tune had fallen upon him. Even Weber, the gentle, who defended his old fellow-labourer in public, condemned him in private. "Ah!" says Weber, "you renounce us Germans then !" "No," says Meyerbeer, "I'm going to regenerate you!" say; and nothing bars his passage. He is rich; | an air which told him they felt a great misforhe may enjoy the dolce far niente; but he has declared he will be great. He wishes to prove his belief of the life hereafter by leaving a great memory on earth; and he works as hard as though his bread depended on it. He lives for bis art-in its cause he hesitates at no sacrifice of time, travel, fatigue, or gold. His life shows he cares little for honours, pleasures, or fortune. He worships at the shrine he first turned to as a child, and he seems to say, "Thee only!" His art is not subservient to fortune. He could make a hundred times his present income if he chose to flood the market. He loves art too well to do so. For many years the thirst for gold kept almost all composers out of the French opera-houses except Auber-kept almost all dramatic authors out of the theatres except Alexander Dumas and the late Eugene Scribe; but not so Meyerbeer. Between 1832, the year when "Robert" was produced to the present year of grace, Meyerbeer has only produced five operas-" Robert the Devil," "Les Huguenots," ," "Le Prophète," "L'Etoile du Nord," and "Dinorah." Between each of these productions he has left the operas open and free five average years, taking only one year for the absolute run of his works. Can Auber say this? or could charming commonplace Adolphe Adam, who blocked with a three days' work every chance to the young aspirant? Meyerbeer is the true artist; for he loves perfection only. He will not publish his early works: he fears to weaken the strength of his five mighty works. But to return to the young and comparatively unknown composer. He had not forgotten the failure of his first opera; he essayed in his second to avoid its faults. The work "Abimelech; or, The Two Caliphs," produced at the grand opera at Vienna, fell dead. Did Meyerbeer throw up composition in disgust? Did he content himself with Vogler's assurance that the opera was scientifically perfect? No: he investigated the cause of his failure; felt sure that mere scientific overweight was the secret, and started for Italy, where music-be it good, bad, or indifferent-seems to be an instinct rather than a reason. At Venice the melodious works of Rossinithe man who has framed his genius with the most success upon the national Italian revelation of melody-became a new world to Meyerbeer. For three years he worked in this natural school, and then produced the "Romilda e Constanza," at Padua; and two years later he produced the "Emma di Risburgo," in that Venetian opera-house within which "Tancredi" had so overpowered him: and the "Emma" was as successful as the "Tancredi" itself. This was in 1820, and yet Meyerbeer has never reproduced this opera. He feels that it is not equal to the five-and it remains, and will remain, unknown. Upon his return to Germany, all cried shame upon his Italian successes. The journals called him a renegade, and his friends met him with Thereupon Weber thought his friend quite lost, and, on leaving him, declared that he (Weber) would prove that a purely German opera should be written which should be "as successful as any work Rossini ever penned." Weber was right; for, eighteen months after, he produced the "Freischütz," at Berlin'; but the terrible non-success of the "Oberon" perhaps proved that Meyerbeer was in the right. The German school of music is, beyond a doubt, unimpassioned; while, as a rule, the musical faithful are the most impassioned people amongst men. Perhaps the first opera by Meyerbeer which really created a great sensation was the "Crociato," played for the first time in 1824. This was about the eighth work, and it made the tour of the civilized world. It succeeded everywhere except in Paris, where the citizens, more Italian than the Italians themselves, made precisely the objections to this composer which many critics do to Verdi at this day-the singers were overpowered by the orchestra. However, three years later, and when this patient composer was more than thirty years of age, the opera was again played, and created a sensation. What think you aided its first failure amongst those fickle Parisians? A child forms one of the cast of characters, and on this occasion the infant yawned in answer to the passionate address of his mother. The audience laughed, and the opera (against which a musical prejudice had already been taken) was a failure for three years. About this time, in his thirty-third year, Meyerbeer married. His voice was hushed for several years from that date, and people said his young wife had made him forget his art. How the world judges! He was overwhelmed with grief; his children died as they were born; the Jewish father knew the tenets of his faith, and "sat apart with his face to the wall." But his voice wept, and to this time we owe the dozen psalms, the Stabat, the Miserere, and the Te Deum. You see his grief-to the world it was a gain. You shall go into a Christian church, and hear the touching wail of a Miserere; perchance it is that which the Jewish father wrote in the desolation of death. The writer of this paper has often thought that the great geniuses of the world are pigmy reflexions of the Greatest of all Genius who died for us. Read their lives, you will only too often find great sorrow and affliction, which result in good towards the world. Meyerbeer came from his seclusion in 1830, and then commenced the rumours of the first great opera, the "Robert the Devil." It was first intended for the Opera Comique, this terrible, unearthly, enthusiastic masterpiece. How ever, Rochefoucauld exerted his voice, and the, work went to the Grand Opera. But the "three days" intervened; the arts were paralyzed, and another year passed away before the opera was again in process of rehearsal. Of the sum Meyerbeer had to pay before this work was produced we have already spoken. He had never hesitated to sacrifice his fortune in order to force his works before the public. He knew he ought to be known, and he was determined to make his fortune subservient to his genius. The man's patience and faith have been almost God-like. We have recounted the fiasco of the "Crociato," owing, in a great measure, to a yawning child. It did not stay Meyerbeer any more than did the misfortunes of the first night of "Robert." The mistakes, the absurdities committed were awful; but it is clear they never troubled Meyerbeer: he knew he must take his place. The first disaster was the fall of a stage-chandelier, and the consequent crash of a dozen or so of lamps. Again: in the awful graveyard-scene, Taglioni was stretched upon a grave as the wicked abbess, when she saw a piece of machinery falling, and only had time to come to life and retire with remarkable rapidity, when the machinery in question fell over the very spot upon which she had been lying. Her simulated death might have been real had she not possessed as much presence of mind as grace and beauty. People accustomed to "first nights," will be thoroughly able to comprehend the injury such mishaps do to the piece under representation. They destroy the vraisemblance, and only too frequently cause utter and irremediable failure. And Meyerbeer must have known this-no man better; and yet he sat out the martyrdom of his own opera. But the concluding catastrophe was the most terrible. We all know that awful trio in which Bertram, the demon, tries to obtain eternal mastery over Robert, while on the other side Alice prays for his soul. We all know how the splendid work ends-the sinking of the demon into the earth, and the salvation of Robert. Well, on this first night, the Robert of the cast, the great Nourrit, carried away by the enthusiasm of his music, actually precipitated himself through the trap by which Bertram had departed, instead of remaining on earth to marry the Princess Isabella, and the entire story was inverted. All those persons attached to the theatre, and who saw the catastrophe, came to the immediate conclusion that Nourrit was killed; and Alice (Mde. Dorus), struck voiceless at the departure of her companion, had only time to stagger off the stage before she became insensible. Meanwhile, three very different views of the business were being taken. The surprised public supposed Robert preferred Hades to heaven. The chorus, and other people engaged on the stage, felt certain Nourrit was killed; while below the stage the Bertram of the evening was being inexpressibly surprised at the sight of Robert plumping upon the mattress from which he himself had only just removed, and which had happily not been withdrawn by the attendants. Of course the curtain fell upon the unfinished opera; for it was quite impossible to reproduce Robert on earth after his descent. And through all this misfortune, this fiasco, sat Meyerbeerhe who worked years to obtain even a small end; to whom perfection was so dear that he looked upon no time, trouble, or expense as wasted in attaining it. He must have surely gone home that night with a bitter heart. He had done all he could to procure the success of the opera, and its effects had been destroyed, and the end made ridiculous. But the second night repaid all. Everything was perfect; the trumpet of victory sounded loudly, and the world, within a few days, learnt that another great man was added to Fame's muster-roll. From that day to this (now nearly thirty years ago) Meyerbeer has never tottered on his throne. Rossini might sneer, but the world saluted; and though all the opera-houses in the world would welcome a new work from his pen, when any price was offered him, he remained the same untiring working genius he had ever been. "Perfection," he has always seemed to say. Before this quality all others must give way. For some years no opera came from Meyerbeer. "Robert," remained the one great unapproachable success of the grand opera. Then came the " Huguenots": its success is knownit was greater than that of "Robert," and it is to this day the leading opera of the age. Of Meyerbeer's thirst for perfection the rehearsal of this opera gives a wondrous proof. In the midst of the hard work Mde. Meyerbeer fell ill, and was recommended to travel in Italy. As loving a husband as great a genius, Meyerbeer could not part from his wife, yet he could not allow the production of his opera under other guidance than his own. He gathered together every music-book belonging to the score (they completely filled his carriage), and carried them away into Italy with him. "My musique is myself," he said, and cheerfully paid the stipulated fine of £1,200. (30,000 f.) This is real genius-" perfection, or naught." "The Huguenots" was first played in 1836. The success of this indisputably greatest work of the master it is impossible to describe in mere words-places to hear the early performances were sold by auction. Many years were to pass before "Le Prophète" carried the world by storm. It was not played till 1849. The "Etoile du Nord," followed more rapidly-being produced at the Opera Comique, in 1854. The last opera, "Dinorah," was played in 1859, at the same house. Each of these operas was a Meyerbeer success more cannot be said. And here it becomes necessary to endeavour This to give a cause for Meyerbeer's success. is most difficult, because no man has yet been able to discover rules for the divine art. This is proved by the fact that every great master has in his struggling days been despised. Rossini was called in ridicule "La Scala," because of his love of difficult, however wondrously melodious, passages; Bellini was honoured with the name of "Eau-sucré," because of his sweetness; Meyerbeer was honoured with the name of "The Thunderer," and this designation now seems to be shifted upon Verdi. As for the new votary Wagner, people are too contemptuous to bestow even a farcical name upon him. In all these appellations may be traced a condemnation of style; yet Meyerbeer and Rossini are far above criticism in these days: the critic who would condemn either of them would justly be called a fool. It seems to us that the great cause of the intense division amongst critics rests upon the prevalent belief that music is a science rather than an instinct. Hence when a critic finds music not scientifically agreeing with the school to which he adheres, he condemns: when he finds even poor music agreeing with his school, he commends. May it not be that music is something purely psychological? a long word, but the only one possible to be used-that it is a something immeasurably beyond mere arrangement or account of sound, -that it may equally exist in the loudest hurricane, or thunder, either in a Verdi overture, or the most pianissimo passage from Mozart? When we see a new opera criticized as a catalogue raisonné of all the keys of all the airs in the work, and not one reference made to the souleffect produced by this or that morceau we cannot call that performance musical criticism: it is a scientific exercise. as Meyerbeer wrote it. The chanting procession But let us glance for a few moments at the earlier part of the second act (Covent Garden division) of the "Huguenots," as the finest specimen of Meyerbeer as a psychological composer. The act opens with a chorus of Catholic citizens and soldiers. Examine the music by the ear, not the eye, and it will be found that the music is strictly military and joyous. Then follows the Huguenots' chorus and song. These are quite as military as the previous morceaux ; and yet, the religion and energy of purpose expressed are wondrous-the contrast with the light insouciant Catholic music astounding. Then follows the eminently religious, yet dead monotonous sound of the litanies by the Catholic bridal cortége; to be succeeded by the quarrel For our parts we believe the wondrous success between the votaries of the two sects. And of Meyerbeer is a total knowledge of this psy-how is this quarrel ended? The combatants chology of music-its true end, according to our belief. The onomatope is always perfect. He says, here great melody is inappropriate; there melody must force itself upon my people. And so we believe he continues throughout the work. He thinks of the ears of the world, but he makes them subservient to the soul. Of this perfect psychology, perhaps the second-act Covent Garden division of the "Huguenots" and the third act of " Dinorah" are the most wonderful, because the most special evidences. That last act of "Dinorah" is the peace of nature after the terrible storm of the preceding night. The opening passages seem to suggest the sweet breeze sweeping over the landscape. Then comes the hunter's song, so blithe and yet gentle, so utterly different from all other hunting songs. Then, there is the reaper's song, as simple as nature, and it is so true. It is impossible to describe the feeling which this song creates in one-to ourselves it seems a heartfelt, simple Te Deum for health and life. Then comes the quartette-always simple; and so on to the end of the act. Of the Ave Maria no man says one word of condemnation. It is played never to be forgotten. Its plain, unvarnished adoration and faith have never been surpassed. When originally produced the opera terminated in the way which was natural, and are separated by a band of gipsies. On they come, jocund, pleasure-loving, free, and unscrupulous. You may read these qualities in the music before they enter. The gitanas will dance with Catholic or Huguenot-no matter to them. They dance, not because it is a féte-day, but because they shall get wine and money-a Huguenot or a Catholic, n'importe; only perhaps the latter is to be preferred, as he is more generous, and generally richer. And so we might go on, all through this act. The marvellous truth of the sound-contrasts is really wondrous. Your own soul tells you this. And, indeed, any page of Meyerbeer might be equally analyzed with those colossal portions of his musical world to which we have referred. We have several times spoken of Meyerbeer's effort to obtain perfection. This was not better shown than in his endeavour to give the true sound of thunder in the second act of "Dinorah." The great man felt no combination of musical sounds would yield that which he would have-the real sound of thunder. He has been described as wandering about Paris disconsolate that he could not even faintly imitate this sublimest sound of Nature. Suddenly it came upon him in a faint degree. He was near a pile of buildings in course of demolition, and the stones when removed were cast into a large But his worst enemies do not deny that in his home relations he is gentle, loving, and attentive-in a word, he is a Jewish father, and more in his domestic praise cannot be said. In conclusion, we have perhaps a right to answer the possible question, "To what school does Meyerbeer belong?" It is a hard question to answer, if we search the schools for a reply. That he wavered between the German and Italian schools for many years is indisputable; but it is equally clear that he belongs to neither. The German is seldom or never impassioned: the Italian never ceases to be so. Whereas Meyerbeer uses passion only where the situation demands it; and, on the other hand, can be as purely German as Weber if he chooses. The wooden cylinder, through which they were | sometimes he shows himself dressed superbly, conveyed into carts. This natural sound gave with his thirty decorations on his coat. Meyerbeer his idea-he hurried back to the theatre, experimented many days with variouslysized wooden cylinders, and variously-sized cannon balls, and at last he produced the sound which struck such terror by its truthfulness into the hearer on the first night of the new opera. M. Costa in his musical classicism, would not reproduce this effect in London-he insisted upon the thunder coming from the orchestra: the opera as a "truth," did not gain by the change. It may be urged, in support of other composers, that none have ever had such superb librettos to work upon as Meyerbeer. This may be true; but it does rot do away with the fact, that Meyerbeer has written such dramatic music as was never equalled. It is true that many a composer has been clogged with terribly" hymn of love," in the great act of the Hugueunreal librettos-such as "Satanella" and "Lurline," and, in a minor degree, "Robin Hood" and "The Amber Witch;" but the great question is, have the composers of these operas attempted to write psychologically? If they have, is it one of the evidences of the fact, that a bad woman plots against a heroine's life in six-eight measure? nots, between Raoul and Valentine, is as Italian as it well can be; while the demon chorus of the "Robert" is quite equal in mystery and terror to the incantation scene of the Freischutz. Neither can Meyerbeer be affiliated to the French school. "Quand je quittais la Normandie" may be wondrously French in idea; but to designate the Meyerbeer gallery as belonging to that school which is led by Boieldieu and Auber is preposterous. For our parts, seeing that the master has taken the soul of the three schools, and combined them as they never were combined before, we have long come to the conclusion that of himself he forms a fourth school-"The school Meyerbeer." A MOTHER OF QUEENS. The wife of the celebrated Lord Clarendon, the author of the "History of the Rebellion," was a Welsh pot-girl, who, being extraordinarily poor in her own country, journeyed to London to better her fortune, and be came servant to a brewer. While she was in this To return to Meyerbeer. The great composer is not handsome, and yet he possesses one of the most attractive countenances in all the world. It exhibits the noblest characteristics of the Jewish race-with patience and common sense. You read in it, "I'm of the world, for I livebut in the best part of it." His practicability is marvellous. A late leader of the French claque, that body of men who conduct the applause on every first night of a new piece, intimated at the rehearsal of one of Meyerbeer's later operas, that a certain morceau was too long. "Do you think so?" says the maestro at once: "then I'll cut it down-for you know better than I do." This answer must be taken in conjunc-humble capacity, the wife of her master died, and he tion with the fact that every line of the master's music is the thought of a day! Meyerbeer, previous to the production of a work, takes advice from all quarters. He is ever ready to listen till the curtain rises. Then he listens no more. The certain success achieved, he extorts every clause in his bargain. His love of his art has on more than one occasion made him unjust, but we will not particularize; we have only referred to this lamentable truth because we wish to give an unsophisticated photograph of a man of whom so little is personally known in England. Of course, Meyerbeer has often been pronounced mad: this is the privilege of genius. When the divine inspiration is upon him he will wander for hours-his eyes fixed, talking aloud and incoherently, and an umbrella over his head, though the weather may be as beautiful as his own music. Again-to prove that he is not the thing," he has a horror of cats, and he becomes weak and motionless upon sight of a person afflicted with a nervous twitching. To clench this belief of madness his enemies declare that sometimes he goes about like a beggar, with the worst hat in Paris on his head, while happening to fix his affections on her, she became He suc and was afterwards the celebrated Hyde, Earl of Clarendon. The eldest daughter, the offspring of this union, won the heart of James Duke of York, and was married to him. Charles II. sent immediately for his brother, and having first plied him with some sharp raillery on the subject, finished by saying, "James, as you have brewn you must drink;" and forthwith commanded that the marriage should be legally ratified and promulgated. Upon the death of Charles, James mounted the throne, but a premature death frustrated this enviable consummation in the person of his amiable duchess. Her daughters, however, were Queen Mary, the wife of William, and Queen Anne, both grandchildren of the ci-devant pot-girl from Wales, and wearing in succession the crown of England, |