees, gather flowers from the Birchbroomiensis Busbiense, introduced seventeen hundred and seventy-three (as the label says), pelt the attendants of the refreshment rooms with ginger-beer bottles, or purloin Mr. Gunter's cheesecakes and raspberry tarts! Who do none of these things, though certain sections of thinkers and speakers, even of a moderate description, appear to think that every Sunday crowd must necessarily commit acts of this nature. My first Sunday afternoon in Kensington Gardens was not, perhaps, began under the most advantageous circumstances. Though the day was hot, it was lowering, and the sky seemed to say, "Put on your white ducks and book-muslins, and leave your umbrellas at home, but in half-an-hour I rain." Again I entered the Gardens by a wrong gate (there are so many gates), and wandered about for some time disconsolately, finding myself at Bayswater when I wished myself at Knightsbridge, and catching a glimpse at the hideous Wellington statue at Hyde Park Corner through the trees, when the next vista I expected was of the red bricks of William the Third's hideous but comfortable palace. Then I came across two children I didn't love, as I do most children, but looked upon, on the contrary, with an evil eye and malevolent aspirations, for they were horrible children; they squabbled one with the other, and threatened to tell of one another. One of them ran between my legs, and another cut me across the ankles with a whip-playfully, as he meant it, no doubt; fiendishly, as I thought. They were aided and abetted in all this by a morose nurse, who looked darkly at me, and wondered, mutteringly, "What people thought of themselves." I confess, as far as I was concerned, that I thought it unjust that people should be tripped up and cut across the ankles. Then I was sorely annoyed by a stern and forbidding man, who persisted in walking before me, who had no right to wear the boots he did-they being aggressive, iron-heeled, and craunching the gravel as he walked. He carried an umbrella as though it was a cartwhip; and I could not help fancying that his name must have been something like Captain Prosser, formerly R.N., that he had been governor of some jail, and that he was a hard man-fond of the crank. Altogether, I became uneasy and dissatisfied; was almost concluding that my dinner had disagreed with me. But I came upon the music platform at last, the Guards' band standing in a circle and blowing manfully, the adjacent refreshment-room, the chairs—the price of which had been judiciously reduced from sixpence to one penny; and, surrounding all, a compact, earnest, eager crowd,* listening with pleased ears to the music. The fine gentlemen, the beautiful ladies, the titled and happy of the land, were there in great force-their empty carriages waited for them at the gate as in the old time, but the immense mass of those present were toilers - working people of every rank; nor is it necessary to draw any minute distinction between them, for the bank-clerk, the curate, the tradesman, have to work quite as hard, and find it quite as difficult to make both ends meet, as the carpenter, the bricklayer, and the journeyman tailor. I do not think I am called upon to descant at length upon the good behaviour, the quiet inoffensiveness of the vast assemblage here collected; upon the absence of broils, or violence, or ribald talk. I am one of those that think that an English crowd is the best-behaved, quietest, best-humored crowd in Europe. I think so still, though among those thousands in Kensington Gardens, at least a tithe formed part of that ominous well-dressed throng, whom, not many Sundays back, I had heard yelling at the same noble and happy personage they associated so comfortably with to-day; whom I had seen lashed to frenzy by the pig-headed exhibition of a mis-directed police force, and which frenzy, but for the oil thrown a few days afterwards upon the waves, would have grown into a tempest, such as not all the trails of all the six-pounders in Woolwich arsenal, served by all the young gentlemen who have not the least business to be in the House of Commons, would have been able to quell. The same crowd; the same Toms, and Dicks, and Harries; and see what a little is required to keep them in good humour. A circular refreshment room, with ices, ginger beer, and Banbury cakes; some scores of garden chairs at a cheaper rate than usual, and a platform where my friends the red-jackets are operating upon ophicleide, trombone, and kettle-drum-and this was all. I even remarked that the tunes the musicians played were of the dreariest, most lachrymose, most penitential tunes that could be well heard,-still secular music, no doubt,-selections from popular operas, of course, but so longwinded and melancholy, that I could not help fancying that the band. master himself was one of the principal objectors to Sunday music, and had made a compromise with his conscience by providing the most mournful pieces in the regimental répertoire. A patient publica placable monster-a good-natured rabble, this same English nation. Here they seemed quite satisfied, pleased, nay, grateful, for the Lifeguards' band with their "Tunes that the Cow died of." They asked not (at least audibly) for more than this, with the permission of walking about under the trees, and of seeing their children sporting on the grass. Yet, but two Sundays before I had seen another public, far away beyond the Straits of Dover-a patient public, too; good-natured, long-suffering, but not always quite contented. For that public were provided, as special Sunday treats, *The total number of persons who entered Kensington Gardens on Sunday, August 19th, was sixty-one thousand four hundred and fiftyeight. military bands, not one or two, but half-a-dozen; a whole concert of drums; miles of picture galleries and museums and antiquities, and palatial saloons to walk about in, free; and a Great Palace full of marvels of art and industry, for which the whole world had been ransacked, to be explored for four sous-twopence! On the whole, I should like our Sundays to be quiet, cheerful, English, with a little more out-of-doorishness—a little more harmonythere, I have said it!—a little more sitting down at tables, or strolling about grassy swards to hear good music. Don't stop short at Kensington Gardens, good Mr. Chief Commissioner. Don't stop short at the band of the Life Guards. Remember there are such places as Hyde Park, St. James's, the Green, Victoria, and Battersea Parks. One volunteer is worth a dozen pressed men. Let the soldiers have their afternoon holiday, if they choose one; or let them have extra pay, if that is what they desire. We won't object to the rate. But let us have bands of our own in our public gardens, to discourse sweet music to us on Sunday afternoons and Sunday evenings. There will be far more brotherly love, and far less liquor, and far fewer night charges on Monday. A little before six o'clock the musicians played "Partant pour la Syrie," and "God save the Queen" then the crowd dispersed quietly. I saw not one policeman, and not one policeman was needed. The wheezy, red-waistcoated park-keepers were quite sufficient to quell the somewhat too exuberant animal spirits of the London boys, who are to be found in every London crowd, making noises when they ought to be silent, and clambering over railings where they have no business to be. Walking home, much elevated in spirits from the cheerful scene I had witnessed, and quite forgetting Captain Prosser and his boots, and the disagreeable children, I thought to myself-This is not much, but it is some relief for the toiling many. SPONTINI. (FROM THE FRENCH OF HECTOR Berlioz). (Continued from page 674.) THE Vestale could never have been performed, said they, without the numerous corrections which learned men condescended to make to this hideous score, in order to render it executable, etc., etc. Hence the laughable pretensions of many persons to the merit of having retouched, corrected, and purified this work of Spontini. I myself know of four composers who pass for having had a hand in it. When the success of La Vestale was well assured, irresistible and incontestable, they went farther: it was no longer a question of simple corrections, but of whole parts of which each of the composers claimed to have composed for it; one pretended to have made the duo of the second act; another the funeral march in the third, etc. It is singular that in all the duos and marches of these illustrious masters none are to be found possessing the style and lofty inspirations of those of La Vestale. Can these gentlemen have pushed their devotion so far as to present Spontini with their finest ideas? Such an abnegation passes the limits of the sublime!-At last, according to the version long admitted into the musical limbo of France and Italy, Spontini had no hand whatever in the composition of La Vestale. Spontini was not even capable of producing this work, written in defiance of all good sense, corrected by every one, so crude and confused, and upon which scholastic and academic anathemas had so long been turned loose; he had bought it, already written, from a grocer, together with a mass of waste paper; it was from the pen of a German composer, who had died of misery in Paris, and Spontini had only to set the melodies of the unfortunate musician to the words of M. de Jouy, and to add a few measures in order to link the scenes well together. Such being the case, it must be confessed that he arranged them most skilfully-one would swear that every note was written for the word to which it was united. M. CastilBlaze himself never surpassed this. It was frequently asked in vain, from what grocer Spontini had, sometime afterwards, purchased his score of Fernand Cortez, which we know not to be totally devoid of merit; no one could ever find out. How many persons there are to whom the address of this precious merchant would have been invaluable, and who would have hastened to provide themselves at his emporium. It must have been the same who sold to Gluck his score of Orphée, and to J. J. Rousseau his Devin du village. (The authorship of both these works, of merit so disproportionate, has also been contested.) But a truce to these incredible follies! No one doubts but that envy is able to produce in the wretch whom it devours, a state bordering upon imbecility. Master of a position disputed with so much obstinacy, and now confident in his own strength, Spontini prepared to undertake another composition in the antique style. He was about to take be pleased to have him take as a subject for his new work, the Electre, when the emperor gave him to understand that he should conquest of Mexico by Fernand Cortez. This order the composer hastened to obey. Nevertheless the tragedy of Electre had deeply moved him: to set it to music was one of his most cherished projects, and I have often heard him regret that he had abandoned it. I believe, however, that the choice of the emperor was a great piece of luck for the author of La Vestale, because it obliged him a second time to abandon the antique, and seek scenes quite as moving, though more varied and less solemn; to seek that strange and charming colouring, that proud and tender expression, and that happy hardiness, which render the score of Cortez the worthy companion of its elder sister. The success of the new opera was triumphal. From that day Spontini ruled, lord over our first lyric stage, and could have exclaimed in the words of his hero: "Cette terre est à moi; je ne la qui plus." I have often been asked which of the two operas of Spontini I preferred; and always found it impossible to reply to that question. Cortez only resembles the Vestale in the fidelity and constant beauty of its expression. As to the other qualities of its style, they are entirely different from that of its sister. But the scene of the revolt of soldiers in Cortez is one of those miracles almost impossible to find in the one thousand and one operas written up to this time; a miracle which I fear can only be matched by the final of the second act of La Vestale. In the score of Cortez all is energetic and proud, passionate, brilliant and graceful; inspiration blazes and overflows, yet it yields to the direction of reason. All the characters are of an incontestable truth. Amazily is tender and devoted; Cortez, passionate and impetuous, yet sometimes tender; Velasco, sombre, but noble in his savage patriotism. We find, therefore, in great eagle swoops, and lightning flashes, sufficient to illumine a world. One year after the appearance of Fernand Cortez, Spontini was chosen director of the Théâtre Italien. He collected an excellent troupe, and to him the Parisians are indebted for the pleasure of having witnessed, for the first time, the Don Giovanni of Mozart. The parts were distributed as follows: Don Giovanni, Tacchinardi; Leporello, Barilli; Masetto, Porto; Ottavio, Crivelli; Donna Anna, Mad. Festa; Zerlina, Mad. Barilli. Nevertheless, notwithstanding the eminent services which Spontini rendered to art during his direction of the Italian opera, an intrigue, of which money was the nerve, soon obliged him to abandon it. Paër, moreover, director at the same time of the Court Opera, and little delighted at his rival's success upon the last stage of the Grand Opera, endeavoured to disparage him, called him renegade, by gallicizing his name Mr. Spontin, and frequently caused him to fall into those snares which the Signor Astucio was so skilful in spreading. Now at liberty, Spontini wrote an opera di circonstance, entitled Pélage, ou le Roi de la Paix, long since forgotten; then, an opéra ballet, les Dieux Rivaux, in collaboration with Persuis, Berton, and Kreutzer. At the revival of Les Danaides, Salieri, too old to quit Vienna, entrusted Spontini with directing the study of his work, authorising him to make all changes and alterations which he might deem necessary. Spontini merely retouched in his compatriot's score the finale of the air of Hypermnestre: "Par les larmes dont votre fille," by adding a coda full of dramatic enthusiasm. But he composed several delicious dancing airs, and a bacchanale which will ever remain a model of burning animation, and the type of the expression of sombre and disordered joy. To these various works succeed Olympie, a grand opera in three acts. Neither at its first appearance, nor at its revival in 1827, did it obtain the success which I think due to it. Different | of Prussia, although he had renounced the fufilment of his causes concurred fortuitously to arrest its flight. Politics declared open war against it. The Abbé Grégoire was then in every mouth. There was thought to be discovered a premeditated intention of making allusion to this celebrated regicide in the scene of Olympie, where Statira exclaims: "Je dénonce à la terre, Et vous à la colère, From that time the liberal party evinced a great degree of hostility towards the new work. The assassination of the Duc de Berry, having caused a little while after the theatre of the Rue de Richelieu to be closed, interrupted the course of the representations, by violently turning the public attention from questions of art, and gave a last blow to the success which was struggling so hard to establish itself. When, eight years later, Olympie was again brought forward, Spontini, chosen in the interval director of music to the King of Prussia, found, on his return from Berlin, a great change in the tastes and ideas of the Parisians. Rossini, powerfully sustained by M. de la Rochefoucauld and by the entire direction of the Beaux Arts, had just arrived from Italy. The sect of pure dilettanti went delirious at the mere name of the author of the Barbiere, and most unmercifully tore to pieces every other composer. The music of Olympie was considered sing-song, and M. de la Rochefoucauld refused to prolong for several weeks the engagement of Mad. Branchu, who alone was able to sustain the part of Statira, which she played only at the first performance, for her farewell benefit, and there was the end of it. Spontini, his soul ulcerated by other acts of hostility too long to mention here, set out for Berlin, where his position was, in every respect, worthy both of himself and of the sovereign who was capable of appreciating him. functions. Spontini was induced to seek repose and academic THE MARSEILLAISE AND ITS AUTHOR. THE Philadelphia correspondent of the Charleston Courier, describing his walk through the picture gallery of that city, refers to a painting which is there of Rouget de Lisle singing The Marseillaise Hymn at the house of the Mayor of Strasbourg, 1792. It will be remembered, he adds, that De Lisle was an officer of engineers at Strasbourg, who relieved the tediousness of a garrison life by writing verses and indulging a love of music. He was a frequent visitor at the house of the Baron de Diedrich, a noble Alsacien of the constitutional party, the Mayor of Strasbourg. The family loved the young officer, and gave new inspiration to his heart in its attachment to music and poetry, and the ladies were in the habit of assisting by their performances the early conceptions of his genius. A famine prevailed at Strasbourg in the winter of 1792. The house of Diedrich was rich at the beginning of the revolution, but was now become poor under the calamities and sacrifices of the time. Its frugal table had always a hospitable place for Rouget de Lisle. He was there morning and evening, as a son, as a brother. One day, when only some slices of ham smoked upon the table, with a supply of camp bread, Diedrich said to De Lisle, in sad serenity," Plenty is not found at our meals; but no matter-enthusiasm is not wanting at our civic festivals, and our soldiers' hearts are full of courage. We have one more bottle of Rhine wine in the cellar. Let us have it, and we will drink to liberty and the country. Strasbourg will soon have a patriotic fête, and De Lisle must draw from these last drops one of his hymns that will carry his own ardent feelings to the soul of the people." The young ladies applauded the proposal. They brought the wine, and continued to fill the glasses of Diedrich and the young officer until the bottle was empty. The night was cold. De Lisle's head and heart were warm. He then found his way to his lodgings, entered his solitary chamber, and sought for inspiration at one moment in the palpitation of his citizen heart, and at another by touching, as an artist, the keys of his instrument, and striking out alternately portions of an air, and giving utterance to poetic thoughts. He did not himself know which came first; it was impossible for him to separate the poetry from the music, or the sentiment from the words in which it was clothed. He sang altogether, and wrote nothing. In this state of lofty inspiration he went to sleep with his head upon the instrument. The chants of night came upon him in the morning, like the faint impressions of a dream. He Diedrich's. He found him in the garden digging water lettuces. The wife of the patriot mayor was not yet up; Diedrich awoke her. They called together some friends who were, like themselves, passionately fond of music, and able to execute the compositions of De Lisle. One of the young ladies played, and Rouget sang. At the first stanza, the countenances of the company grew pale-at the second, tears flowed abundantly—at the last, a delirium of enthusiasm broke forth. Diedrich, his wife, and the young officer, cast themselves in each other's arms. The hymn of the nation was found. Alas! it was destined to become a hymn of terror. The unhappy Diedrich, a few months afterwards, marched to the scaffold by the sounds of the notes first uttered at his hearth, from the heart of his friend and the voice of his wife. On his return from Prussia, he wrote for the court festivals, an opera-ballet, entitled Nurmahal, the subject of which is borrowed from Moore's Lalla Rookh. To this graceful score he added his terrible bacchanale of Les Danaïdes, having developed and enriched it with a chorus. Afterward he re-wrote the last act of Cortez. I saw in Berlin this new dénouement, which they did not deign to receive at the opera in Paris, at the revival of Cortez, six or seven years later. It is magnificent, and much superior to that known in France. In 1825 Spontini produced in Berlin a fairy opera, Alcidor, which the enemies of the author ridiculed exceedingly, on account of its instrumental noise, said they, and also of an orchestra of anvils which he had made to accompany a chorus of blacksmiths. This opera is entirely unknown to me. I have been able, however, to indemnify myself by perusing the score of Agnès de Hohenstaufen, which succeeded Alcidor twelve years later. This subject, called the Romantic, was of a style entirely different from those employed by Spontini up to that time. He has introduced therein for the morceaux d'ensemble some very curious and arduous combinations; such, among others, as that of an orchestral storm, executed while five persons sing a quintet upon the stage, and while a chorus of nuns is heard in the distance, accompanied by sounds imitating those of an organ. In this scene, the organ is imitated so as to produce the most complete illusion, by a small number of wind instruments and bass-viols, placed behind the scenes. Now-a-wrote down the words, made the notes of the music, and ran to days, organs being found as frequently in the theatre as in the church, this imitation, interesting on account of the difficulty overcome, seems useless. To close the list of the productions of Spontini, I must mention his Chant du peuple Prussien, and various compositions destined for military bands. The new king Frederick William IV. has preserved the traditions of generosity and benevolence of his predecessors towards Spontini; notwithstanding the unfortunate éclat of a letter, doubtless imprudent, written by the artist, and which drew upon him a judgment and a condemnation. The king not only pardoned him, but allowed Spontini to settle in France, when his nomination to the Institute obliged him to remain there, and gave him an evident proof of his affection by permitting him to retain his title and salary of chapel-master to the court The new song, executed some days afterwards publicly at Strasbourg, flew from town to town through all the orchestras. Marseilles adapted it, to be sung at the opening and adjournment of the clubs; hence it took the name of The Marseillaise Hymn. The old mother of De Lisle, a royalist and a religious person, alarmed at the reverberation of her son's name, wrote to him: "What is the meaning of this revolutionary hymn, sung by hordes of robbers who pass all over France, with which our name is mixed up?" De Lisle himself, proscribed as a federalist, heard its re-echo upon his ears as a threat of death, as he fled among the paths of Jura. "What is this called? he inquired of his guide. "The Marseillaise," replied the peasant. It was with difficulty that he escaped. It The Marseillaise was the liquid fire of the revolution. distilled into the senses and the soul of the people the phrensy of battle. Its notes floated like an ensign dipped in warm blood over a field of combat. Glory and crime, victory and death, seemed interwoven in its strains. It was the song of patriotism, but it was the signal of fury. It accompanied warriors to the field, and victims to the scaffold. A CHANGE has come over the spirit of the Philharmonic Society-the Old. A general meeting of the members was summoned on Monday last, and was held at the Hanoversquare Rooms. There was a full assembly. A great deal of discussion took place, the particulars of which have not transpired-at least have not reached us. Everything was conducted with closed doors. One result of the conference, however, found its way into broad daylight-the retirement from office of three of the directors. The three directors were Messrs. Sterndale Bennett, Lucas, and Blagrove-three important and influential members. Great was the consternation of the friends of the Society. The resignation of Mr. Sterndale Bennett was hardly a matter of surprise. He allowed himself to be nominated a director, rather to please those who eagerly solicited him to take the office on his shoulders, than that he had any predilection to sustain the burthen. Mr. Sterndale Bennett, it was well known, had no great love or liking for the Society; nor, indeed, had he any reason. Their scurvy treatment of him-or, at least, abnegation of his talents and standing as a musician-when they refused to accept Miss Arabella Goddard's selection of one of his concertos at one of their concerts-could not but have galled him, and diminished his feeling of sympathy-and respect, too-for the Society. It could, therefore, hardly create astonishment in any mind, that Mr. Sterndale Bennett, who had accepted office with no good will, and under such peculiar circumstances, should have withdrawn at the earliest opportunity. It was a very different matter with Messrs. Lucas and Blagrove-two of the oldest and staunchest members of the Old Philharmonic Society. The first-named, more especially, has long been regarded as one of the pillars not to be overthrown but by an allied attack. What kind was of the institution-more properly, the Redan or Malakoff, the attack, from what quarter directed, or under what alliance carried out, which was able to demolish this strong and apparently irresistible barrier, we are not in a condition to explain. Neither can we surmise. No light work, however, we feel assured, could have produced so unexpected a result. To Mr. Lucas was directly proof. The cause of his resigning assaults from weak forces, and bombardment by small arms, was no trifling cause, and, when the truth shall be explained, from all we know of Mr. Lucas, we are convinced, that no other course was left open to him. Of Mr. Blagrove the same-with a difference may be averred. He has served the Society long and well, and was one of its most strenuous supporters. We may conclude, without a fear of falling into error, that Mr. Blagrove had excellent cause for giving his directorship in the Old Philharmonic Society. up The successors to Messrs. Lucas, Blagrove, and Sterndale Bennett in the directorate are Messrs. W. H. Holmes, Clinton, and Calkin. The two last-named gentlemen have served before; the first is appointed for the first time. Mr. W. H. Holmes is an admirable pianoforte player, a thorough musician, and an excellent composer. Moreover, he is a true artist, and, if in his power, would direct all his talents and energies to advance any cause in which he embarked. Is it in Mr. W. H. Holmes's power to turn his talents and energies to account? If the Philharmonic Society required a working man-one who could devote time and consideration to its affairs-it could easily have found one better suited than that accomplished professor. Unfortunately, besides being a pianoforte-player, musician, and composer, Mr. W. H. Holmes is a teacher, and in such universal request, that we know he considers it a great treat, when he is enabled to attend one concert of the Philharmonic in the season. Is such a man, we would ask -however eminent his talents, however high his position, and who cannot even call his hours his own-fit to preside over the destinies of an institution which demands the minutest care and thought on the part of those to whom the administration of its affairs is entrusted? We cannot think it, and we therefore look upon the election of Mr. W. H. Holmes as director of the Philharmonic, considering all things, no wise step of the members, and Mr. W. H. Holmes' acceptation as a mere act of grace and courtesy. It is unnecessary to make any allusion to the election of Messrs. Clinton and Calkin. They are very old members, have plenty of spare time on their hands, and are well "up" in the traditions of the Society-a great recommendation for a director. In this light they are invaluable, and their places could not well be supplied. Of Mr. Anderson-the presiding genius of the institution -we hear nothing all this while. With inimitable tact and finesse, though taking part in all the changes and squabbles, at meetings general and special, he manages to withhold his name from public report. A stormy debate may take place, members may withdraw, directors be chosen, and the particulars be blazoned abroad, but the name of Mr. Anderson seldom or never is brought forward. Mr. Anderson is the Rock of the Old Philharmonic Society, around and against which all the other members, as waves, buffet one another, and lash themselves ragingly to no purpose. The |