A Prokessor or Mcsic.—Neither of the copies of the

came to hand. S. (North Brixton).—We shall be glad to hear from our

poadenf at ail timet. Belfast.We shall be glad to hear from our recent

always, at his leisure.


The Musical World may be obtained direct from the Office, 28, Holies-street, by quarterly subscription of five shillings, payable in pdvance; or by order of any Neicsvendor. Advertisements are received until Three o'clock on Friday Afternoon, and must be paid for when delivered. Terms

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LONDON, SATURDAY, March 17th, 1860.

As advertisement, headed "Jullien Fund," will bo read on the front page, and a paragraph, headed " M. Jullien," in the leading columns of our impression of to-day. The object of the framers of both was a very commendable one—viz.: that of raising an amount sufficient to maintain an old and well-detwrving servant of the British public in a Lunatic Asylum, to which the most terrible affliction in the list mortal ills and penalties had consigned him. and to save those nearest and dearest to him from the impending fate of penury, which, in ca3e of M. Jullien's recovery being. hopeless, awaited them. Scarcely, however, had the advertisement and paragraph been committed to type, than the sad news came from Paris, that death had solved the doubts and allayed the professional anxiety of those who were in attendance on the suffering musician. M. Jullien passed away, after having spent about a week at the asylum, superintended by M. le Docteur ■ at

■ near Paris. At present it is superfluous, and indeed would be obtrusive, to enter into details about the causes and progress of that disease which has thus fatally terminated. Nor is this the time or place to attempt a history of M. Jullien's very larkable career, the most brilliant epoch of which, eminent and prosperous as he had been in other countries, and especially in France, was achieved in England and its immediate dependencies. It is enough—while recording the unwelcome intelligence of his being thus cut off in the prime and vigour of life—to offer some brief reflections on the man now lost to the world, and the influence, social and artistic, which he exercised.

Jullien was essentially and before all a man for the people. He loved to entertain the people; he loved to instruct the people; and the people wero just as fond of

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being taught as of being amused by Jullien. His peculiarities, even his foibles, were but particles of a whole, portions of an idiosyncracy, which—combined with such geniality, moral and physical, such hearty earnestness and such intense devotion to his task, as has seldom distinguished a public character in that particular walk of life in which his energies were exhibited—made Jullien what he was. The performance of his public duties became not so much a task as a delight to Jullien. Pleasure beamed on his countenance as he rapped upon his conductor's desk, with that much admired, never-to-be-forgotten bdlon; pleasure as he began, pleasure as he advanced, pleasure as he ended his labours, with the innate conviction that his aim had been accomplished and his audience gratified. There was, too, between him and them a kind of magnetic sympathy. Jullien knew, when he appeared, that his apparition was welcome to the crowd, and that only he in the same position could have afforded them the same degree of satisfaction. And this satisfaction on the side of his supporters did not simply arise from the indisputable fact of his having, during a long series of years, done more for their recreation, and at a cheaper rate, worked more zealously for their service his peculiar way, and with proportionate success, than any other within the memory of the oldest of them. There was something more than all in the background. The mere personality of the man exercised a spell, a fascination, which rendered it a forlorn chance for a rival, no matter what his gifts, no matter what his experience, no matter what his acquirements, to attempt to fill the post, if J ullien was known to be alive, still more if Jullien was known to be at hand. Much of his popularity has been, and not altogether unreasonably, attributed to his physical conformation. To features intelligent and even handsome, a frame robust and firmly knit—with no sign of corpulence, however, but, while beneath the ordinary stature, almost a Hercules in strength of frame and symmetry of proportions—there was added a stamp of originality so marked, that Jullien coidd by no possibility ever be mistaken for another, even by those who might have obtained a glance at him for once and once only. It sufficed to place any temporary interloper before the same rostrum, at the so-called Promenade Concerts, to prove the immeasurable superiority—unaccountable it may be, but immeasureable — of Jullien. So singular and vivid, indeed, was the physical impression he created, that his figure became a household shape no less than his name a household word, throughout the length and breadth of the country in which for so many years he resided, and to the delight of whose populations ho had so long, indefatigably and successfully ministered.

No public man ever so suddenly achieved popularity as Jullien. He had scarcely taken the conductor's stick out of the hands of Mr. Eliason (one of the earliest institutors of the London Promenade Concerts), than he became famous. He figured as often in Fundi (never, be it remembered, to his detriment) as any of the political notorieties of the day. Such unprecedented vogue, too, he preserved, undiminished, for a period of over twenty years; and it is more than likely, had it been permitted him to resume, next November, his accustomed functions, in one of our great theatres (Drury Lane had been confidently reckoned on) he would have approached the public without one atom of his popularity abated. As the winter months that usher iu Christmas were gloomy without him, so were they cheerful and brilliant with his periodical presence, which kindled like a fire, dissipated the fog, and warmed and enlivened all who came under its influence. Tbe public and Jullien were, like old intimate friends, accustomed to look forward to an annual meeting—a meeting which was a festival to both of them, and the failure of which was a grievous disappointment. The last of those pleasant festivals, however, has been held; and henceforth—in our time, at least, when a new Jullien is not likely to arise—Promenade Concerts (should such speculations again be projected) will resemble any other entertainments, good, bad, or indifferent, as the case may be, but with nothing to mark them out, as exceptional and apart from such things in ordinary.

That Jullien did not make an ill use of his amazing influence with his patrons—whom, as we all remember, ho could take by the button-hole when it suited his humour, and chide like children, if they were not as orderly during a performance of classical music, as he thought decorous and expedient—it is unnecessary to insist. What he was as a conductor, as a composer, and especially as a refiner of the public taste, is too notorious and too recent to be argued in detail. But it was to a combination of mental with physical attributes quite peculiar to himself, that his unexampled popularity must be traced, and that potent spell which he exercised over the public mind for so lengthy a period of time. Add to this a keen and lively intellect, uncommon enthusiasm, and as warm a heart as ever beat with kindly sympathy for others, and we have summed up the qualities that not merely explain Jullien's triumphs in the sphere to which his public talents called him, but the universal regard and affection in which he was held by those who counted among the number of his friends. He has gone to his last home, and, we believe, with the deep and unanimous regret of all who knew him either in his public or private capacity. Let us,

then, express an earnest hope that the general sympathy excited by the news of his having been confined in a lunatic asylum will not be extinguished by the fact of his now being beyond earthly succour, and that those who have instituted and superintended the progress of the Jullien Fund, will carry out their benevolent object on behalf of the devoted wife and near relatives whom Jullien's death has left without the means of subsistence.

M. Jullien.—Though the report of M. Jullien having attempted suicide is without foundation, the fact of his being now in a lunatic asylum, with but slender hopes of ultimate recovery, is undoubted. It is also true that, owing to unsuccessful enterprises which led to his recent appearance before the Bankruptcy Court in Paris, he and those dependent on him are left wholly without resources. Under these circumstances a subscription has been set on foot by the friends of M. Jullien, to which the English public will doubtless be glad to contribute, in testimony of their appreciation of services long and zealously rendered. For upwards of 20 years the concerts of M. Jullien have afforded gratification to thousands upon thousands of persons; and it was not his least claim to notice that, in providing for the amusement of his patrons, he also contrived to improve and elevate their taste, and thus—while establishing an essentially popular entertainment—to aid in tbe great work of art-progress.—Times.

"Hummer is icumen," as Mr. William Chappell might say, and Summer and Italian Opera in this country come together. No sooner had Mr. E. T. Smith issued his preliminary programme than the snow which had fallen a few days previously, melted, and with Mr. Gye's announcement that the Royal Italian Opera would open on the 10th of April, there was a further change in the weather, the barometer indicated "set fair," and a swallow made his appearance in the Green Park. By the time the rival managers have published their prospectuses the trees, already blooming in gardens with southern aspects, will have put forth ther leaves, and simultaneously with the first rehearsals the birds in the neighbourhood of London will begin to sing. Indeed, although we are in the middle of Lent, a few rural concerts have already taken place. We assisted at one, only a few days since, in the vicinity of Turnham-green, and were much struck by the performances of some of the rising vocalists. The youthful soprani have voices full of flexibility, and we noticed a linnet who excelled in the ornamental style. This was a morning concert, and before the general performance commenced, a lark, apparently the tenor of the troupe, made his appearance, and went through a very difficult solo with remarkable ease, and executed some passages in altissimo which quite surprised us. Neither Giuglini nor Mario, nor Mongini nor Tamberlik could go so high. In engaging tenors the rule appears to be that the higher they go the higher the manager must go in offering them terms; and we could not help reflecting what an enormous salary this lark might command if an operatic aviary or rather an aval opera were to be founded. At one time he attained such a height that we almost fancied he was never coming down again, and we thought how largely a director would have to come down if anxious to retain the services of such a vocalist. We waited for the cadenza of our tenor, who had a fluttering tremulous voice, reminding us occasionally of Tamberlik, but need only say that it was performed in the well-known style peculiar to the lark.

A party of young linnets, who had wandered from the maternal nest, sang a part-song, and were afterwards recalled.

Besides the linnets and the larks, who had a large field for display, several thrushes were heard to advantage in a neighbouring grove; but they exhibited even more than the usual nervousness incident to a first appearance, and as if suspecting that we were present in a critical capaoity, took to flight as we approached, and could not be prevailed upon to re-appear. This final allegro movement was scarcely worthy of them, but the cantabile passages by which it was preceded were given in the best taste.

Blackbirds appear to be the baritones and basses of the air, and we have remarked more than one who, as much as by the fulness of his voice as by the rotundity of his person, recalls poor old Lablache.

The bullfinches can only be classed as second tenors, but some are of no mean flight, and are determined, if possible, to soar in the highest regions of their professsion.

These "ancient concerts," as they may be called—for are they not the oldest in the world ?—are very interesting, and form tolerable substitutes for the before-Easter performances that used formerly to take place at the Opera. Unfortunately it is very difficult just now to get a seat at any of them, in consequence of the dampness of the grass. Nor, while we have excellent concerts of true music, must it be imagined that we are without "miscell&nooua" musical entertainments at Turnham Green, for in one of our ponds there is an unusually fine collection of frogs.

With regard to the kind of music executed by our rural and aerial vocalists, we need only say that it has hitherto been chiefly of an amorous character. Romeo e Gkdetta has been a good deal performed, and, at night, serenading is occasionally heard.

Philomela, however, our most distinguished prima donna, has not yet arrived, and is not expected until the middle of June. Let us hope that she will be accompanied, if not preceded, by Mdlle. Titiens.

While Panurge, having taken a short trip by the thirdclass of the South Western train, was recreating himself by a stroll through the quadrangles of Eton College, he was not a little surprised to see that old humbug, Epistemon, standing by the mysterious door that shuts from profane eyes those birchen implements whereby Etonians are impelled, willy nilly, into the paths of sound learning. Epistemon was absorbed in grave discourse with a subaltern official of the college, who, after sundry coughs and shakes of the head, unlocked the tremendous portal, and drew thereout a wondrously constructed rod, which, in exchange for sixpence, he placed in the pedant's hand.

Epistenron, tucking his valuable purchase under his arm, was quitting the Etonian precincts with a step blither than usual, when to his surprise he was thus accosted by Panurge, whom he had supposed to be in London, safely lodged in the coffee-room of the " Edinburgh Castle," or in the station-house, or in one of the snug apartments in Fetter-lane, or in some other place of metropolitan recreation and repose:

"Quid agis, dulciesime rerum t What art doing, most de

testable of mankind 1 Art thou, by the profligate waste of thy miserable sixpence, attempting to demonstrate anew the speediness of the parting that proverbially takes place between the fool and his cash J"

"A truce to thy gibes," said Epistemon, "since it is for thy profit and instruction I have expended my substance on this potent talisman. Truly, I am gkd thou hast come down, for I can now try the effects of the charm here, instead of bearing it with me all the way to London."

"With what dost thou charge me, most superficial of sniatterers, that thou darest to menace me with thy pedagogic weapons?" asked Panurge, with exceeding wrath.

"Read that 1" said Epistemon, and he drew from his pocket the last number of the Musical World, and pointed to the report of the delectable discussion held by Pantagruel and Panurge. "Read that, thou 'Parcus deorum cultor et infrequens'—the gods whom thou most insultest being Apollo and his Muses."

To these words, which were uttered on the way towards Windsor, Pauurge answered not a syllable, but he kept his eye fixed on the Musical World, looking exceeding crestfallen and humiliated, while Epistemon continued his objurgations.

"Paith, here's a pretty smashing of Priscian's head— here is a rich harvest of solecism—here's a joyous infraction of every metrical law—here is a falsity of concord, that would delight the god Mavors. A choice companion thou wert to grin and shake thy sides when the classical writer of the Entr'acte, in the plentitude of his righteous indignation, exclaimed 'Qui bono,' instead of ' CuiV Thou must sneer, forsooth, when the editor of the Morning Advertiser said 'Quouequc temdom, abutcrc, Gladstone, patientiam nostram,' as if thine own Latinity smacked so much of the Golden Age. Truly, thy pleasantries might rouse even Cato to merriment."

"O rem ridiculatn, Cato, et jooosam,

Dignamque auribus et tno cachinno J"

By the time they had reached this part of the discourse, they had ascended the broad staircase of the " Castle" Inn, and entered one of the best rooms, where Pantagruel lay asleep on a sofa, snoring most musically. Panurge first unlocked his jaws by ordering the waiter to bring him up a large glass of brandy and water, and set it down to Pantagruel's account. This he emptied at a single draught, and then he proceeded thus:—

"I see thy drift, great Epistemon—thou meanest that 'Cymbse' and • Bandusioe' are both spelled erroneously, with the 03 diphthong instead of the M. Now that, I contend, is the fault of the reporter—doubtless the heavy-looking man who devoured kidnies at the end of the room—seeing that the combinations are both pronounced alike. I will claim a like indulgence for the 'vertet,' which is wrongly put for 'vertit,' for when one is in the tempest and fury of passioi, one is not careful as to the vocalisation of short syllables terminating with a consonant."

"I suppose I must concede so far," murmured Epistemon. "But what sayest thou to that delicious concord, 'Sors exiture'i"

"Still the fault of the reporter," said Panurge, -with marvellous assurance. "Thou knowe.st that when I quote Latin verse, I speak it not in the manner of prose, as many others, but I regard the Jaws of metre, mine ears having been trained by the melodious numbers of Fitzball. I know as well as thou that the word ought to be 'exitura,' but thou wilt understand that I cut off the final 'a' altogether, out of regard to the following vowel. Thereby I made use

of the Synaloepha"—[" Synaploepha be "muttered Epis

temon]—"complying with the precept of the great poet, who wrote the Westminster prosody:—

• Vocalem Synalcepha solet truncare, sequatur
Si socia, aut A.'

If the reporter, muddle-pa^ed by the dyspepsia arising from his too liberal consumption of kidnies, supplied my gap with the wrong vowel, the transgression was clearly his, not mine. So, all being satisfactorily explained," added Panurge, hilariously, as he slipped the Musical World into his pocket, "let us order another glass of brandy-and-wftter at the expense of Pantagruel, whom, I rejoice to see, we have not awakened, and then let us discourse of something else.TM

"Oh, monstrous !" ejaculated Epistemon. "I thought thy ignorance more stupendous than anything in the world, but I find that it is as nothing compared to thy truly colossal craft and assurance. Reproduce that valuable journal from that sink of iniquity, thy pocket: firstly, because it iB my property; secondly, because the worst blunder of all has been left unnoticed. I willingly admitted thy plea in the case of the diphthongs, less willingly thy defence of' vertet,' most unwillingly thy reference to the synaloepha; but what say'st thou to 'splendidia vitro,' when there is not a call-boy of the Hoyal Effingham Saloon who does not know that the

word should be 'splendidior'—or—or ?Clap not

this revolting blunder on the broad back of that muchsuffering reporter, whom thou so readily wouldst make the scape-goat of thy crass ignorance. Truly if he suffered from dyspepsia, it was not the kidney, but thine execrable Latinity which he was unable to thgesb. If tLu« tiadst "quoted scanning-wise, as thou pretendest, thy raven voice would have come down strongly on that final syllable 'or'—aye, with an aplomb like that of Lydia Thompson in the Sailor's Hornpipe, so that the ears of the veriest ass could not have taken it for an 'a,'" .

"Well," said Panurge, "that I confess was a slip."

"Slip, indeed 1" echoed Epistemon. "Rather Bay a fell into the lowest depths of Tartarus. Thou trained by Fitzball, forsooth! Thank thy stars that great lyrist did not hear thee, for if he had, he would have lashed thee soundly with a severe epigram after this fashion :— •.i;" ■+ Defective lines I cannot bear, •■

For when the heart's oppressed wi( h care,
It longs for something smooth and neat, >
Which renders happiness complete.'

Also I should have preferred Jilandusiee to 2?andusi£e."

"Now, at last, do I snap my fingers at thee, "replied Panurge" with all the contempt thou so richly deservest. There is, I know, such a reading as Blandusiaa, but Bandusiso is to be found in admirable texts, and why should'st thou so greatly affect the 'Bland' rather than the 'Band?' Has thy heart been more than usually exhilarated by the light comedy of Mr. Harcourt Bland, of the Princess's, or is thy brain strongly impressed with the image of Louis XV., as played by Mr. James Bland, at the Strand, with a portentous beard, that thou art pertinaciously set upon the more unusual reading? Truly thy learning is but superficial, after all, and I will henceforth call thee Joseph Surface"—

These last words seemed to have a magical effect on the sleeping Pantagruel, who with a mildly benignant face, softly murmured forth in his slumbers: "Joseph Surfacegrand and dignified form—Charles Surface, solemn monument of the past. Ye veritable Dioscuri. Grave are ye all,

from Sir Peter down to Snake. I am Pericles, and I took the affairs of Athens into my hands, I swore that I would not again smile, and I thank ye, gentlemen, that, by your performance of the /School for Scandal, you do not tempt me to break my oath, I will venture to say, that when the Adetphi of Terence was produced in honour of the funeral of Paulus .^Emilias, It was acted much in this style. But what is this—Forty Thieves I Oh, how droll is Talfourd—how truly comic is Byron—how glibly flew the quips from the lips of Buckingham—Robert Brough, whether as author or actor, thou art a prince of bnrlesquers—ha, ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho! Oh, I am Pericles, WT I have broken my vow, and the Eutnenides are lashing me about like this—like this—" 'oAwbmaAnd so saying, he jumped off the sofa, snatched up the rod which Epistemon had laid upon the table, and with it chased both him and Panurge round the room, lashing them with such vigour, that, forgetful cf minor differences, they howled together in the most perfect unison. Having sufficiently exercised his muscles by this notable feat, Pantagruel sank once more upon the sofa, and was again wrapped in slumber, while, with eyes and mouth opened to their full extent, Epistemon and Panurge gazed upon each, other. .'it/fLl*

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(From Alexander Mali bran's Louis Spohr. Sein Leben und Wirken.

Frankfurt-am-Main. J. D. Sauerland's Verlag. I860).

II. .i,,Jrww»r
Paris, Slit December, 1820.

A Vjcbv agi-oea.Ua fortnight lma elapsed, sin00 my first

letter was despatched, and we have heard and seen much that is beautiful since then; but, for the present, I must content myself with writing to yon only about what is more immediately connected with my art. I hare now made my debut before artists and dilettante, connoisseurs and laymen, as violinist and composer—first at Herr Baudiot's, first violoncello of the Royal chapel; the next day at Kreutzer's; and then at three parties. On the first two occasions, hardly any persons but artists were present: at Kreutzer's especially there were nearly all the distinguished composers and fiddlers of Paris. I gave several of my quartets and quintets, and, on the second day, my nonetto. The composers paid me a great many compliments on ray compositions, and the fiddlers on my play. Of the latter, Viotti,both the RreutzerSj Baillot, Lafont, Habeneck, Fontaine, Guerin, and many others, whose names are not so wellknown in Germany, were present; so you perceive that it waa a grand occasion, and that I had to exert myself to the utmost, to do honour to my countrymen. The parts for the wind instruments in my iianeilo were played by the five artists, of whose masterly execution of Reicha's quintets you must often have read in the accounts from Paris. I had ?tl» pleasure of hearing them play two of these quintets, but shall defer writing to you in detail about them, till I am acquainted with more of them. At the unanimous request of the artists present, we were obliged to repeat my nonttto the same evening; and if my fellow performers had surprised me the first time by the readiness with which they played this difficult piece of music a prima vista, they satisfied me far more when the piece was repeated, by entering into and rendering its spirit. The young pianist, Hera, of whom, also, you must have read in the musical chit-chat of Paris, played twice in the course of the i

on a theme from Die Schweigerfamilie, and then well known variations on the Alexander March. extraordinary manual skill of this young man is -1but in his case, as well as in that of all the here whom I have as yet heard, technical


astonishing; young artists

culture seems to have preceded mental cultivation; he would otherwise have given something more sterling than these break-neck tricky tilings, in a society where none but professionals were present. It is, however, a striking fact that all here, old and young, endeavour to distinguish themselves only by mechanical dexterity ; and people in whom, perhaps, there are the germs of something better, devote all their powers, for whole years, to practising a single piece of music, which, as such, frequently does not possess the slightest value, in order to perform it in public; that, by such a course, the mind must be killed, and that such people can become nothing much better than musical automata, is easily conceivable. The consequence is that you seldom or never hear a serious sterling piece of music, such as a quartet or quintet of our great masters for instance; every one rides his own hobby; there is nothing but Airs varUs, Rondos favoris, Nocturnes, and such like trifles, while the singers give you only romances and little duets; and, however incorrect and insipid all these things are, they never miss producing their effect, provided only they are rendered smoothly and sweetly. Poor in such pretty nothings, I come second best off with my serious German music, and in such musical parties I feel, not unfrequentby, like a man speaking to people who do not understand his language; for though I often hear the praise which is awarded, by some one or other of the audience to my play, extended to the composition, I cannot be proud of it, since, immediately afterwards, the samo culogittms «ro kuitowcJ un the most trivial things. I blush at being praised by such connoisseurs. It is exactly the same in the theatres; the great mass, who set the fashion, are completely unable to distinguish the worst from the best; they hear Le Jugement de Midas, with the same ecstacy as Les Deux Journees, or Joseph. One does not require to be here long, to come over to the oft-expressed opinion that the French are an unmusical people. Even the artists here think so, and frequently reply, when I speak of Germany in relation to this point, "Ay, music is loved and understood there, but not here." This explains how, in Paris, good music may be unsuccessful when connected with a bad piece, and wretched music prove a great triumph when united to a good piece. This fact has deprived me of all desire to write for any of the theatres here, as I formerly wished to do; for, apart from the fact that, as a young composer, I should have to begin again, since, with the exception of a few things for the violin, my compositions are little or not at all known here, and, furthermore—apart from the fact that I should have to battle my way through a thousand cabals, which would be doubly formidable, on account of my being a foreigner, before I could get my work produced—I should, after all, though conscious of having written good music, not be certain of the result, which, as I have already said, depends here almost entirely upon the book. This is evident from the 'ims in the papers on new operas, where the writer i for pages about the libretto, while the music is 'mentioned casually in a few words. Were it not so ve to write for the theatres here, it is long since any good composer would have devoted himself to the task. On account, however, of the large sum an opera, if successful, brings in a man for his lifetime, new works are produced nearly every day; poet and composer are tbi"fci"g incessantly

of new effects; but, meanwhile, they do not neglect to work the public, by means of the papers, for months, to provide, on the evening of representation, a due number of claqueurs in the pit, in order, by all this preparation, to secure for their work a brilliant reception, and, by frequent performances of it, to obtain, in the end, rich profits. Were only half as much to be gained by an opera in Germany, we should soon be as rich in distinguished composers for the stage as we now are in instrumental composers, and it would no longer be necessary to transplant to our stage foreign productions, frequently so unworthy the artistic | education of Germans.

That, after a stay of three weeks, we have visited each of the theatres repeatedly, is a matter of course. I am doubly glad of this, since, on account of the increase of my acquaintances, my engagements for the days and evenings have so accumulated, that we should be able to dedicate very few evenings in the course of the next fortnight to the theatre. I do not write anything about the .Th6atre-Francais, the Odebn, and the four small theatres, because they offer nothing remarkable in a musical sense. In the first two, you hear only Entr'actes, and in the two others scarcely any thing but vaudevilles. That pieces of this kind (which, thanks to Apollo and the Muses, have as yet been transplanted to no other country) are here so exceedingly popular, that four theatres play them almost exclusively, proves most convincingly that the French are unmusical; for the sacred art cannot be abused more shamefully than in these songs, whioh are neither sung nor spoken, but blurted out in intervals, diametrically opposed to the melody marked down, and to the accompanying harmony. All Frenchmen of taste, tfcpBgh, agree in saying that these vaudevilles, formerly given at one theatre only, smother, by their extension, the feeling for true music more and more, and thus exert a highly injurious effect on artistic progress. We have visited each of these theatres once, in order to see the celebrated comic actors, Brunet, Pothier, and Perlet, but we shall not, I think, make up our minds to pay a second visit, since the enjoyment these artists cause, by their wit and inexhaustible humour, is too dearly purchased by hearing such bad music. A thing which I found very remarkable in these theatres was the skill with whioh the bands manage to follow the singer, who does not pay the slightest attention to the tune, or the value of the notes. But this is thei greatest merit; in other respects, they are but middling We have, however, been to the Italian Theatre several times, and had many an artistic treat there. Yesterday we at last heard Don Juan, after it had been allowed to lay by for rather a long time. The house was crammed, as at the previous performances, hundreds being unable to find places, even half an hour before the opera began. I was inclined to think the Parisians had, at length, comprehended the classic excellfence of the work, and thronged, in continually increasing crowds, to enjoy it; but I soon relinquished this opinion, on perceiving that the most magnificent pieces in the opera, the first duet, the quartet, the grand septet, and many others, passed over without producing any effect on the audience, while only two pieces were greeted with tumultuous applause, which, however, was intended more for the singers than for the composer. These two pieces, which were asked for da capo on each occasion, were the duet between Don Juan and Zerline: "Reich mir die Hand, mein Leben," and the aria of Don Juan, "Treibt der Champagner," the first—because Herr Garcia wants depth—transposed to B flat, and the latter

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