limbos and new hells, wherein they might include our books also within the number of their damned."

That delinquencies against private character, public morals, religion, government, and the peace of society, may be committed by an unlicensed press, there is no doubt. To use again the words of Milton, "Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them, to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are. Nay they do preserve, as in a vial, the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively and vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth, and, being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. Milton was no more insensible to the moral and political mischief intended by licentious writers, than M. ANCILLON himself is. Nay, there is not a single argument, no not one, which the latter has employed in defence of a censorship on the press, which the former did not contemplate, and did not refute, above a hundred and fifty years ago.

It is, however, time for us to close: but we must add that the volumes contain an ingenious Essay on the characteristic Distinction between the Governments of Europe and those of Asia and Africa; and another, which we have read with much pleasure, on the Literature of Antient and Modern Times: also, a Collection of Political Axioms; Detached Thoughts; an Essay on the Forms of Civil Society, to which we have already adverted; and one or two others; all displaying an elegant and cultivated mind, but a mind prone to paradox, and to the love-perhaps, the affectation of singularity.

Paris.

ART. VI. Vie de Rossini, &c.; i. e. The Life of Rossini. By M. DE STENDHAL. Second Edition. 8vo. pp. 620. 1824. Imported by Treuttel and Co. Price 10s. 6d. Memoirs of Rossini. By the Author of the Lives of Haydn and Mozart. 8vo. pp. 320. 10s. 6d. Boards. Hookham, London. 1824.

THE

HE lively writer who assumes the name of De Stendhal is well known both on the Continent and in this country, and has contributed very largely to the amusement of the public. Indeed, whatever difference of opinion may exist as to the soundness of his criticisms on matters of taste, yet the gay spirit in which those criticisms are delivered, and the variety of anecdote with which they are accompanied, render his volumes by no means unacceptable to the generality of readers. His biography of Haydn* and of Mozart was accordingly translated into English, and we have now before * See another account of Haydn in Art. III. of this Appendix.

us

us an imperfect version of the "Vie de Rossini." As this "celeberrimo maestro" occupies, at the present moment, a conspicuous place in the musical and fashionable world, we shall present to our readers a succinct account of his life.

Gioacchino Rossini was born on the 29th of February, 1792, at Pesaro, in the states of the Church. His father was an inferior player on the French horn, and his mother a seconda donna of passable talents. In 1799 he was sent to Bologna, though he did not begin to study music until 1804: but so great was his proficiency, that in 1806 he was able to sing at sight, and considerable hopes were entertained of his future excellence. In the same year he quitted Bologna, and made the musical tour of Romagna, presiding at the orchestra in the little towns through which he passed. In 1807 he gave up singing in the church, entered the Lyceum of Bologna, and received lessons in music from P. Stanislao Mattei. Il pianto d'Armonia, a cantata composed in the year 1808, was Rossini's first essay in vocal music; and his name had now become so well known that he was chosen to preside at the performance of Haydn's "Four Seasons" at Bologna.— "La Cambiale di Matrimonio," in one act, was the first of his operas performed on the stage, and was represented at the Theatre of San Mosè in Venice, whither the young musician had been sent by a lady who fostered his rising talents. "L'Equivoco Stravangante" and "L'Inganno Felice" succeeded this opera. In 1812, Rossini again visited Venice, and brought out an oratorio intitled "Ciro in Babilonia."

At the Venetian carnival of 1813, Rossini produced his celebrated opera of Tancredi; which, as M. DE STENDHAL remarks, created'une vraie fureur' among the Italians.- From the gondolier to the highest noble, every one was repeating

"Mi rivedrai, ti revedrò;

and even the Judges in the courts of law were obliged to impose silence on the auditory, who were ceaselessly humming ti revedrò.-M. DE STENDHAL has given a critical analysis of this beautiful opera, which made the tour of Europe in the short space of four years: but we cannot follow him through all his observations, many of which are striking and amusing; as for instance his fanciful parallel between Rossini and Sir Walter Scott. We shall, however, extract a curious anecdote, connected with that most delicious and captivating air, "Tu che accendi." In Venice, it is called "L'aria dei rizi," (the Rice Air,) an appellation which has its origin in a custom peculiar to Lombardy. The dinner of all ranks there commences invariably with a plate of rice; and it is customary for the cook, lest the rice should be overboiled, to inquire before

the

the dinner is sent up whether the persons are ready for the rice. In the interval which elapsed between this question and the appearance of his dinner, Rossini is said to have composed this air, which is perhaps at present the most popular composition in Europe.

The reputation of Rossini as a composer was now fully established; and the remainder of his memoirs consists of an account of his various engagements in Italy, at Vienna, and in London, where his biographer takes leave of him. Numerous criticisms on his later operas are interspersed throughout the narrative; which is also seasoned with some occasional anecdotes, well fitted perhaps for the small talk of a Greenroom, but scarcely worthy of being put on record in two languages. The most interesting portions of the volume, to those who are not capable of following the author in his critical remarks, will be found to be his observations on national taste and charaeter, which are in general lively, acute, and just but many of these passages, especially when any political allusion could be discovered in them, have been unwisely omitted by the English translator. Thus the following remark on the want of taste among the English is wholly passed over:

In England, pride and religious fanaticism are the deadly enemies of the fine arts. Among the higher classes, the passions are repressed by a sensitive timidity, which is only one of the many shapes that pride assumes; while they are annihilated among the young by the horrible necessity of devoting fifteen hours daily to laborious exertion, under the penalty of perishing with hunger in the streets.'

The people of this country, indeed, have little idea of the important place which music occupies in the life of an Italian: but in fact the House of Commons with us, vitally as it rules over our persons and our pockets, is not more the object of public attention than the opera is with the Italians. The following extract will shew the extent to which this musical mania is carried, more especially in the smaller towns:

We left Rossini rehearsing his opera at a crazy piano, in the ridotto of some little theatre, say Pavia or Imola. If this little obscure green-room is sometimes the sanctuary of musical genius and of an enthusiasm for the arts, there are also times when it becomes the arena on which lofty pretensions and wounded pride descend to settle their furious, and not unfrequently grotesque disputes. The crazy piano has witnessed many of these tumultuous scenes: nay, there have been moments when the poor instrument itself was not allowed to remain neutral; it has been broken by many an infuriate fist, and hurled in fragments at the heads of the combat

21

ants.

ants. I strongly advise the curious traveller who makes the tour of Italy, and feels an interest in the arts, not to neglect this spectacle. The interior of this green-room forms a topic of conversation for a whole town. Their future pleasure or ennui, during the gayest month of the year, chiefly depends upon the success or failure of the new opera; and this is again dependent, in a great degree, upon the good or bad understanding that exists between the members of this irritable synod. Wrapt up in their intense anxiety about the issue of the event, this little town forgets for a time that there is any thing else going on in the world; and it is during this state of uncertainty that the impressario plays an admirable part; his vanity knows no bounds; he is all swagger and pompous importance, and is, to the very letter, the first man in his part of the world. I have seen bankers, and men of avarice too, not regret the purchase of these flattering honours at the loss of fifteen hundred louis. The poet Sografi has written a charming little piece, in one act, on the adventures and pretensions of a strolling company of singers. It contains the character of a German tenor, who does not understand a word of Italian, which is laughable in the extreme. Yet outré as some of the characters are which he has painted, they have had their living representations. Marchesi, the famous soprano of Milan, could never, in the latter years of his theatrical career, be prevailed upon to sing the opening song, unless either mounted on horseback, or stationed on the top of some lofty eminence. At all events, the plume of white feathers, that nodded on his helmet, must not be less than six feet in height.

Even in our times, Crivelli refuses to sing his first air, unless it contains the words felice ognora, on which he finds it so convenient to run his divisions.

But let us return to our little Italian town, which we left in the anxiety, or rather in the agitation, that precedes the day of the first representation of an opera. At length the most important of evenings arrives. The maestro takes his place at the piano; the theatre overflows; people have flocked from ten leagues' distance. The curious form an encampment around the theatre in their calashes; all the inns are filled to excess, where insolence reigns at its height. All occupations have ceased; at the moment of the performance, the town has the aspect of a desert. All the passions, all the solicitudes, all the life of a whole population is concentrated in the theatre.

The overture commences; so intense is the attention, that the buzzing of a fly could be heard. On its conclusion the most tremendous uproar ensues. It is either applauded to the clouds, or hissed or rather howled at without mercy. It is not in Italy as in other countries, where the first representation is seldom decisive, and where either vanity or timidity prevents each man from intruding his individual opinion, lest it should be found in discordance with the opinions of the majority. In an Italian theatre, they shout, they scream, they stamp, they belabour the backs of the seats with their canes, with all the violence of persons possessed. It is thus

that

that they force upon others the judgment which they have formed, and strive to prove that it is the only sound one; for, strange to say, there is no intolerance equal to that of the eminently sensitive. When you see a man moderate and reasonable in what regards the arts, begin to talk to him of history, politics, or political economy; such a man will make a distinguished magistrate, a good physician, a sound lawyer, an excellent academician, in a word, whatever you will, except an enthusiast in music, or painting.

At the close of each air the same terrific uproar ensues; the bellowings of an angry sea could give but a faint idea of its fury.

Such, at the same time, is the taste of an Italian audience, that they at once distinguish whether the merit of an air belongs to the singer or the composer. The cry is Bravo, David! Bravo, Pesaroni! or the whole theatre resounds with, Bravo, maestro! Rossini then rises from his place at the piano, his countenance wearing an air of gravity, a thing very unusual with him; he makes three obeisances, which are followed by salvos of applause, mingled with a variety of short and panegyrical phrases. This done, they proceed to the next piece.'

The ensuing anecdote is a proof at once of the indolence of Rossini and of the facility with which he composes :

During his residence in Venice this year, (1813,) he lodged in a little room at one of the small inns. When the weather was cold, he used to lie and write his music in bed, in order to save the expense of firing. On one of these occasions, a duet, which he had just finished for a new opera, "Il Figlio per Azzardo," slipped from the bed, and fell on the floor. Rossini peeped for it in vain from under the bed-clothes, it had fallen under the bed. After many a painful effort, he crept from his snug place, and leaned over the side of the bed to look for it. He sees it, but it lies beyond the reach of his arm; he makes one or two ineffectual efforts to reach it, he is half frozen with cold, and, wrapping himself up in the coverlid, exclaims, "Curse the duet, I will write it over again; there will be nothing difficult in this, since I know it by heart." He began again, but not a single idea could he retrace; he fidgets about for some time, he scrawls, — but not a note can he recall. Still his indolence will not let him get out of bed to reach the unfortunate paper. "Well!" he exclaims in a fit of impatience, "I will re-write the whole duet. Let such composers as are rich enough keep fires in their chambers. I cannot afford it. There let the confounded paper lie. It has fallen, and it would not be lucky to pick it up again."

He had scarcely finished the second duet when one of his friends entered. "Have the goodness to reach me the duet that lies under the bed." The friend poked it out with his cane, and gave it to Rossini. "Come," says the composer, snuggling close in his bed, "I will sing you these two duets, and do you tell me which pleases you best." The friend gave the preference to the