CRYSTAL PALACE.-On Saturday Mr. G. W. Martin gave a performance of his own national part-songs, prize glees, &c., with a choral force numbering nearly 2000, in the Great Handel Orchestra, That Mr. Martin is popular as a composer may be inferred from the fact that more than 10,000 people assembled on the occasion. The attraction of the concert, however, entirely escaped our observation. Of the fourteen pieces given ten were written by Mr. Martin; the others were harmonised by him. The national part-songs-four in number-we did not greatly like, though all were received with vociferous acclamations. The part-song, "Brightest hopes are fleetest," is really charming-the best, indeed, we have heard of Mr. Martin's compositions and well merited the encore it received. That Mr. Martin has a large circle of friends none could doubt who saw the crowd and heard the applause on Saturday afternoon.

THE retirement of Mad. Clara Novello from the Sacred Concert-room will leave a blank which at present there does not appear any likelihood of being filled up. Such a loss to sacred art is indeed to be deeply lamented, more particularly at a time when oratorios, become an entertainment for the people, are progressing rapidly in general estimation, and when their performances are no longer restricted to special localities and periods. Such an artist as Mad. Novello must have had some hand or voice in conducing to this progress. Many no doubt would at first go to hear the singer, with no particular predilection for holy strains, who subsequently, taught to attend and understand, would be attracted by the music itself. If ever singer was constituted to exercise an influence over a large auditory, it was the lady who forms the subject of our remarks. Mad. Novello has not only a voice of sur passing quality and purity, but her style and manner are

eminently adapted to sacred music. The beauty and purity of her voice were acknowledged from the first moment when, as a girl, she was launched into artistic life, and dared the fiat of the public alongside of Malibran, Grisi, Caradori, Sontag, Mary Paton, and other cantatrice, native and foreign, who were more or less remarkable in the roll of fame. A new star in such a constellation, the youthful Clara Novello was not obnubilated in the surrounding lustre. She gained hosts of admirers, who were enchanted with her lovely voice and the refinement of her style, and augured the most brilliant results for her future. That these augu

Mad.

ries have not been falsified we need hardly say. Novello's career has been one of undeviating success, and no part of her progress has been marked by greater triumphs than that which dates from her return to public life after several years' interval passed in retirement. Indeed, our principal regret at losing the artist is bound up with the fact that her vocal powers are as transcendent as ever, and that time has only added to the purity and delicacy of her style. Had Mad. Novello's powers been on the wane our regrets would have been extenuated by the consideration that she was acting cautiously and judiciously; anticipating Time as it were, and succumbing to his supremacy ere he could lay too heavily his hand upon her-thereby exhibiting art to the last, as she stood on the threshold of the temple about to take her leave. Mad. Novello's reasons for quitting public life are alleged to be of a private nature. The loss to the public is the same whatever the cause.

The qualities which eminently befit Mad. Clara Novello for the sacred concert-room are the peculiar character of the voice, and a style essentially devotional. Mad. Novello's voice is a high soprano, pure, open, brilliant, clear and liquid as a well-tuned silver bell, and extremely sympathetic. In the upper register some of the tones are wonderfully touching. This rare organ, so available, it would seem, for all purposes, so capable, so beautiful and so telling, is toned down and sobered to a religious feeling that lends it its peculiar characteristic, and makes it almost sombre in expression and colouring. From this peculiarity, this sombreness of tone, Mad. Novello derives her special power in sacred music. Of that "demonstrative" quality so indispensable to the dramatic singer she exhibits but little, and is seldom outwardly energetic or forcible. Intensity without display, and earnestness arising from a manner full of repose and apparently absorbed, constitute the specialties which distinguish Mad. Novello from all other singers of sacred music. So rapt, indeed, is she at most times in her performance, that, even when singing, could our ears deceive us so, she might stand as an exemplification of Wordsworth's Nun," breathless with adoration.” Whether this be pure instinct or the most consummate art, we cannot say. In either case the result is the same, and the wondrous influence of the vocalist made manifest. When shall England be able to boast of another singer who can produce such extraordinary effects by such simple means? When shall England boast of another singer who, while disclaiming, if not failing in, that dramatic vigour and impassioned energy which all candidates for lyric honours, on or off the stage, have made the be-all and end-all of their acquirements, may be able to achieve such greatness and renown? The brightest luminary of the Sacred Concert room is about to disappear for ever-when to be replaced lies buried in the womb of Time.

BESIDES accusations of unintelligibility and of contac sense (as for instance when a girl sentenced to death sings in a lively strain), the Opera has been attacked as essentially absurd, and it is satisfactory to know that these attacks date from its first introduction into England and France. To some it appeared monstrous that men and women should be represented on the stage singing, when it is notorious that in actual life they communicate in the speaking voice. Opera was declared to be unnatural as compared with the Drama. In other words, it was natural that Desdemona should express her grief in melodious

verse, but unnatural that she should do so in pure melody. (For the sake of the comparison, we must suppose Rossini's Otello to have been written long before its time). Persons with any pretence to reason have long ceased to urge such futile objections against a delightful entertainment which, as we shall presently show, is in some respects the highest form the drama has assumed. Gresset answered these music-haters well in his " Discours sur l'harmonie." "After all," he says, "if we study nature, do we not find more fidelity to appropriateness at the Opera than on the tragic stage, where the hero speaks the language of declamatory poetry? Has not harmony always been much better able than simple declamation to imitate the true tones of the passions deep sighs, sobs, bursts of grief, languishing tenderness, interjections of despair, the inflexions of pathos, and all the energy of the heart?"

For the sake of enjoying the pleasures of music and of the drama in combination, we must adopt certain conventions, and must assume that song is the natural language of the men and women that we propose to show in our operas, as we assume in tragedy that they all talk in verse; in comedy that they are all witty, and yet are perpetually giving one another opportunities for repartee; in the ballet that they all dance and are unable to speak at all. The form is nothing. Give us the true expression of natural emotion, and all the rest will seem natural enough. Only it would be as well to introduce as many dancing characters and dancing situations as possible in the ballet, and to remember in particular that Roman soldiers could not with propriety figure in one (for a ballet on the subject of " Les Horatii" was once actually produced in France, in which the Horatii and the Curiatii danced a double pas de trois); and in tragedy, that the chief personages ought not to be London coalheavers or Parisian water-carriers; and in the same way, that in opera, scenes and situations ought to be avoided which in no way suggest singing. And let us now inform the ignorant opponents of opera, that there are certain grand dramatic effects attainable on the lyric stage which without the aid of music would be impossible. Music has often been defined; here is a new definition of it. It is the language of masses-the only language that masses can speak and be understood. On the old stage a crowd could not cry "Down with the tyrant!" or "We will," or even "Yes" and "No," with any intelligibility. There is some distance from this state of things to the Blessing of the Daggers in the Huguenots, or the Prayer of the Israelites in Mosé. In the ordinary drama we could neither have the prayer (unless it were recited by a single voice, which would be worse than nothing) before the passage, nor the thanksgiving which in the opera is sung immediately after the Red Sea has been crossed; but, above all, we could not obtain the sublime effect produced by the contrast between the two songs; the same song, and yet how different; the difference between minor and major, between a psalm of humble supplication and a hymn of jubilant gratitude. This is the change of key at which, according to Stendhal, the women of Rome used to faint in such numbers. It cannot be heard without emotion even in England; and we do not think any one, even a professed enemy of Opera, would ask himself, during the performance of the prayer in Mosé, whether it was natural or not that the Israelites should sing either before or after crossing the Red Sea.

Again, how could the animation of the market scene in Masaniello be expressed except by means of music? What other art could render confusion harmonious and intelligible?

In concerted pieces, again, the Opera possesses a means of dramatic effect quite as powerful and as peculiar to itself as its choruses. The finest situation in Rigoletto is that in which the quartet occurs. Here three persons express simultaneously the different emotions which are excited in the breast of each by the presence of the Duke of Mantua in the assassin's hostelry, while the Duke of Mantua himself makes love to the assassin's sister. The amorous fervour of the Duke, the reckless gaiety of Maddalena, the despair of Gilda, the vengeful rage of Rigoletto, all this exists at the same time, and is told at once in the combined songs of the four personages, while the spectator derives a new pleasure from the very art by which the four different songs are combined into harmony, a magnificent quartet, of which, however, the model existed long before in Don Giovanni. All this is of course very unnatural. It would be so much more natural that the Duke of Mantua should first make a long speech to Maddalena, that Maddalena should then answer him, that afterwards both should remain silent while Gilda, of whose presence outside the tavern they are unaware, sobs forth her lamentations at the perfidy of her betrayer, and that finally the Duke, Maddalena, and Gilda, by some inexplicable unity of purpose, should not say a word while Rigoletto is congratulating himself on the prospect of being speedily revenged on the libertine who has robbed him of his daughter. In the old drama, perfect sympathy between two lovers can scarcely be expressed-certainly not with anything like the vividness with which it can be told through suggestive union of the two voices in the ensemble of a duet. We are sometimes inclined to think that even the balcony duet between Romeo and Juliet ought to be in music; and certainly no living poet could render the duet between Valentine and Raoul adequately into either prose or verse. Talk of music destroying the drama; why, it is from innate love of the drama that so many persons go to the Opera every night.

"But is it not absurd to hear a man say 'Good morning?' How do you do?' in music ?" Most decidedly; and therefore all ordinary, commonplace, and trivial remarks should be excluded from operas, as from poetical dramas and from poetry of all kinds except comic and burlesque verse. It was not reserved for the unmusical critics of the present day to discover that it would be grotesque to utter such a phrase as "Give me my boots" in recitative, and that such a line as "Waiter, a cutlet nicely browned," could not be advantageously set to music. All this sort of humour was exhausted by St. Evremond, in a comedy called Les Opéras,* which he wrote during his residence in London, soon after the production of Lulli's Cadmus and Hermione, in 1673. In this work, which was published but not represented, Chrisotine is, so to speak, opera-struck. She thinks of nothing but Lulli, or Baptiste," as she affectionately calls him, after the manner of Louis XIV. and his court, sings all day long, and in fact has altogether abandoned speech for song. Perrette, the servant, tells Chrisotine that her father wishes to see her. "Why disturb me at my songs?" replies the young lady, singing all the time. The attendant complains to the father that Chrisotine will not answer her in ordinary spoken language, and that she sings about the house all day long. Chrisotine corroborates Perrette's statement by addressing a little cavatina to her parent, in which she protests against the harshness of those

* A German translation of this piece, entitled Die Opern, is to be found in the library of the British Museum. The original is not there.

comedy in the accurate delineation of the Irish serf, as exemplified in the character of Danny Man. The voice kept down to a perpetual semblance of servility, the stoop occasioned as much by the bowed mind as by the broken back, the agonies of the death-bed, are all admirably true, and without a particle of exaggeration.

Nor is it too much to say that in the Colleen Bawn we are first made acquainted with the capabilities of Mrs. Billington, a lady who, when she has attempted parts more than commonly conspicuous, has generally suggested the notion of over-weight. But in the very powerful scene in which Mrs. Cregan curses the captors of her son, she completely rises to the level of the position, and astonishes by her newly-marked force.

Mrs. Bourcicault is an amiable, pleasing actress, who sings and dances very prettily, and is thoroughly unaffected and enthusiastic in all she undertakes.

Thus, altogether, the Colleen Bawn is not only a welcome apparition at a season which is dull even for September, but is an earnest of theatrical improvement. Two new artists are added to our histrionic force, and several who are well known develop new capabilities.

THE OPERA COMIQUE. ! ITS RISE AND PROGRESS.

II.

MONSIGNY AND PHILLIDOR. THE first of these was simply a musical amateur, born at Fauquemberg, a village near St. Omer, on the 17th of October, 1729. He was destined for a financial career, and obtained a post in the office of ecclesiastical accounts. It was while hearing a performance of La Serra Padrone, by Pergolese, that he felt the musical chord within him vibrate. He had learned to play the violin at the Jesuits' College of St. Omer, and after having heard the chef d'œuvre of the Italian master, he took some lessons of a double bass player at the opera, called Gianotti, who taught him the principles of thorough bass, which the latter had learned from Rameau. He studied only five months with Gianotti, and it was after having received this elementary instruction that he set to music a little libretto entitled Les Aveux indiscrets, played at the Théâtre de la Foire St. Laurent.

At this period the orchestra of the Italian Theatre (Comédie Italienne), in which the greater part of Monsigny's works were to be played, consisted only of five first and five second violins, two altos, three violoncellos, to which were added later two double basses, two flutes or two hautboys (the same artists being engaged to play both instruments), and lastly two miserable horns and two bassoons, who by no means piqued themselves on playing in tune. The performers in this incomplete orchestra were inferior to our most humble provincial artists, and the actors of the company of singing comedians were after the fashion of those of the vaudeville theatres of the present day. It may be guessed, therefore, what the performances of these "fair theatres" (théâtres de la foire) were like in which our Opéra Comique took its rise.

The following year Monsigny brought out on the same stage on which his first piece had been played, Le Cudi dupé, of which the words were by Lemonnier.

Even in this early work there are several pieces deserving mention. The air of Zelmire for instance, "Toi que mon cœur adore," by no means deficient in tenderness of expression; the duo, "Qu'en dites vous, monseigneur ?" the trio, "Entrez donc," &c. The music of these pieces is well adapted to the sense of the words. Sédaine, attracted by these qualities, got himself introduced to Monsigny, and became his recognised collaborator. They brought out in 1761, Le Roi et le Fermier, which produced a great sensation -two hundred representations bringing in 10,000 fr. (£400) to the composer! (An enormous sum for the period.) This piece met in the first instance a cold reception on account of the musical

element preponderating more than had been previously known. The poem of Sédaine had not taken the fancy of the audience, and it was not until after it had been heard several times that it was perceived Monsigny's music was marked by a strain of touching melody well suited to the sentiments expressed in each scene, a necessary condition of success with a French audience. village opera (paysannerie), Rose et Colas, the graceful and Two years later Sédaine and Monsigny gave the world a simple songs of which charmed the public. In Le Déserteur the talent of Monsigny developed itself and reached its crowning success.

The fine wits of the time criticised this poem, and Sédaine's origin was cast in his teeth. His education had been ill cared for his pieces were faulty in their style. Errors in French and spelling were as frequently met in them as dramatic situations which he sought after, rather than refinements of language, his chief object being to stir the emotions of the public. He knew the personage he had to deal with, and was convinced that to be made to cry or to laugh was all he asked for, which explains the introduction into his operas of characters for whose appearance no motive can be discovered. Thus in Le Déserteur, perceiving that the sentimental scenes were drawn out to too great a length, he introduced in the third act, in the most gratuitous manner, but with the utmost felicity, the character of Montauciel, which still preserves its charm in the eyes of the present generation. Clairval in the character of Montauciel, and Caillot in that of Alexis, gained the greatest applause.

Monsigny,"-to borrow a passage from M. Adolphe Adam's interesting book, Derniers Souvenirs d'un Musicien — “worked with difficulty. Not only was he too unskilled a musician not to experience great difficulty in marshalling together his ideas and apportioning them between the vocal parts and the orchestra, but being endowed with extreme sensibility he was impelled to identify himself in some sort with his personages, and to place himself in their positions in order to excite and kindle his genius, and stir it up to emit the sparks of fanciful inspiration. Frequently while he was working at Le Déserteur it was found necessary to take the manuscript away from him on account of the excessive nervous excitement he experienced. This sensibility never left him, Choron relates the following anecdote:- Monsigny being then eighty-two years of age, while explaining to us the manner in which he wished the situation in Le Déserteur to be rendered, where Louise is gradually recovering from her swoon, and her stifled accents are interrupted by orchestral passages, shed tears of sympathy and fell himself into the same state of overwhelming emotion which he was describing in so expressive a manner."

M. Fétis, who quotes this trait on the authority of Choron, adds with much justice :-"This sensibility constituted his genius, for he was indebted to it for a multitude of touching melodies which must always render his works deserving of attention from instructed musicians."

Next to Le Déserteur, the works of this composer which obtained the greatest success were La Belle Arsène, June 1773, and Félix ou l'Enfant Trouvé, 1777. From the latter work should be quoted the quintet, the trio, and the air, so well fitted to the situationQu'on se batte, qu'on se dechire

66

Although Monsigny was at that time only 48 he refused ever again to compose anything, and resembling in this one of our great contemporary geniuses, rested upon his numerous laurels. He alleged as his reason for thus prematurely reposing from his labours, the prohibition his physician had laid him under from ever again writing on penalty of losing his sight. On this subject, however, M. Fétis remarks,-"I knew this respect-worthy man, and I asked him in 1810, that is to say thirty-three years after the production of his last opera, whether he had never felt a craving to write since that time: Never,' said he; from the day that I finished the score of Félix, music has been as it were dead to me; I have never had an idea since.'"

He died in Paris, on the 14th of January, 1817, at the age of 88, being forty years after the last performance of Félix.

His music-notwithstanding the inspiration of which it bears the immortal impress-betrays constantly the want of an adequate musical education; a glance at the scores of Monsigny will show at once that his modulations, although for the most part simple,

III. PHILLIDOR.

BORN at Dreux, on the 7th of September 1726, this composer was admitted at the age of six among the children choristers of the chapel choir of Louis XV. His first musical studies were under the direction of Cambra.

He was still a chorister when his passion for the game of chess declared itself. The musicians, while awaiting the hour for the king's mass, were in the habit of playing at this game; one day, one of them finding himself alone with Phillidor, was regretting the absence of an opponent, when the child offered his services in that capacity. His offer was accepted as a joke in the first instance, but soon led to the discovery that he possessed the most surprising aptitude for the game. He had divined its rules and the combinations of which they were susceptible while watching the play of his comrades. This love for chess was the most serious obstacle he had to encounter to his success as a composer.

He would at any time throw aside his music, and devote himself not only to devising extremely complicated problems, but to writing works on this game. He went to Holland, where his chessplaying talent developed itself by contact with adepts of great skill. It befel him, especially towards the close of his life, when he was blind, to play several games at once, but these feats of strength, which required a great tension of the mind, weakened

his intellects.

From Holland he went to England, and it was in London that he received from Diderot a letter upbraiding him severely for squandering his mind on the study of chess, thus depriving the world of the fruits of his musical genius. As a composer he would be esteemed; as a chess-player he could only excite a curiosity but moderately honourable to himself.

He returned to Paris, where he had a Lauda Jerusalem executed at Court, with which the queen was but little pleased; Maria Leczinska, it is known, did not like Italian music, and it was in that style that Phillidor had written his psalm.

Four years later, on the 9th of March, 1759, he brought out at the Foire St. Laurent Theatre his first opera, Blaise le Savetier. This opera had some success, and its composer showed himself a much better harmonist than his contemporaries. But as I said previously, his melodies had not the touching gracefulness of Monsigny's. The trio, however, "Le ressort est, je crois, mêlé,” is in a pleasant style.

On the 18th of September he produced L'Huitre et les Plaideurs; this piece is inferior to the first, but he recovered himself in Le Soldat Magicien and Le Jardinier et son Seigneur, which were played, the first in 1760, the second in 1761.

In this last score, Phillidor advanced one step as regards instrumentation; his orchestra exhibits more signs of care than was the case with contemporary works. The duo, "Un maudit lièvre," manifests a remarkable elegance and skill of handling. Nevertheless the works of this master are known only to the antiquarian and the professional singer.* His most successful operas were: Le Maréchal Ferrant, in two acts, represented for the first time on the 22nd of August, 1761, every piece in which work might be deservedly mentioned, the most remarkable in my opinion being, however, the trio, “ Oui, oui, je le dirai;" the duo," Premièrement buvons," the trio, "Que voulez vous: "-Le Sorcier, which first saw the blaze of the footlights (if I may be excused this pompous expression to denote the few candles which illuminated the front of the stage in those days) on the 22nd of January, 1764 :—and, lastly, Tom Jones, which appeared the 27th of February, 1764, and was his first piece in three acts. This departed from the usual style, and, as happens with all innovations, it was in the first instance hissed, because it was not understood, and then the same persons

* Grimm was wont to say that his music was wanting in ideas, and that he had more genius for chess than for music. After the first performance of Tom Jones, however, he granted him nervous strength, and a warm and vigorous style. Further on he calls Tom Jones the finest work on the stage.

singers.

Trial was from Avignon. After having sung on several provincial stages he made his first appearance at the Comédie Italienne in 1764, in the character of Bastien in Phillidor's After having Sorcier. He was a good actor but had little voice. laughed and made others laugh so often in his various characters, he ended his career in a tragic manner. The public having made him endure some humiliation he went home and poisoned himself. He had married the widow of one Comolet, Mad. Mandeville. Comolet left her side only when she went on the stage. At home he locked her up when he had to go out. This kind of life had naturally exerted an influence over the temper of the young actress, and when her husband died she recovered all her natural gaiety of spirits. Everything here below has its compensation. Though Laruette had no voice, his wife, on the other hand, who had sung at the Opera when she called herself Mlle. Villette, was an agreeable singer.

Trial and Laruette created those buffo tenor parts, to endow which French authors have exerted their comic vein, and have thus made them celebrated.

Clairval was an agreeable tenor. He was no musician, but his voice was pleasing. Besides his characters in comic opera, he frequently took parts in drama and comedy.

Caillot was the son of a goldsmith who had failed in business. As a child he played Cupids at the Court theatre; when his voice broke he retired into the country. He was playing the violin in the orchestra at La Rochelle, when an actor being taken ill he took his part on the stage. Subsequently he met with success at Lyons, and went thence to the Comédie Italienne, where he made his début in Ninette à la Cour, on the 16th of July, 1760. His voice was of wide compass, and similar in character to that of Martin, of whom I shall often have to speak. however, had no chance of pleasing the public but by an effective delivery; purely musical singing was in the second rank. Caillot retired from the stage in 1772.

These actors,

Let us now sum up our opening remarks on the first foundation of the Opéra Comique.

Duni, polished by Monsigny and Phillidor, had reached at the The work commenced by Dauvergne, roughly shaped out by latter period to a degree of perfection which permitted its assuming an equal rank with the Grand Opéra. The opera buffa of the Italians, the lyrical drama of the Germans, had a rival, or rather a younger brother, in the French Opéra Comique, which, like its elders, was destined to perform the tour of Europe. Voltaire had predicted that the French would never have a music of their own, that our language was opposed to it; and scarcely