good things and better things here than he ever did in his lifetime, whe ther sober or drunk. Witness parts of the Cromwell, the President of Buonaparte's Senate, the Burnet, in all of which however the wit often becomes characteristic, in other words, becomes humour. Witness half the Dupaty, many of the jokes in the Delille, the somewhat exaggerated but most witty dialogue between Louis XIV and his Confessor, the greater part of the Puntomichino, Hofer's description of a carriage as that wherein a man, instead of two legs, goes upon eight or sixteen, with a varnished plank betwixt and another man's rear at his nostrils.' Witness much in the Alfieri, the two stories told by Magliabechi of Mr. Harbottle, and of Santa Maria Bagnesi, which are wit's concentrated essence, and the inimitable irony throughout the conversation between Home and Hume, which is full of first-rate touches, though it may perhaps require an eye that can see beyond the surface to discern some of them. In many of these passages you find what may be termed a superfetation of wit. The wit is not content to stream forth in one direction only, but emits sparks on all sides, and gushes out at every pore like the juice of some fully ripe fruit. Almost every clause in every sentence is charged; a new joke lies in ambush at each step; the paragraph has eyes not only in the head, but all over the body, and even in the tail; and is armed cap-à-pè, like a lobster. This prodigality is visible in almost every page of the two volumes; and proves that the treasury from which it is supplied must be almost inexhaustible. All is solid, substantial, massy; nothing is hammered out into leaf. Sentence after sentence is tossed out and made nothing of, from each of which most writers would spin out materials for a whole essay. Accordingly when Landor has to narrate any incident, the condensation of the style reminds one forcibly of Tacitus; as for instance, the anecdote in the note at page 219 of the first volume, or the truly sublime description which you quoted of the retreat from Moscow.

"You complained that these dialogues were only monologues cut into parts, as it were amphisbænas

with their two heads chattering each in response to the other. It is true that some of them are less dramatic than others: for some are designed rather to express opinions, others more to represent character. In general, when the speakers really possessed any very marked qualities, those qualities have been faithfully preserved in the representation. I have already had occasion to speak of several instances where this has been done; and will now only request you to tell me whether the living Burnet ever related a story in every thing so characteristic of himself as that of Sir Humphrey Hardcastle; and to read over the conversation between Bacon and Hooker. One should have guessed that no two minds could well be more dissi❤ milar than that which flows along in the majestic stream of the Ecclesiastical Polity, and that which rushes headlong in the Alpine torrents before us. And yet we find here all the gravity and subtilty, and simplicity and humility of the original, and that everlasting celestial flame, which burns but consumes not, as it were emblematic of the eternal peace unto which it leads. Many of the touches also in the Bacon are admirable, though I somewhat doubt whether the passage about the malmsey be not too ill-bred, and whether the end be not too much like going off in an explosion. Often, however, the author's main object has been to communicate his own sentiments upon sundry questions of literature, politics, and morals; and he has chosen rather to express them in dia logue than monotonously by talking right an end. For my own part, I am disposed to feel the same preference, and to think that dialogue, in its various modifications, comprehending amongst them letters, is far the best method of conveying any philosophical discussion: that is to say, if we use the word philosophy more in its ancient acceptation, and do not mean thereby, as is now the custom in England, a treatise on the steam engine, or the blow pipe, or on the nature and business of the pancreatic juices. It would however lead me much too far at present to state the grounds of this opinion; nor is it necessary to do so; since that portion of your attack was by

far the weakest, as might have been expected from one who, like yourself, is not very familiar with more abstract inquiries. Nor should I alto gether agree with you in raising all the philosophers whom you call men so far above the heads of those whom you call children. But enough of this for the present.

"I would gladly have spoken of Landor's Latin inscriptions and hendecasyllables. His former compositions in that language are perhaps the most truly classical, the most genuine antiques, produced since the revival of letters; and the same spirit is to be found in these; though you perhaps might complain that they are not purple enough, and resemble Catullus more than the Muse Etonenses. I grieve also to pass over the few gems of English poetry, scattered, too sparingly, alas, among these pages, but evidently by the same magician who bound and almost shut up the soul of poetry in Count Julian.

"But your patience must be already exhausted; and were I to say even a tenth part of what would naturally arise out of the Imaginary Conversations, you would have to bid farewell to sleep for to-night. I will therefore only touch on one more point, and have done. It is indeed of such importance, that it must not be left unnoticed. What is the tendency of these Imaginary Conversations? Is it good or bad, moral or immoral? If it be the latter, as you seem to believe, all I have said is worse than worthless; all the merits of the work would be no better than the brightness of hellfire; and Landor, whatever may be the strength and outward beauty of his mind, must be cast down upon the carcase of Voltaire. In truth, I should pity the Frenchman, if that were to happen. But it never will. Even grant

ing that there be some opinions in common between them, the resem blance is only superficial. The heart of the Englishman is sound, and such as becomes the countryman of Milton and of Algernon Sidney. If his indignation burst forth at times with too much violence, if once or twice it be misplaced; it is always excited by that which is, or which he fully believes to be, foul and depraved and pernicious. Some of the opinions may be paradoxically expressed; it is natural enough for one who always speaks so strongly, sometimes to speak too much so; but it is seldom, if ever, that there is not a spark of truth at the centre. And with what feelings do we rise from the perusal of the whole work? With an ardent glow for all that is pure and generous and noble and high-minded and self-devoting, and a detestation of all that is mean and base and false and selfish and cruel. There is much, very much I admit, with which I disagree; there is no little which appears to me to be exaggerated, mista ken, perverse. But I almost love the book the more for this perversity, as we often love a child the more for its waywardness or a mistress for her faults. With this feeling I now take leave of it, wishing it all health and prosperity. It is a work which seems framed to take the world by storm. As Wordsworth says in his fine sonnet to a ship just under sail,

Where it comes, the winds must blow."

"I am not afraid of that," said Hargrave. "Only print my Re view, and the ship will sink." "The trial shall be made;" I replied."But you will let me blow a counterblast, if I can." Hargrave gave me his permission, and we parted.

THOU tell'st me that the Rose is dead,
. Which late I gave to thee;
That all its summer-bloom has fled,
And all its fragrancy.
But, oh! I cannot marvel now

It met such swift decay:
How could it live, my fair, when thou
Hadst stol'n its breath away?

J. C. H. Julius CHare

If those poor faded leaves could speak, Sure they would claim once more The timid blush upon thy cheek,

Which was their own before. And they would bring pale violets too, At Cupid's court to swear, Thine eyes had robb'd them of the hue That violets love to wear.

THE Oratorios and the Concerts Spirituels have terminated with the season of Lent; though in so far as religion is concerned, there appears to be no good reason why the Wednesdays and Fridays of this solemn period should be selected for such performances, except indeed it be to show that the character of the present times no longer demands any such observances as were thought in dispensable when these once sacred concerts were originally instituted. If, however, this breach of custom shall be esteemed to merit censure, that censure must be carried back through a long succession of years, or fail upon those who have permitted the changes we now witness. The present proprietor has this year rather retrograded than advancedhe has brought back more of the ancient gravity instead of stretching further into licence. He has separated the sacred from prophane, and has produced more than one oratorio new to this country. Since the Abbé Stadler's Jerusalem Delivered, The Star of Bethlehem, an English adaptation of some of the finest parts of the masses of Haydn and others, and The Prophecy, the work of Mr. Wade, an amateur, have been given-the latter with considerable success. Mr. Wade's production is pleasing from its melody, and its airy structure, and although professors are not always ready to admit the claims of dilettanti composers, it has won applause, even from rigid professional judges.

The season, upon the whole, has been as successful as could be anticipated; and indeed when we regard the immense quantity of good music, and the increase of those engaged in the orchestra, it would be strange if these concerts were not, in the general meaning of the term, popular; they are too as cheap as they are attractive. This year there is not a single English name of reputation (except those of Mr. Vaughan and Mr. W. Knyvett, whose style is too chaste and sober to hit the taste of the mixed audience of a theatre) which is not to be found in the bills. The three acts seldom embrace less than from thirty to forty vocal pieces, which

consist of the most approved in each separate style. To these are appended concertos on the principal instruments, and chorusses are interspersed. All this may be enjoyed in a respectable manner, for three shillings and sixpence, or in a more humble situation for two shillings, or even one, while the boxes are open to the higher classes of society. Musical pleasure, of an elevated cast, circulates so freely from no centre as from these performances. Indeed, London contains no other concert of general resort. In this point of view they become very important vehicles, not only of amusement, but for the cultivation of taste.

Io

On the last two nights, two very young females of the name of Cawes produced a great effect. We heard these lasses about twelve months since in private, in various styles, and it required no very deep philosophy to pronounce that such would be the case. The eldest is a little more than fifteen, the youngest not so old by two years, and they really are wonderful girls. They sang a quick comic duet of Mosca's, di tutto son contento," with a power, brilliancy, articulation, and expression, which, for their years, is astonishing. The youngest has a prodigious volume, and unites the compass of a contralto and soprano with extraordinary facility and a power of comprehension and humour that will probably make her the Storace of her day. The eldest is a legitimate soprano, and in manner resembles Madame Ronzi de Begnis.— They are pupils of Sir George Smart, and do him infinite credit. They made their first appearance within the last few months at York and at Newcastle, where they were well received, and at no places could their talents be more impartially or better judged.

At this season, when the musical world teems with incidents, it is not allowed us to enter into a minute discussion of the errors of manner, which propagate errors of judgment with such infinite rapidity. This is a task, however, we may attempt when events of interest are less rife. But it is a duty not to let the sub

ject pass absolutely without observa-' tion, for our singers are daily receding farther from expression, and indulge in every species of absurd extravagance with more unbridled licence than ever. The canons of science are set at nought. It is shocking to listen to the monstrous competitions in folly which every night are applauded to the skies. The attempts of sopranos and tenors to outdo each other are only to be likened to the challenges of vaulters and posture-masters, who strive to exceed each other, where

"Each last fool's as welcome as the

former."

"They sang," said a young lady of refined taste, after attending a serics of nights, "some of the music in Macbeth, and this I really enjoyed more than all the rest. The singers ornament and flourish to such a degree that it becomes absolutely sick ening, and it is a relief to one's ears to hear music sung plainly." And this is the judgment which good sense and sound taste must pronounce: to hear Mr. Braham and Mr. Sinclair overbawling, out-gingling, and out-shrieking each other, is so absolutely nauseous, and at the same time so ridiculous, that the reception the audience affords would be perfectly astonishing did we not know that it is the effect of mere surprisc. Few, now-a-days, are found to compare past and present sensations. The tests of fine performance are disregarded. The case is thus argued this is new, and it appears wonderful: these are the great singers. In Braham energy is still left and power, such as it is,-for Sinclair nature has done much, which art (falsely so called) has not quite obliterated. Such singing may be termed vocal instrumentation, and though not the best of its kind, the few who hear and know what is better, can make no way in so mixed a multitude, even did they think it worth while to express their dissatisfaction. Our diurnal critics mystify honest Mr. Bull and his worthy family by their ignorant jargon of praise, and thus the very worst taste is sanctioned and perpetuated. "Laud we the gods!" say Messrs. B. and S.-aye, and gratefully and justly too, for the gods laud them to excess.

The King's Theatre seems to be in strange confusion, notwithstanding the superior talent engaged. Rossini and Catalani have, it is thought, more of the repulsion, which is the general property of musical supremacy, than is usually found. Madame Colbran is eclipsed by Madame Catalani, and Madame Catalani will not sing Rossini's music; Garcia has been ill; Madame Ronzi is confined, -so that there has been a perpetual change of pieces without any beneficial results. Il Barbiere di Seviglia and Ricciardo e Zoraide have been

got up to supply the place of Il Fanatico, clogged too as it has been with the onerous demand for Catalani's services. Madame Pasta is soon to appear in Otello (on Saturday, April 24); and then comes Rossini's new opera, which is not yet, however, in rehearsal. Madame Caradori brings out Il Don Giovanni for her benefit, when Garcia is to play the Libertine.

On the last night of the Concerts Spirituels, the feeling of the public was strongly excited by Madame Catalani's not appearing according to the promise of the advertisements; and before the beginning of the second act the dissatisfaction had risen to such a height, that the public insisted upon her presence. She came, and was attended by an English gentleman, who was her apologist, and who pleaded, that she then rose from a sick bed to obey the call of the public. The plea was powerful, and was, as all such pleas are, accepted. Madame Catalani laid her hand expressively first on her throat, and lastly on her heart, smiled through her tears, curtsied, and retired. We happen to know that she was perfectly well the preceding day; and as the name of her former medical attendant, Mr. Charles Clarke (whose authority would have silenced all doubt) was replaced by that of a Mr. Bertin, there was probably no very dangerous indisposition, although it was very sudden. It is most probable she took cold from the chill of the preceding concerts.

These concerts have languished over their six Fridays; and indeed they owe the partial support they have received to Madame Catalani, Mr. Clementi, and Miss Love. Mr. C. produced some new symphonies, at which he presided, and they exhi

bit throughout the strongest proofs of the unabated fire and genius of this extraordinary man, together with the maturity of science, which such and so long a life of study only can ripen. He is now in his seventy-second year, and appears to retain the activity of youth, both intellectually and personally. Nor has the Opera house been the only sphere of his later glory. At a recent Philharmonic he presided at one of his symphonies, and was received with enthusiasm by that most scientific of all the audiences of the metropolis. No composer in Europe enjoys more universal respect among the professors of art; and when it is remembered that his first opera was produced more than half-a-century ago, it affords a very interesting instance of faculties preserved by habits of temperance and study.

If, as has been assumed, these Concerts owe their existence to the estimate conductors of the Operahouse made of the attractions of Madame Catalani, it should seem their computations were somewhat too sanguine. In truth, both her appearance on the boards of the King's Theatre and in the orchestra may be considered to demonstrate the incipient declination of her fame, how ever little her powers are damaged. The general sentiment, as well as the particular symptoms, confirms the opinions we gave last month. She has played seldom, has been indisposed, and has condescended to sing between the acts at Covent-garden, for Mr. Kemble's benefit, where, it must be allowed, she was hailed as a goddess. The fact is, she has set too great a price upon her own head. She is undoubtedly transcendant, but her ambition (or that of others by whom she is directed) grasps at more than is allowed even to the greatest powers to accomplish. She would be manager and conductor; she would direct; and she would share;—she aims at the absorption of so much, that she practically proclaims "I am all in all!" To this neither managers nor conductors, singers nor the public, will accede. Madame Catalani, though a wonder, is no longer a new wonder,-neither is she, for the same reason, the fashion, or the lion of the day. Her ascendancy is past. We do not say these things

without proofs: it is not long since she laid a plan for engaging a corps of singers and instrumentalists, for the purpose of usurping the management of a very numerous and sweeping series of country festivals. She has failed in all but two, viz. Newcastle and Cambridge, at which latter place she is to give to Addenbrooke's Hospital one-fifth of the receipts in return for the patronage, and to absorb the remaining four-fifths.—A part of the engagements are nounced: Miss Stephens, Miss George, Messrs. Phillips, Kellner, and Placei, are her coadjutors. The musical world will read in this list almost the pis aller of the London orchestras and the Opera-house (with the exception of Miss Stephens); and the patrons of music at Cambridge will hardly, we should think, feel satisfied at such a selection of performers for a Grand Festival. The veil is too thin and too transparent.

an

Miss Love has attracted a good share of public attention by her performance of some of Handel's songs. It is curious that amongst those she has selected is the bass air, Tears such as tender fathers shed, from De borah. Her voice is a remarkably fine contralto, and her expression excellent.-Practice would make her a first-rate singer in this department.

When Madame Pasta was here about six years ago, she was by no means in the first class, but her reputation has spread marvellously since that period, and the biographer of Rossini is as loud in her praises as he is in his censure of the Colbran. All those who have heard her of late at Paris concur in speaking of her as a singer of the finest possible expression.

A pianoforte player of very extraordinary promise has started up in the person of a boy of the name of Aspull, only eight years of age. He not long since played before his Majesty and the Court, and on the 28th of March he had a Benefit Concert. The precocity of children in music is not now either so rare or so surprising as it once was, but this is eertainly a child of singular talent. He plays with great rapidity and neatness; but there are impossibilities to such hands, and these unfortunately he is made to attempt to surmount. Thus, in Moscheles' Fall of Paris,