mittee; and an oligarchical, not to say aristocratical principle is seen to subsist in provisions, first, to perpetuate the power of the committee, by the patronage it enjoys, and by making its members re-eligible; and secondly, in constituting the sub-committee the final arbiters of every question connected with the management. These circumstances will serve to disgust both the public and the profession; while the scope and numbers which the plan embraces, the expences it will entail, and the dangers it threatens, will all tend to stop the advancement of an institution, which, cautiously pursued under able laws, could not fail to benefit science, diffuse the love of the art, and ultimately raise the character of its professors. The arrangements for the opera are already in train. Madame Camporese has been prevailed upon to postpone her resolution of quitting the stage, and is again engaged as prima donna. Nor is Camporese singular in her desire to gratify the expectations of the public, and probably her own. It is more than suspected, that Catalani is anxious to pay another professional visit to England, in spite of her announced retirement, and of the contempt, we are sorry to understand, she professes to entertain for the reception she met during her late sojourn in England. There is every reason to believe that she exchanged her notes for those of John Bull to the tune of ten thousand pounds, with which, we humbly opine, even her noble ambition ought to be satisfied; particularly as those about her are accustomed to consider that the honour of performing in the same orchestra with Madame Catalani is an honour sufficient to subdue all desire of emolument in the chosen professor. We hope, therefore, to hear this enchanting singer again. But to return to the opera. Madame Ronzi de Begnis, her husband, and Signor Zuchelli, are also engaged. The De Begnis, with Graziani, Begrez, and others of the corps de l'opera, are gone to Edinburgh, with a view, it is said, to give either entire operas, or selections, in that city: they may also possibly extend their tour to Glasgow. A great change will take place in the vocal arrangements at Covent Garden. Miss Stephens, in consequence, first, of a proposed reduction of salary; and secondly, of an endeavour to stipulate for secresy as to its amount, both of which the young lady considered as derogatory to her celebrity, is said to have entered into an engagement with Drury-lane. Miss Stephens is at present at Paris, but with no view to the exhibition of her talents in the French capital, whither also Mr. Bishop and Mr. Duruset are gone. Sir George Smart has been called to Edinburgh, to conduct the musical performances that will take place there during the King's stay. Miss Paton, from Bath, who has for the last two or three seasons been singing at a few concerts in London, has made her debût at the little theatre at the Haymarket, where she has met with the most brilliant success. She has appeared as Susanna in Figaro, and as Rosina in the Barber of Seville. The first is an adaptation of Mozart's music, with alterations and additions by Mr. Bishop; and the music of Rossini to the last has been fitted for the English stage by the same able hand. The Italian music does not, however, appear to the same advantage by any means. The rough syllables of the English cannot be made to slide over the tongue so smoothly as the mellifluous vowels of the original language, and as the melodies of Rossini, particularly those of the songs, duets, and concerted pieces in Il Barbiere di Seviglia, consist chiefly of passages of rapid articulation, they present more than ordinary difficulties to the singer. Miss Paton possesses a voice of tolerably extensive volume, and of fair but not superior quality; and though not deficient in compass, yet the upper tones, particularly the very highest notes, are attained by the use of that very dangerous expedient-force. Passages, therefore, which should be slightly touched, are given with a degree of violence which detracts entirely from their use and beauty in execution. She has considerable facility, and even brilliancy, in running divisions; but frequent changes in the quality of the tone, and an oc casional transmutation in the position of the organs employed in its formation, approaching sometimes to a whistling in its production (a fault, by the way, which attended Mrs. Dickons's performance) proves that her vocal education has been in this grand respect imperfectly conducted as to principles. Her power of articulation is not as complete as it should be, and her shake is too hard, too close, and too rapid. In many passages she imitates very nearly the mannerism of Catalani. In spite, however, of these defects, she is a singer of great promise for the stage, and we mention them because she appears to be in some danger of being ruined by ill-judged flattery; for if she be taught to believe half we have heard said of her, it may probably check her desire for improvement which at present she most certainly needs. She has been represented as equalling Miss Stephens and Miss M. Tree, and we have even heard her extolled as excelling those vocalists. But her natural organ not only places her below them both, but, at present, as might be expected in so young a person, her execution is by no means so perfect, nor is her memory so enriched with ornament, nor her imagination so excursive. She is, however, we repeat, a singer of great promise, and worth correction, a compliment which, if this article meets her eye, we hope she will have judgment enough to understand, and to value above all the nonsensical flattery with which she has been loaded: we would stimulate and encourage,not spoil her. At the Haymarket Mr. Leoni Lee is the tenor, and he sings very agree ably. His voice is not powerful, but, when he does not force it, it is very sweet in its tone, and somewhat plaintive in its effects. He uses some ornament with tolerable skill, and is wise enough not to attempt more than he can execute; and as the orchestra indulges him with his own time, he contrives to give more effect than his original powers would seem to promise. Such are the arts of stage singing; and by their aid Mr. Leoni Lee, in a small theatre, will succeed in pleasing the many, without disgusting the scientific. A meeting at Reading is on the eve of taking place under great pa tronage, and upon an extensive scale. Mrs. Salmon, Signora Caradori, and Miss Goodall, Mr. Vaughan, Mr. W. Knyvett, Mr. Bellamy, and Signor Ambrogetti (this also is another resurrection among those who have announced their own departure), are engaged. The selections embrace great variety, and even in sacred music poor old Handel is elbowed out of his long usurpation by the moderns. Beethoven's Mount of Olives, Haydn's Creation, Rossini's Mose in Egitto, and Bochsa's Deluge, have all a place, so that variety and excellence are to be found. Several other festivals will succeed. The publications are extremely few this month. Grand variations on The Fall of Paris, for the piano-forte, by Ignace Moscheles, the concerto played by Mr. Moscheles on -This piece was performed as a rondo to his first appearance in England, at the Philharmonic, in 1821. He has since given it at his last benefit concert, with increased success. It had before acquired great celebrity on the Continent, where it had been frequently performed by Mr. Moscheles; but its immense difficulty is, mission into private society. Its construcwe fear, likely to preclude its general adtion is evidently intended to show the high eminence Mr. Moscheles has attained in his art. Here, therefore, we find triplets, double triplets, complicated crossings of the hands, and skips of great distance and hazard. Whatever astonishment the mere view of this composition may excite, it is impossible to estimate either its difficulty or its effect, except it be heard from the composer himself. Such a piece ought, however, to find a place in every musical library, as a specimen of the prodigious per the art of piano-forte playing. fection to which Mr. Moscheles has carried Mr. Moscheles has arranged the overture and most admired pieces from Handel's Alexander's Feast, for two performers on the pianoforte, with accompaniments for flute, violin, and violoncello (ad lib.). We have seldom seen a better or more judicious arrangement. Ah Perdona! with variations for the piano-forte, by J. C. Perry. This piece is simple in its construction, and calculated to afford good practice to young students. and confirm the powers of the left hand, Variations 2 and 5 cannot fail to strengthen while the beauty and popularity of the subject give interest to the piece. Stiebelt's favourite rondo, from le Retour du Zephyr, is arranged as a very pretty easy duet for the piano-forte, by T. Costellow. Hughlan's three sets of Trios for three flutes concertante, are considered to be among the finest ever composed. No. 2 has a remarkably beautiful fugue. They are by no means easy. Good night-a song by Augustus Mevers. Mr. Mevers has long been known as an elegant and very imaginative composer for the piano-forte, and throughout all his music delicacy and warmth of feeling are particularly visible; melody also is one of his grand characteristics. This is the first, or at least the first that we have seen, of his compositions for the voice, and it possesses all the attributes we have ascribed to his piano-forte lessons; it is elegant, melodious, and full of sensibility; at the same time its construction is simple. Mr. Barnett's Canzonetta, When Clara touched the fairy string, is superior in fancy and expression. The accompaniment, which is well adapted to heighten the general effect of the words, adds considerably to the beauty both of the melody and song. The few bars at the conclusion, in the style of an Italian bravura, are to tally at variance with the other parts of the air, and consequently in bad taste. Forget thee, no, though years roll on, by Mr. G. Kiallmark. The melody is pretty, but rather inclining, in some instances, to vulgarity, particularly the last line, the performance of which Mr. Kiallmark has wisely left to the option of the singer. Tarry and woo, by Mr. T. Cooke, is a ballad in a theatrical style, and may probably be effective on the stage, but the words will prohibit it from performance in private. Mary of Castle Cary is a Scotch air with symphonies and accompaniments, by Miss Paton, who has sung it with great applause. This ballad is plaintive in its character, and sweet as to its melody. Miss Paton, in imitation of the grand appropriator of Scotch airs, adds a protecting note at the bottom of the plate, announcing that, "this ballad is property." We are afraid the fair proprietor is not, however, likely to obtain the advantages which Mr. Hawes, of all the suitors that ever applied to a court, has alone enjoyed, namely, a profit derived from legal litigations. ATRABILIOUS REFLECTIONS UPON MELANCHOLY. "PERFECT melancholy," says honest Ben, "is the complexion of the ass." I have heard it asserted that the observation is no longer applicable. This is certainly a broad grinning age. A grave face is no longer the frontispiece to the apocryphal book of wisdom. Gravity is laughed out of countenance. But melancholy is not the fashion of an age, nor the whim of an individual—it is the universal humour of mankind-so far indeed I differ from Ben Jonson (whose memory may Heaven preserve from editorial spite, and editorial adulation), inasmuch as I think that melancholy is a passion properly and exclusively human. The ass and the owl are solemn, the cat is demure, the savage is serious, but only the cultivated man is melancholy. Perhaps the fallen spirits may partake of this disposition. So Ben would imply by the title of his comedy, called, "The Devil is an Ass," and if, as hath been more plausibly affirmed, the devil be a great humourist, then he must needs be melancholy-for whatever tends to laughter (unless it be mere fun) proceeds from that complexion. Melancholy can scarce exist in an undegraded spirit-it cannot exist in a mere animal. It is the offspring of contradiction-a hybrid begotten by the finite upon infinity. It arose when the actual was divided from the possible. To the higher natures, all possible things are true; the lower natures can have no conception of an unreal possibility. Neither, therefore, can properly be supposed capable of melancholy. They may be sad indeed; but sadness is not melancholy, nor is melancholy always sadness. It is a seeking for that which can never be found-a reminiscence or an anticipation of immortality-a recognition of an eternal principle, hidden within us, crying from amidst the deep waters of the soul. Melancholy, I say, proceeds from the juxta-position of contraries -of time and eternity-of flesh and spirit-it considers human life to be a Still waking sleep, that is not what it is. Whether this consideration shall give rise to laughter or tears, to VOL. VI. hope or to despondence, to pity or Men, (those I mean who are not mere animals) may be divided, according to the kind of their melancholy, into three great classes. Those who seek for the infinite, in contradistinction to the finite-those who seek for the infinite in the finiteand those who seek to degrade the finite by a comparison with the infinite. The first class comprehends philosophers and religionists; the second, poets, lovers, conquerors, misers, stock-jobbers, &c.; and the third comprises satirists, comedians, jokers of all kinds, man-haters, and woman-haters, Epicures, and bonvivants in general. The philosopher, conscious that his spiritual part requires spiritual food, and finding none such among the realities of sense, acknowledges no permanence but that of ideal truth truth is his God. He is in love with invisible beauty. He finds harmony in dumb quantities, grace in a diagram, and sublimity in the multiplication-table. He is a denizen of the mundus intelligibilis, and holds the possible to be more real than reality. The religionist, like the philosopher, craves for eternity, but his appetite is not to be satisfied with such ethereal diet. He cannot live upon matterless forms, and truths that have no life, no heart, no will. He finds that his spirit is vital as well as eternal, and therefore needs a God that is living as well as true. He longs and hopes for an actual immortality, a permanent existence, a bles X sedness that shall be felt and known. The heaven of philosophers is indifference, that of the religious is love. In attributing to melancholy the origin of philosophy and of religion, let me not be supposed to attribute the love of truth and holiness to any mere humour or complexion. All that I mean is, that both pre-suppose a consciousness of a contradiction in human nature, and a searching for the things that are not seen. No man was ever religious or philosophic who was thoroughly contented with the world as it appears. alike are poets, for they are alike enamoured of the creature of their own imagination. This world is a contradiction-a shade, a symbol—and, spite of ourselves, we know that it is so. From this knowledge does all melancholy proceed. We crave for that which the earth does not contain; and whether this craving display itself by hope, by despair, by religion, by idolatry, or by atheism,-it must ever be accompanied with a sense of defect and weakness--a consciousness, more or less distinct, of disproportion between the ideas which are the real objects of desire and admiration, and the existences which excite and represent them. The second class-those, namely, who imagine a spiritual power in things temporal or material, who truly seek for what they cannot find, may be said to comprise, at some period of life or other, the whole human race. All men are lovers or poets-if not in their waking moments, in their dreams. Now, it is the essence of love, of poetry, of ambition, of avarice,-in fact, of every species of passion,-to confer reality on imagination, eternity on the off-picion of their inadequacy. spring of a moment, spirituality and permanence on the fleeting objects of sense. No man who is in love considers his mistress as a mere woman. He may be conscious, perhaps, that she is neither better nor fairer than thousands of her sex ; but if he loves truly, he must know that she is something to him which she is not in herself that love in fact is a creative power, that realizes its own dreams. The miser knows that money is more to him than metal-it is more than meat, drink, or pleasure-more than all which its earthly omnipotence can command. The lover and the miser The poet does that for his subject which all men do for the things they long for, and the persons they love. He makes it the visible symbol of a spiritual power. In proportion to the adequacy of these symbols, men are happy or unhappy. But few, indeed, are wholly free from an aching sus The satirist is the poet's contrary. The poet's office is to invest the world with light. The satirist points out the light, to convince the world of darkness. When Melancholy assumes this, its worst and most hopeless, form, it generally leads into one or both of two evils:-a delight in personal power, derived solely from the exposure of others' weakness; or a gross and wilful sensuality, arising not so much from an eagerness for the things of sense, as from a contempt and unbelief, say rather an uneasy and passionate hatred, of the things of the nobler being. E. THE ASS. Poor patient creature, how I grieve to see A ranger |