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gets up like him, it goes to sleep like him, and it blows its nose like him. London is Daguerreotyped on him.

"D'Orsay the First is always well dressed-not like other kings, who deal with old clothesmen.

"D'Orsay the First holds a court composed of lions, tigers, and panthers. At least his Majesty is ever surrounded by betes.

"D'Orsay the First does not create peers-but pairs of boots and pantaloons. He cultivates no reform but that of his great coat.

"We have taken some pains to collect anecdotes of the private life of D'Orsay the First. He is fond of cigar smoking, and gives a guinea to the lad who lights them for him. He fixed on a half-starved tailor, and bade him manufacture a coat. The tailor achieved a horror, but all the dandies followed the royal choice, and the tailor has made a fortune. "The official organ of D'Orsay the First is the Journal des Modes.

"D'Orsay the First is jealous of a certain Palletot lately arrived in Paris from London.

“D'Orsay the First often changes his coat, but never turns

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The Charavari concludes by presenting a caricature of Count D'Orsay, which it has just received from London.

AFFECTION.

That lady's cheek was beautiful

As her loved Italian sky;

And there was not a gem in her gorgeous vest
So bright as her own bright eye;

And her joyous laugh on the breeze went forth
Like music passing by.

That brow is sadder than is wont,

And that eye is shadowed too,

While the silken fringe o'er her cheek doth fall,
And a tear is wandering through;

And the gladsome tone from her voice had gone,
As her bright cheek paler grew.

Her small hand rested on a lute;

Its breathings had died away;

But deeper chords in her spirit were stirred-
Fond tones that could not decay!

And she turned to hide, in her woman's pride,
Feelings she could not sway.

He took that hand within his own,

But her pulse beat quick the while, And a flickering hue to her cheek came back, To her lip a trembling smile,

As he fondly breathed of the flowers that wreathed Around his native isle.

"Lady, that gentle voice doth wake

A loved, remembered strain;

And the beautiful smile on thy lip hath stirred
The links of a golden chain;

And I love to gaze on thine eye's bright rays
Till the past comes back again.

"There is a cheek in mine own land,
Less rich its hue than thine,

And a fond, dark eye-but its shadowy light
Less brilliantly doth shine;

Yet the softest shade o'er that cheek that strayed
Still round my heart doth twine.”

She pressed her hand upon her brow,
Its throbbing pulse to hold-

For the fever's flush o'er her cheek had passed,
Though that hand was icy cold;

And the sighs that stole from her troubled soul
Her heart's deep secret told.

He had gazed upon that lovely face
In its beauty's richest pride;

He had listened full oft to the matchless tone
That swept o'er the water's tide;

But never had dreamed that her bright eye gleamed
Still brighter by his side.

He saw her now-that look of pride
Was only of the past,

And a fearful shadow of grief instead

O'er her jeweled brow was cast; While that quivering frame, like a reed, became, Uprooted by the blast.

A gallant bark is on the wave

Outspread each fluttering sail;
And sporteth the sun on the bright sea-foam,
And music on the gale:

Why sitteth alone that lovely one,

With brow and cheek so pale?

She watched that vessel's onward course,
# Till every trace was gone;

And the thought how her fever'd brow would cool,
'Neath those lonely waters borne:
Then she turned away from the dashing spray,
For she dared not gaze thereon.

There was no tear upon her cheek-
Each source was quenched and dry-

All parch'd as a shadowless lake might be
Beneath a burning sky,

When the flowers that drink from the water's brink
Have lain them down to die.

She knelt before a holy shrine,

Within a convent's wall;

1

While the vague, dim light of her eye but breathed Of the church-yard and the pall;

And there came no sound on the stillness round,
But her soft breath's rise and fall.

Yet thus she lingered, till the past
Became a cherished dream,
And its fond bright memories clouded not
Her lips' untroubled stream;

For her soul's deep love for the cross above,
Shone forth with a quenchless beam.

PROSPECTUS

OF AN INTENDED COURSE OF LECTURES ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF HUMBUG, BY PROFESSOR WOLFGANG VON BIBUNDTUCKER.

VARIOUS are the roads to immortality; but, however various, they admit of this classification, the legitimate and the illegitimate; the former being applied to those cases where a man works out his own claim, and the latter, where it is worked out for him by others, or by accidental circumstances. Sophroniscus would have never been heard of had he not accidentally begotten a son, Socrates; but Socrates wanted no accidental circumstance for his fame, except, perhaps, the trifling one of being born. However repugnant to my feelings illegitimacy may be, still, better that than nothing at all. Firmly impressed with this conviction, I hasten to achieve my immortality by communicating to the world the labors of my deceased friend, Professor Wolfgang Von Bibundtücker, who, after a life of folio-study, came over to England, made himself imperfectly acquainted with the language, and made every arrangement for the completion of the grand object of his life, the delivery of a "Course of Lectures on the Philosophy of Humbug." He chose England as the most fitting Professor Bibundtücker had a most cosmopolitan spirit, and, justly considering himself a denizen of the universe, intended to have spoken to the world at large through the medium of the "enlightened and liberal British public." But, alas! for the fate of Genius! Professor Wolfgang Von Bibundtücker, like the horse of the experimentalist, who died just as he had been taught to live without food, as soon as he had completed every arrangement for making his fortune and his fame, died of starvation in a remote corner of the universe known as St. Giles-in-the-Fields! Many a time has the Professor laid down his meerschaum, and shaking his head with a Burleigh significance, said, "Ah! my dear sir, philosophy is a great thing, but want is greater. Philosophy triumphs over the Past and the Future; but the Present-the Present, my dear sir, triumphs over it." It proved so, unfortunately for him.

scene.

Death is often a contretems-it was so with the Professor. He is gathered to the region where his progenitors awaited him; the living and rising generation suffer by his loss. The Professor was just the man to lecture on so important a subject. Earnest was he, and eloquent; subtle, yet profound; and, when warmed, not even Lord Brougham could have competed with him for invective. But he is gone from us, and all that remains of his life-devotedness is the Prospectus of

his Lectures, and some few stray notes found amongst his pipelights! When my friend first announced to me his intention, I was more inclined to laugh than to enter into his views, but he checked all levity with a profound glance of his single eye, and then in a grave, but earnest manner, slowly unfolded

his views.

"Humbug, sir," said he, "is the most universal of passions. It is the element by which we are supported in this breathing world. He that is most filled with it rises to the top, while the less fortunate sink to the bottom. Love, sir, was called by the Grecian sages-(a profound nation the Greeks, and great Humbugs!)—the first of the gods,-meaning thereby to exclude Humbug from the highest rank. But they were wrong, sir, they were wrong. Humbug is more elemental than Love; for is not Love full of Humbug? I would ask of you, sir, is it not?"

"Without doubt," I replied.

"Of course it is, sir, of course it is. Once, sir, when I was a young man, with a great deal of philosophy, and great ignorance, for I had little of that highest wisdom, Humbug, -I used to suppose that philosophy was the greatest thing in life; I used to suppose so, sir."

"And is it not?" I inquired, hurt at my ideas being thus outraged, "is it not?"

Professor Wolfgang Von Bibundtücker smoked away furiously without uttering a syllable. I sat "breathless like a nun," expecting his reply.

"You think it is," he at last replied. "You are young, sir, and will grow older, when you will learn, sir, that it is not. You will learn, sir, that so far from philosophy being the greatest thing in life, the greatest part of philosophy is Humbug, sir,-is Humbug." And he continued smoking with increasing vehemence.

"Then, Professor, why do you lecture on the 'Philosophy of Humbug?'" I asked.

study,-it has been the study of his life,-he has the formula and data, which these lectures are to be the medium of spreading over the civilized world.

A clever writer has said, 'Deceit is the strong but subtle chain which runs through all the members of a society, and links them together; trick or be tricked is the alteration; 'tis the way of the world, and without it intercourse would drop.' Deceit is the daughter of Humbug-need more be said? "Humbug has fallen into disrepute because many ignorant pretenders (odi profanum vulgus!) have taken to the practice without previously qualifying themselves. Why have they not succeeded? Because the Philosophy of it was to them a sealed book! A sickle may be a very convenient instrument to clean hedges with; but it requires a steady hand and a razor for a chin.

"What is the fruit of all experience (that expensive schoolmaster), of all the boasted knowledge of the world, but to learn how to rule mankind?—and how can you rule mankind but by Humbug?

"Humbug is knowledge, and knowledge is Humbug; an antithesis worthy of note. The science of flattery is one branch of the Philosophy of Humbug, and will be explained.

"In the course of twelve lectures every point of the Philosophy of Humbug will be developed, and rules laid down for the judicious practice of it, such as cannot fail to contribute toward the welfare of the individual in particular, and that of the world in general. Tickets for the course, Ten Guineas.

"Vivat Regina !"

Such is this extraordinary specimen; a fresh indication of the "march of mind." To add a comment would be superfluous. The best I can do is to give what notes of these intended lectures I may have. Here they are.

not try his accustomed rhetoric in defence? Because he was a Humbug. Had he replied, he would have lost his head. I can fancy the Professor eloquently expanding on this illus. tration. Again

"On the expression of opinion.-Always ascertain people's opinions, that you may regulate the expression of your own. Do not always assent to the opinions of others, or in time your assent will not be worth having; but differ with science." In another place I find a note on

"Humbug in emergencies-how useful.-Domitius Afar, "Sir, I show my art in so doing-there is Humbug in the the celebrated orator, a genius and a Humbug, on being pubvery amusement. The prevailing Humbug of the day among licly contradicted by Caligula, was silent, affecting to be overthe millstone-visioned everythinkingarian, is philosophy; noth-whelmed by the tyrant's eloquence. Why, gentlemen, did he ing goes down but philosophy. Teems not the press with it? Issue not works daily bearing the fine titles of Philosophy of Gardening, Philosophy of Health, Philosophy of Happiness, Philosophy of Travel, Philosophy of Fiction, Philosophy of Hair-cutting, &c.? Surely the scientific barber, deeply versed in all erudition and logical accumen of the curl-oblique, the curl-ringlet, or the curl-sausage, or the metaphysics of wig and whisker, is entitled to the name of sophos, and his art philosophy? May not the great pupils of the great Cocker call their labors in the addition and substraction of figures the Philosophy of Arithmetic? The age of dull and plodding 'common sense' has passed,-and what a grand successor has sprung up! How the mind expands with delight and wonderment, as it reflects on that refinement of intellect now pervading all classes! Have not women an intense craving for the name of Sophia? We have now sucking philosophers and lisping logicicians,-matter and motion in the cradle, space and time (wasted) in the school-room,-women theologians, and atheism at sweet seventeen.' Has not the 'Society' published an analysis of Bacon's Novum Organum, whereby the intellectual chimney-sweep (whom we may in organomic phraseology term one of the idola species, or 'idols of the den') will be enabled to philosophize and sweep chimneys on that grand' method,' and the tailor to cabbage cloth by induction? This, sir, is the age of philosophy, consequently of Humbug; therefore, to give my lectures a title suited to the public taste, I call them the Philosophy of Humbug.' O si sic omnia!"

Such were the nature of his confidential outporings on this subject. On me they made a deep impression; and nothing can exceed my regret at his not living to publicly enlighten us on this subject. The Prospectus, which I have still in my possession, written with his own dirty fingers, I here subjoin for the satisfaction of the world.

"PROSPECTUS

OF AN INTENDED COURSE OF TWELVE LECTURES ON
THE PHILOSOPHY OF HUMBUG,

To be delivered at the Royal Society of Literature, by
Professor Wolfgang Von Bibundtücker, (of Berlin).
"HUMBUG is as universal as light-all recognise it, all
practise it to a greater or less extent-none understand it.
To understand it, it must be considered as a science. For-
mula are required, as also data of these mankind are igno-
rant. Professor Wolgang Von Bibundtücker has made it a

"The science of differing in opinion.-Before you argue with a man, ascertain whether the opinion he is advocating is a rooted one, or merely struck off in the heat of the moment. If the former, you can scientifically humbug him. An ignora mus would under such circumstances agree with the rooted opinion. Short-sighted folly; You, instructed in the science of flattery, would differ with him; for what do you gain by acquiescence? The subject drops, but you differ. This draws him out to establish and defend his position. This is all you can desire. You continue the attack; but, after a vigorous resistance, you gradually yield. You see the perspicu ity of his reasoning, the applicability of his analogies, the depth and acuteness of his analysis, the beauty of his synthe sis, the severity of his induction, and the irresistibility of his conclusion!

"Do this with science, and you have conquered nobly. His amour propre, how exquisitely gratified!-he has convinced you!

"The scientific Humbug will make himself acquainted with the characteristics of those with whom he mingles. To those proud of ancestry, in what a lofty and sublime strain of panegyric can he soar!-and so on with the rest."

Another is headed

"The Humbug of Poetry.—People admire the deep feeling, the exquisite pathos, the sublimity, and fanciful touches of poetry. All Humbug, assure you, gentlemen! A man sitting down writing feelings which he does not feel,-laboring sentiment and sublimity in ten feet,-drawing upon Walker's Dictionary of Rhymes' for assistance,-blotting, and blotting, and altering, this they call poetry. I say, gentlemen, it is Humbug!"

Another has merely these fragmentary expressions! "What a profound Humbug is a patriot, and a physician, and a lawyer, and a lecturer?"

The last I cannot understand. Query-Did he intend, in his zeal for the exposition of Humbug, to expose himself?

Of a deep significance, no doubt, are these fragments of a great mind, could we but fairly penetrate them; but if they have important significance, what must have been the value of the "Lectures," had he lived to deliver them! My arithmetic will not carry me far enough to calculate it. My task is ended-I have shown the world what manner of man it had, and what it has lost! A marble tablet ought to be erected to his memory in every Royal Society in Europe, and no doubt will soon be.

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Oh dear is this gift from a kindly hand,
These lovely flowers from our own fair land;
By a gentle spell our thoughts they lead
To the violet bank and the primrose mead;
Though rocked on the ocean's billowy foam,
Our hearts return to the scenes of home,
And our cherished friends and our youthful hours
Arise at the sight of these English flowers.
Let us long delay their final doom,
Let us cheerfully tend their fleeting bloom;
Perchance, when a few brief days are o'er,
We may land our prize on another shore,
And surely all shall unite to praise
The triumphant science of modern days,
When flowrets culled beneath England's sky
Shall smile in America ere they die!

And these flowers a moral may convey ;-
To strangers we bend our rapid way,
Let us bear to them the feelings kind
That we knew in the land we left behind;
From jealous doubts and misgivings free,
May our countries join in unity,
And may days of friendly trust be ours,
Foretold by the smile of these English flowers!

A CORSICAN HUNT.

To the Editor of the Times.

SIR,-I do not know that mention has yet been made in your columns of the excellent field-sports of our island, and yet it will be difficult to find in Europe a country better stored with game than Corsica, or men naturally more fond of the chase than the Corsicans. Fishing and hunting are with us passions, and find us wonderfully pleasant occupation. To understand well the resources we find in them it would be necessary to have seen the places in which they are followed, and to have assisted at one of the almost romantic parties which so often recur in your country. To give but a single specimen of these amusements, you may perhaps like to hear some account of a hunt which took place some days since in the valleys of the Mozzolino and Luzzopejo, near Calvi.

The hunters departing from Calenzana at daybreak, arrived by evening in the valley of Mazzolino, where they encamped for the night. As soon as dawn began to appear four peasants were sent out with dogs to beat the bush, while the hunters repaired to different posts marked out for them by Mr. Joseph Marini, director of the chase, and one of the most skilful and distinguished huntsmen of Corsica. I must remark here, sir, that hunting has not been carried to the same perfection with us as with you; that depends chiefly on the nature of the country. Thus, among us, all hunts, whether of the stag, of the wild boar, or even small game, are conducted in nearly the same way; always on foot, without horn or trumpet. We have no other means of rousing the wild animals than the cries of the dogs and the men-no other means of getting at them but the musket and the ambush.

The thickets, which we call mackis, are so intricate and extensive, that it would be quite impossible for us to follow the game on horseback, or to use any other method of reaching it but a foot chase. While one part of the huntsmen are engaged in tracking and starting the animals, another lies in ambush at certain points where they know beforehand the game musc pass, and in that way it is always the musket that does ser

vice. Sometimes it happens that they rouse a stag, wound it, but cannot secure the prey; such is the strength of that animal that, though covered with wounds, and losing much blood, it escapes the pursuit of the boldest huntsmen. So that if care were not taken to start boars, hares, and partridges, at the same time with a stag, we should be often obliged to return to our tents with empty hands, without having gratified the vanity of a sportsman.

The huntsmen then were at their respective posts, and the quest was followed with ardor and determination. A signal was soon made from the heights, and a stag of prodigious size appeared. The dogs at once set on him in the plain, and he was immediately hit by several balls. His strength for a moment seemed doubled, but it soon deserted him, and he fell exhausted on the bank of a rivulet. While some of the huntsmen were busy with the stag, another set took aim at a herd of wild boars, which now showed itself in great force; eighty were counted; but between the difficulty of the ground, and the disorder introduced among the huntsmen, by the different movements made to reach the wounded stag, we could only kill four. The others, part of which were wounded, effected their escape.

We now turned our attention to the smaller game. We advanced in the direction of the beautiful valley of Mezzolino, where the localities are so favourable, and the game in such great abundance, that in a few hours we killed 15 hares and about 100 partridges. The manager of the hunt, Mr. Joseph Marini, had his firelock still loaded, while the huntsmen were passing from one valley to the other; a covey of partridges suddenly rose; he fired at one, and hit it at the junction of the neck, which he severed from the body. I state this fact that you may remark the address of our huntsmen.

This hunt, favoured by splendid weather, which is very general in our country, was one of the luckiest that has been known. The valleys of Mazzolino and Luzzopejo approach the sea on the side of Galeria. The Faugo, a river which crosses a part of the forest, throws itselfinto the gulf below the town of Genois, and forms in that place a kind of marsh bordered by willows, on which the wild vine climbs; the spot is full of water-fowl; and you may have excellent sport there with the mallard, the sea-duck, and a particular kind of wild goose.

The neighbourhood of the sea enables sportsmen to indulge themselves with the pleasure of net-fishing, line-fishing, and shell-fish gathering. So you see, sir, we are not so much to be pitied in the sad solitudes of our mountains, since they offer so many sources of diversion. Alas! what will become of us when they have cut down our forests, and pierced our bushes with high roads? I have the honor to be, &c.

Sablonnière Hotel, London, Dec. 3.

COLONNA LECA.

NEW SONG.

BY THE LATE THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

It was a dream of perfect bliss,
Too beautiful to last,

I seem'd to welcome back again
The bright days of the past!
I was a boy-my mimic ship

Sail'd down the village stream, And I was gay and innocent

But ah! it was a dream.

And soon I left the childish toy

For those of manhood's choice, The beauty of a woman's form,

The sweetness of her voice: I thought she gave me blameless love, The nursling of esteemAnd that such love I merited; But ah! it was a dream!

I saw my falsehood wound her heart,
I saw her cheek grow pale,
But o'er her fate the vision threw
A bright delusive veil:

I thought she liv'd, and that I saw
Our bridal torches gleam;
And I was happy with my bride-
But ah! it was a dream!

AUBER AND HIS NEW OPERA. 'The Fairy Lake,' the last of Auber's operas, shows in a striking light the decaying power of this popular and once deservedly esteemed composer. Auber now writes with such rapidity that he has no time to bestow any thing like reflection on any of his works. They come from his hands crude and ill-digested, as the effusions of the veriest tyro; and were it not for his unrivalled knowledge of instrumentation, which throws dust in the eyes of his auditors, they would be rated according to their real desert, as unequivocal trash. Here and there, for Auber cannot, if he would, be uniformly dull, glimpses of his former power, which enchanted us so lately in 'La Muette de Portici,'' Fra Diavolo,' 'La Financée,' and the gorgeous and under-rated 'Gustave,' appear like evanescent dreams, their appearance and hasty departure making the remaining dullness even more dull and insupportable.

Putting aside the Domino Noir,' the Bayadere,' and the charming L'Estocq,' all his latter operas are open to the severest censure; not on account of any defect in musical acumen, but for continued and tiresome repetition of the worst peculiarities of his own works. His invention, in which, but ten years ago, only Rossini could rival him, is virtually departed to that dreary bourne from whence no traveller returns.' His fancy, once so felicitously bright, so etherially sparkling, is utterly and irrecoverably dead. His melodies are thoroughly deficient in that healthy freshness for which they were formerly invariably distinguished, even in their most popular, and, so to speak, vulgar phases. In fine, Auber, the once great and original, the ever-to-be esteemed and admired, for we ought not to allow his ancient lustre to be extinguished by his present lamented dimness, the former magician of the second sphere of the heaven of music, the most widely popular, and prodigiously fanciful (though hardly ever imaginative) composer in the whole range of musical history, is virtually extinguished in the domain of art. His influence, unhappily, still remains, as may be seen in the numerous operas of his miserable and feeble imitators, of which he has as many, aye, even more, than Rossini.

cannot, however, boast one atom more originality than the

rest.

As for the modern German composers, their overtures are invariably Auber Germanized, and rendered thereby infinitely less amusing. We must confess that we prefer the overture of "La Muette de Portici," to the whole mass of them. Lindpointer, Lobe, Kalliwoda, Marschner, (almost always,) and a host of others, too numerous and too stupid to particularize, are all open to the accusation of tincturing their overtures (in general weak and puerile) with Auberisms ad infinitum. Of course, we need scarcely say, that we include not in this catalogue the musician-like overtures of Spohr, the splendid creations of Mendelssohn, or the dullness of Schneider and Kuhlau, only like themselves. As for Lachner (so much vaunted,) Hiller, and Maurer, we at once profess an utter disrelish of their works, Hector Berlioz, the pet of the continent, we must confess our inability to comprehend; and we venture to say, that he is not fit to hold a candle to-Bennett, Macfarren, and Mudie; much less can we think of comparing him to Mendelssohn, or Spohr.

To conclude this long digression, the influence of Auber has extended itself to two of the most eminent English musicians, Balfe and Edward Loder-the former (who copies, however, from Rossini) capable, if he would condescend to study and reflect, of becoming an ornament to his art and the latter, if he would only condescend to reflect, gifted by nature with all the requisites for a composer of the very highest order. Balfe only supports us in this opinion by his fine instrumentation, clearness of design, and prodigious facility; occasionally only betraying his real power; but Loder, in addition to all this, in a much greater degree, has scattered over his numerous works, evidences of a power inferior to few, if any, existing composers. We must, however, in justice avow, that it yet remains for him to show what he can effect in instrumental music; though we confidently believe that he can if he chooses, make himself fully worthy of a place by the side of the three great names that modern English art is proud to boast of. He would doubtless be offended at our suggesting that he should study for a time the highest departments of musical composiWhat are the effusions of such small spirits as Adam, Ha- tion, viz. symphonies, quartets, concertos, overtures, &c., under lery, Grisar, and twenty more of the same calibre, but poor Cipriani Potter, the first master in Europe, with (perhaps) the and lustreless mimicry of the defects of this really great gen- solitary exception of Cherubini; but maugre his anger, for ius?—himself at the present moment, (in which he presents a which we stand fully prepared, we do suggest it, and he may remarkable contrast to Rossini) on an equality with his mea- take it as he pleases: gre and inventionless disciples. The style of Auber has had a far greater influence over the age than that of Rossini; it has tinged deeply the works of all the modern Italian composers, and of nearly all the Germans. This we assert without fear of being accused of paradox, though a fact not hitherto observed. We have only to call the operas of the Italians, and the instrumental works (especially overtures) of the most popular Germaus, to support our opinion.

We

As for Bellini, Donizetti, Marliani, and their tribe-they are quite as much indebted to Auber as to Rossini. Their harmonies, which have as great an influence on the character of their music, as their melodies, are invariably French, and therefore Auber-ish, Auber being the decided representative of the modern French school, having dethroned the once omnipotent Boildieu. Their use of sequences of sevenths, of the sharp-fifth, of the confusion of the major and miner modes, &c., all peculiarities originating in Auber, and profusely scat tered over his works, proclaims them at once his followers, and gives the predominant coloring to their manner. must humbly confess our absolute inability to distinguish the difference between any two of these composers. Bellini, the most popular (and the worst musician) of the pack, indulges perhaps more frequently in those monotonous and sickly cantabile solos, written for the sake of displaying the charlatanic eccentricities of perhaps the greatest musical quack in all Europe-Signor Rubini;*-but this peculiarly nauseating trait is indulged in, more or less, by all of them. Donizetti, in his Lucia di Lammermoor,' is absolutely somniferous with the profusion of cantabiles, à la Rubini, in the last act; so much so, that we invariably utter a mental ejaculation of thanksgiving to heaven when the singer falls dead into the arms of his attendant. Mercadanto has less of this than any of his compatriots, is by far the best musician, and the only one who imitates Rossinit (entirely) and owes nothing to Auber. He

* Who may safely be cited as one of the chief causes of that musical degeneracy which has driven Cherubini, and even Rossini from Italy. Perhaps we may also except Pacini, the composer of L'Ultime Gi orno di Pompeio.

'mediocribus esse poetis

Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnæ.'

The same applies to music, even more essentially, and Horace must therefore be our mediator with Mr. Edward Loder, and satisfy his doubtless accumulating irascibility. Ravenons a nos moutons. What has the French composer led us to insinuate? Simply this: that Genius, though admirable and desirable, is in no way endurable, unless accompanied by study, reflection, and an indomitable perseverance in acquiring every resource in the boundless field of art.

A composer, a painter, a poet, or a novelist, though superficial, may so dazzle, for a time, by his brilliancy, the eyes of even the discerning, that they shall become blind to his faults; but when his star shall have receded, when the fire of his young invention shall be put out, and shall no more cast around him a deceptive glare of light, rigid and philosophic criticism steps forth and erases his name from the catalogue of the glo rious, uttering these words: "Thou hast fulfilled thy mission, which was a moment of glory in the great ocean of eternity; thy course has been as that of the

'beam-like ephemeris Whose path is the lightning's.'

Thy soul was not of the giant order of the mighty dead: be thou for ever blotted out for the memory of the worthy. Thy name shall be as a thing which was not; and thy melodies, of which thou hast been more prodigal than the nightingale, who signs a continuous stream, shall be scattered and lost, like the milk of the Arab maiden in the desert-some to the mountains, some to the plains, and some to the dead waters of oblivion. Such as remain shall not bring thee glory, but shall in the maze of time be attributed to others who have known thee not. Thou hast written thy thoughts on the sand, and the wind has dispersed them to nonentity."

Such, allegorically speaking, will be the doom of Auber, and all like Auber, who make a profane use of the greatest endowment of our nature-sacred and revered genius.

POEMS BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

I am truly delighted with the great curiosity and interest you express in regard to Allston; for I love in him the man, the painter, and the poet. He still lives in retirement at Cambridge-port, the life of an artist, lapped in dreams elysian, and making, to use his own words

"the body's indolence The vigor of the mind."

Incited by what you said, I took from the shelf, this evening, his little volume of poems, and passed a couple of delightful hours amid his magic landscapes. I have often read the "Sylphs of the Seasons," but never with so much delight as this evening. It is full of beautiful pictures; as are all his poems. Indeed, I think him one of the most picturesque of the English poets. This little volume is a gallery filled with delicious landscapes, and forms and faces of ideal beauty, much resembling those he has painted on canvass. He is a great artist in words as well as in colors. But in his case, as in that of Michael Angelo, the fame of the painter has eclipsed that of the poet.

That you may not think that I speak unwisely and at random, I will send you a few passages from among these which have particularly struck me this evening, for I do not believe you have a copy of his poems, though you ought to be ashamed to confess it.

Here is a landscape worthy of the master. The Sylph of Summer, whose "golden hair half veils her sunny eyes," is speaking.

"And then, as grew thy languid mood,
To some embow'ring silent wood

I led thy careless way;

Where high from tree to tree in air

Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare
So bright! as if entangled there

The sun had left a ray ;

Or lur'd thee to some beetling steep
To mark the deep and quiet sleep
That wrapt the tarn below;

And mountain blue and forest green

Inverted on its planes serene,

Dim gleaming through the filmy sheen

That glaz'd the painted show."

Nor aught is seen his course to mark, Save when athwart the region dark, His brazen helm is spied afar, Bright-trailing like a falling star.

I think these passages will sustain me in what I said above of Allston's power of painting in words. But he is gifted with higher poetic power than this-with the power of representing in language, forms and images purely ideal. In proof take these two sonnets. I freely say, that I remember none of Michael Angelo's which are superior.

I.

II.

ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF ÆOLUS.

BY PELEGRINO TIBRALDI.

Full well, Tibraldi, did thy kindred mind
The mighty spell of Boneroti own.
Like one who, reading magic words, received
The gift of intercourse with worlds unknown,
'Twas thine, decyph'ring Nature's mystic leaves,
To hold strange converse with the viewless wind;
To see the spirits in embodied forms,
Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms,
For lo! obedient to thy bidding, teems

Fierce into shape their stern relentless Lord;
His form of motion ever-restless seems;

Or, if to rest inclin'd his turbid soul,

On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word
To subject winds, that sweep the desert pole.
ON REMBRANDT;

OCCASIONED BY HIS PICTURE OF JACOB'S DREAM.

As in that twilight, superstitious age

When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind
Seem'd fraught with meanings of supernal kind,

When e'en the learned philosophic sage,

Wont with the stars through boundless space to range, Listen'd with rev'rence to the changeling's tale;

E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange!

E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail;

That like the rambling of an idiot's speech,

No image giving of a thing on earth,

Nor thought significant in Reason's reach,

Yet in their random shadowings give birth

To thoughts and things from other worlds that come,
And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb.

I am sure you will admire these passages as much as I do,

Then here is a sea-piece; a vessel with its dim reflection in and recognize in them the same genius that you do in Allston's

the water at night.

"Then, wrapt in night, the scudding bark,

(That seem'd, self-pois'd amid the dark, Through upper air to leap,)

Beheld, from thy most fearful height,

The rapid dolphin's azure light

Cleave, like a living meteor bright,

The darkness of the deep."

Another sea-piece, in November.

"And led thee, when the storm was o'er,

To hear the sullen ocean roar,

By dreadful calm opprest;

Which still, though not a breeze was there,
No mountain billows heav'd in air,
As if a thing of life it were

That strove in vain for rest."

Then see, what a delicious picture follows' Can anything be more exquisitely beautiful than this description of one of the commonest things in nature-the frost-work on a window!

"Or see at dawn of eastern light

The frosty toil of Fays by night,

On pane of casement clear,

Where bright the mimic glaciers shine,
And Alps, with many a mountain pine,
And armed knights from Palestine

In winding march appear."

There is a whole poem in those last four lines; and it would be very difficult to find any other four lines in all the range of poetry, which could present at once to the imagination so many br lliant images.

These passages are from the "Sylphs of the Seasons." In thy other poems you will find much of the same power of description. For example, the flight of Mercury, in the "Two Painters."

paintings. And yet all these things were written in his youth, when the spring of life, like his own poetic spring,

"with living melody

Of birds in choral symphony,
First wak'd his soul to poesy,
To piety and love."

MOORE'S LAST SONG.

The correspondent of the Star says: "After a long pause, Moore has reappeared in the character of poet and composer. Six songs have just been published, of which he has written the words, and to which he has given the music. The following (which is the best) will show that the old vein is by no means worked out, and that his muse, if not as gay and spirited as it was in days of yore, is as graceful and melodious:" When to sad music silent you listen,

And tears in those eye-lids tremble like dew,
Oh! then there dwells in those eyes, as they glisten,
A sweet, holy charm that mirth never knew.

But when some lively strain, resounding,

Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow,
Oh! then, the young deer, o'er the hills bounding,
Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest,
A light so divine thy features then wear,
That, when to some planet thy bright eye thou raisest,
We feel 't is thy home thou art looking for there.

But when the word for the gay dance is given,
So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth,
Oh! then we say, ne'er leave earth for heaven,
But linger still here, to make heaven of earth!

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