the pure, simple and unobtrusive beauties of Music, "while, heav, enly maid, she [yet] was young," and introduced a love for exhibitions of mere skill and ingenuity. The enjoyment of the Ballad, the artless strain of former days; the hearty relish of the fine old songs of England and Scotland; the noble music of our venerated ecclesiastical mother; the sweet hymn (the pious embodiment of devotional melody)—all, all are gone, and in their place we have the warbling plaint, the long-drawn sigh, the up-trilled treble, the deep grunting bass, the falsetto, the cantata, the bravura, the scena, the solo, the duett, the quartette, the chorus, and heaven knows what, of madness in Music and harshness in Harmony.

Among a people of strong sense and keen discernment, the Opera can never become a permanent national amusement. The cases of England and our own country prove this sufficiently. In Italy and similar countries where the mind is enervated by climate and luxurious indolence, mere sounds take precedence of sense. In the former, however, the melody must be an echo of the sentiment, deep-seated, and struggling for expression.

What is the Opera? Why, a sort of middle estate between the Melo-drama and the Concert. It resembles nothing in nature-'tis neither Comedy, nor Tragedy, nor Farce. Each of these have their counterpart in “this living, breathing world." The Opera is a sort of composite of the three, and of the most indifferent parts of the three. It has none of the light elegance of the first, nor the sublime energy of the second, nor the broad humor of the third. The Italians seem utterly deficient in wit and humer, unless of the grotesque sort, as well as in a severe sublimity and daring flights. To this last remark their great poets are undoubtedly exceptions—but we were speaking of their Opera. Their comic attempts descend into and seldom rise above fantastic buffoonery, and their flights of imagination are mere melo-dramatic bombast. And then their presumption-only to think of Othello being converted into an Opera!

The mere music of these Operas is frequently very fine-but what is the dramatic interest? What is represented on the stage should have a dramatic interest, else why bring it on the stage at all? If singing alone or mimicking, a room will answer as well or better. The very object of the stage is "room to bustle in." If there is no action, or very little, no room for display is wanted. There is but little action in the Opera-no character, with any

traits of consequence no dialogue. What, then, is there? Notes, bars of music, the gamut, vocal sounds. The unnatural recitative, neither speaking nor singing-the dwelling upon the slightest things with an emphasis as earnest as on the greatest—the complete sameness of manner, varied only by a vicious extravagance of gesture and expression, and the interminable choruses, deprive the Opera of all interest, in our eyes.

To relish the best Operas, neither understanding nor heart is at all necessary, for neither are addressed. What pathos there is in some is totally lost in an eager desire for display. To give the singer a chance, the incidents must be stopped and the story stand still-a drag is to be put upon the wheels of the Car of Melody. An aria is more important than an action; and bravery is less effective than a bravura. Dramatic illusion there is none, or, if any, of the most improbable kind. We have devils in hell, as in Der Freischutz; or we see the Oriental Brahma ascending to heaven, in the Bayadere ; or the dead are raised to view in their shrouds and coffins, in Robert the Devil. The characters are without variety. Heroes, lovers, tyrants, dancing girls, peasants, princes, form the whole dramatis personæ, and "ex uno disce omnes”—all alike. There is no discrimination-no shading.

We are willing to confess ourselves lovers of every species of music-even of operatic music in moderation; but at the same time we interpose that to sit for three or four hours to hear a set of fellows (generally poor actors) squalling, screeching, grunting, grumbling, groaning, hissing, hooting and playing all manner of tricks with their voices, is one of the most vexatious things in the world. To hear that beautiful art so bedeviled and reviled by its professors is enough to make one sick of music for ever. What can be more delicious than a charming song of Burns', expressive of love and the tenderest gallantry? Amor triumphans is here sung in a right masterly strain; but love in an Italian Opera is generally a hothouse flower, which dies on exposure to the air. What patriotic effusions kindle generous fire quicker than the pieces of that class by the same author? Among the Italians, this public virtue exists but in name. Music, soft, artful and effeminate like theirs, flourishes only in despotic governments. The free air of Liberty alone can inspire such strains as "Scots wha ha' wi' Wallace bled," and "Ye

Mariners of England."

America should for this reason be the land of the patriotic lyre. We have had few spirit-stirring tones so far, but the full force of the instrument will one day be wakened by some master hand.

In a word, we do not wonder at the "bad success" of the Italian Opera here, since the defects which strike us as insuperable to its advancement, are inherent in its very nature. Let us, then, "chaunt then old heroic ditty o'er;" let us have the gay song, the soothing hymn; but for the Opera, let us have none of it. May Burns, Percy, Moore Heber, and a host of sweet lyrists, be cherished. Of Rossini, Bellini, Cimaroza, &c. &c., we would hear their overtures, grand and stirring as they are their barcaroles, soft as the breathing of Dorian flutes -their dashing bravuras, singly or a few together-but from a long Opera, comic or tragic, recited or sung, heaven defend us! We must except from this censure the finest Italian Operas which have been well translated, and as sung by fine English vocalists, and also the late admirable Opera by Mr. Rooke; and further, the few English productions which go under that name—as the Beggar's Opera, Love in a Village, the Duenna, and a few others. These are just the thing. The dialogue in them is neat, spirited, and witty, and there is enough of character and action for a light comedy. Give us, then, a good comic English Opera, or else give us an Opera containing juster sentiment, sweeter songs, finer hits at character, and a manlier style of writing, than Love in a Village, if ye can-else we want none of your Italian Music, ye "fanaticos per la musica"!

XLIII.

THE MODERN POLITICIAN.

A CHARACTER.

THE modern politician is a very scurvy sort of fellow. He is the old-fashioned statesman in his lowest estate, an image of fallen greatness, shorn of his beams. The sun of his glory is set, and his path is illumined only by the flickering light of intrigue and cunning.

It is a noted saying of the great Lexicographer, that "Patriotism is the last resort of a scoundrel." This is true in the present sense of the phrase, for is not patriotism, now, a mere mask, a name? It is very far from true, however, in the correct meaning of the term. In the real view of things, politics is a science of great dignity, worth and usefulness, and requiring, in the practical part of it, the most consummate tact and nicety. It requires great knowledge, both of facts and opinions; of persons, their characters and manners and motives; a comprehensive judgment, firm principles, unswerving integrity, a lofty tone of thought and action, far-reaching views, keen penetration. To make the character complete, the accomplishments of the polite gentleman, the resources of the hard student, and the eloquence of the practised orator, should be united. Nor are all these worth anything to the possessor, if he do not superadd to them the qualities of a manly character: honesty, moral courage, humanity, justice. No trimmer, no party man; but a stiffnecked patriot of the times of Cromwell and our own Revolution.

This character has gone quite out of fashion. It is sneered at, at present, as out of date, and behind the spirit of the age. It is certainly ill-suited to the current state of things, being too unbending, strict and rigorous to find favor with the complaisant, fawning myrmidons of popular power. It wants the urbane spirit of the courteous demagogue, the supple policy of the hireling courtier.

The modern politician is a man without independence of opinion, or freedom of will. He is a practical fatalist, a philosophical necessitarian-obliged to act, think, and speak exactly in the spirit, according to the views, and in the very phraseology, of his party. He is, politically, an infant after the age of twenty-one years, never attaining to maturity of judgment in the eyes of party. If he once presumes to set up the keel of the political vessel, in ever so slightly a different course, he is turned off forever as a mutinous sailor. He must follow in the wake of the party, or he founders on the rocks of opinion.

Is he a speaker? Then you may know just what he will say on any given occasion. Is he none? Then you may, instead, recognise his hurrah in a crowd; may see him holding banners, or escorting great men; a complete servant of the sovereign people. If a working-member of the body politic, you may find his chief duties to

consist in counting votes, handing out tickets, marching to and fro, during an election; or at other times, dining in public with great men, "the roses and fair expectancies of the state," rising suns, toasting absent personages of official dignity and real meanness, and making himself drunk in the operation.

Nor is the modern politician bound only to govern his own conduct according to the directions of his party; but also he is bound boldly to defend their every plan, system, and design. Thus he is not only a time-server himself, but a wretched sophist in palliating the time-serving of others. He lives but in the popular breath, and his very existence hangs on the irregular pulsations of the mob. So miserable a slave is he, who gives himself up to other men's uses, and deprives himself of the free agency of a Patriot and a Man!

XLIV.

THE FAMILIAR PHILOSOPHY.

NOTWITHSTANDING the numerous divisions of philosphy, there yet remains one, simpler than any yet suggested. It is two-fold, and separates the whole into the abstract and the familiar. The one has been wire-drawn in the discussions of metaphysicians, while the other, though current in every age, is little talked of, still less defended by the writings of its adherents. A class of men, however, more numerous than the ancient philosophers or their modern successors, have made it their rule and standard of action. It consists mainly in cheating life of its ills, by cherishing the illusions of fancy until they ripen almost into realities-mingling gay colors with the melancholy aspects of Fortune, and bearing with a cheerful face and gay heart the rude jogs and mischances a traveller must meet with on the journey of life. It takes another form when it looks on selflove, and cultivates its own interests amid the selfishness of the world. It then calls into exercise a talent which, although not of the loftiest character, is still the most useful; the clear and quick