house in company with persons of this stamp, who, instead of yielding themselves up for the time to the witchery of song, have been but laboriously exhibiting their musical learning; affecting to detect faults in the most exquisite passages, and worrying us to death with their own theories of what the thing ought to have been. This is particularly the case with Mademoiselle Sontag's countrymen, who, because they have the most unmusical language in Europe, think themselves entitled to pronounce judgment, ex cathedra, upon all others, as well as upon music itself.

But from these let us now turn to the professional career of Mademoiselle Sontag, who was born at Coblentz on the 3d of January, 1809. The date of her birth reminds us of a strange theory which was started some years ago by one of the public journals, which was, that all persons of superior genius had been born in winter, and particularly in the month of January. The writer looked carefully through biographical dictionaries, and found sufficient instances to satisfy his own mind; and many other writers in newspapers and magazines ingeniously supported his views. After a short time it was recollected that Shakspeare was born on the 23d of April; and, without any further ceremony, the notion was dismissed. The ancient Greeks had a different theory, which was, that the best time to be born was about September or October, as the best time to get married was in January, Fancy may amuse itself with such considerations, but experience shows that every month in the year has produced its great men and women also, though philosophy, if properly set upon the track, might possibly discover reasons why one month should produce more genius than another.

Henrietta Sontag's parents were in obscure, if not in humble circumstances, as she is said to have been descended from a family of artists, of whom the utmost that can be affirmed seems to be that it was respectable. Her biographers are much too pompous to be communicative or satisfactory. Forgetting they have to relate a life, they endeavor to compose an eulogium, which they divide between her beauty and her talents, not knowing exactly to which to give the preference. If they will take our word for it, we will deliver them at once from that dilemma by informing them that she never was beautiful, though she possessed a very pleasing

may be allowed to go a great way. Mademoiselle Sontag had something about her more fascinating than physical beauty. We mean the witchery of genius, which would have communicated to features much inferior to hers an irresistible charm.

We are told that at five years of age she already began to give proofs of her musical talents, while at seven she obtained a reputation for beauty. This is ridiculous. She was no doubt a pretty child; and as she had even then begun to be a public character, her prettiness was generally noticed in her neighborhood. The biographies we have seen are extremely mysterious in their revelations; relating, for example, that her mother used to place her on a table to sing to a circle of friendly neighbors, or the authorities of the city, or even to the nobility of the district. If her father was a poor artist, how came he to be acquainted with the authorities or the nobility; and where, how, and when, was she perched on the table to sing? Most people are aware of what mighty consequence nobility is thought to be of in Germany. There a nobleman is necessarily an adept in all kinds of knowledge. His acquaintance with music is innate, and the voices he admires immediately become superhumanly sweet. This, therefore, was the fire that ripened Henrietta Sontag. With her arms hanging beside her, her eye on a fly crawling across the window, or watching a butterfly flitting from flower to flower without, she was beheld by some illustrious unknown, executing the grand aria of "The Queen of Night,' in "The Magic Flute." Would that some sensible person had witnessed and described these things! We should then have been able to appreciate the effect produced by the little girl's voice, the power and richness of which we do not comprehend a bit the better for comparing it to mountain rills.

Jenny Lind has enjoyed the advantage of possessing a more enlightened and observing circle of friends than Henrietta Sontag, whose life would be highly interesting if written by a man of sense, with the proper materials at his disposal. From the ordinary sketches put forward, we learn very little. They move through her biography by leaps and bounds, skipping four or five years at a time; and that, too, when it is most important to know what was the training of the voice, what the system, if any, of diet, what the collateral instruction she received from those around her

an infant wonder through the opera managers of Germany-a phrase of exquisite vagueness-who were eager to secure her services, each for his own theatre.

One thing we distinctly discover, namely, that she was brought up in a sort of musical hotbed, since already, at the age of eleven years, a part entitled "The Little Daughter of the Danube" was written expressly for her; and in this she performed at the theatre of Darmstadt, no doubt with unbounded applause, for the Germans are as liberal of praise to their own country women as they are sometimes grudging of it to strangers. There must, however, have been in this exhibition something upon the whole unsatisfactory; otherwise, we can scarcely believe that parents who are injudicious enough to permit so premature a display would, immediately afterward, have exhibited the prudence necessary to withdraw her from the "heat of theatres, and the warmth of admiration," and transport her to the conservatory of Prague. Prodigies are always great nuisances, especially to themselves. Nothing is beautiful but what is natural; and it is highly unnatural to force a child into the situation of a woman, and expect from her the impersonation and expression of passions which she has never felt, and therefore can neither understand nor realize to others. To a certain extent, Henrietta Sontag was preserved from this humiliation; though, in common with many other celebrated singers, she was several times brought forward too early, and owed her success more to the indulgence than to the judgment of her critics.

Much has, no doubt, been written on the musical education of Germany, which, until recently, had scarcely anything but music on which habitually to pride itself. But we are yet greatly in the dark respecting those methods of voice-training which succeed so well in that country. We are accordingly unable to appreciate, save by the result of the instructions received by Mademoiselle Sontag, whether at Darmstadt or Prague. We know not how to distinguish between what was contributed by nature and what was effected by art. We only know that in three years Henrietta had made great progress in her studies, and was led to aspire to make a figure on those boards where the "Marriage of Figaro" and the "Clemenze di Tito" were first produced by Mozart.

ness of the principal prima donna of the Prague opera, she was called upon to make her début in earnest as a public singer. Her parents, we are told, now no longer felt any objection to her appearing definitely on the stage-conceiving, apparently, that a girl of fourteen is fully capable of projecting herself into the passions of women, at least as they are represented in opera-houses, where the sorrows of the heart are set to music, and people laugh, cry, rave, make love, stab, and die, singing. "Chantez toujours," as they say in France, " n'importe ! allons, messieurs et mesdames, saisons l'amour." There is no.thing like it. So thought the Prague managers; and little Henrietta, at once transformed into a heroine, was called upon to do her part in "Jean de Paris."

But on the lyric stage, as the knowingones express it, it is impossible to make love, or sing about it, until you are, or appear to be, of a certain height. Henrietta was too short by four inches for love; but this did not signify. There was a mighty Hellenist at Prague, who, in his profound researches into antiquity, had discovered that the Greek actors wore the Kothurnos when they desired to represent gods or goddesses; personages who, of course, were a little taller than we. This extraordinary genius suggested that Henrietta should wear cork heels; and eke soles, we presume, otherwise four inches of heel might have been inconvenient. By erudite investigations into the history of France, it was also found that the ladies of the court of Louis XV. wore high-heeled shoes, and dyed them red. Behold, then, the whole difficulty got over, and Henrietta mounted on the Kothurnos, before all the rank and fashion of Prague, who must of necessity have been extremely delighted. We should, certainly, have been much gratified to have seen her on that night as Princess of Navarre, with her high vermilion heels and short petticoats. But the Bohemians saw her, and were enchanted, as all German populations are bound to be with a musical prodigy. They would otherwise be no better than the rest of the world--their chief distinction consisting in that high degree of mock enthusiasm which they can, at any time, get up to order.

while she lives, and fortunately for her, she is not gifted in general with sufficient power of reflection to look forward and anticipate the darkness that must, in a short time, engulf her power.

Should Germany ever awaken in reality from the political dream in which it has hitherto lain oppressed, and half strangled by the nightmare of monarchy, many of its cities will probably contend for the honor of having given birth to Robert Blum, though the infamy of having been the place of his martyrdom will cling everlastingly to Vienna. Up to the present time, nearly the only talent that awakens the rivalry of German cities is that of a singer or composer. The Prussians, it is said, are proud, or were formerly, that Mademoiselle Sontag was born at Coblentz, rendered notorious in other days by the assembling there of French emigrants, to plot and conspire against liberty. As a Prussian, Henrietta was invited to Berlin, and there for a time steeped in elysium the ears of those effeminate dilettanti, who seem to have mistaken music for morality, and a rage for the opera, for patriotism. This, of course, was no fault of Mademoiselle Sontag. It was not her mission to regenerate her fatherland. As she could afford delight to the idle public, she was, and ought to be satisfied, because that was her profession, that was what she aimed at, and that, it must be owned, she accomplished triumphantly.

But the Berliners were not destined long to retain their fascinating country woman, who, yielding to the solicitations of Rochefoucault, backed by those of Rossini, accepted an engagement in Paris, whither she repaired, after having reaped a golden harvest in the Rhenish provinces, and in Holland. The French capital under the Restoration is well known to have been a sort of Circean sty, in which all the vices were cultivated to perfection, and royalty reigned over hearts dead to everything but the sense of voluptuousness. Millions would then have been cheerfully given by the Court to any one who should have invented a new pleasure. Among this effeminate rabble, noble and ignoble, Mademoiselle Sontag excited for awhile the utmost enthusiasm. The madness we have seen prevail on the subject of Jenny Lind was diffused through Paris by Sontag, whose name was in every mouth, and for whose merits there were ten thousand dandies ready to fight so many harmless duels! This was just three years before the overthrow of the Bourbons-before that

epicurean and degraded race had been driven forever from power; for, though a second restoration should be effected to-morrow, instead of restoring them to power, it would only place them in a position to attract and concentrate upon themselves the contempt of France and all Europe.

When she returned to Berlin, a scene took place in Koenigstadht, which, while it illustrates the calm courage and self-possession of Mademoiselle Sontag, shows, at the same time, to what unmanly excesses the rage for music, real or affected, could then hurry a German audience. Because, in the search after fortune and reputation, their countrywoman had thought proper to exercise her talents in the French capital, those silly Berliners endeavored to overwhelm her with hisses and contempt, and tried to extract from her a promise, an oath, that she would go no more among the hated foreigners. The auri sacra fames, and her self-respect, both preserved Mademoiselle Sontag from yielding to this contemptible persecution. While they yelled, bellowed, and hissed, she stood immovable on the stage, determined not to yield a jot; and when they perceived the scornful superiority with which she treated them, they shrunk into themselves, and suffered her to display her distinguished powers for their amusement.

On her return to Paris, she met and became intimate with Malibran, whose extraordinary style of singing afterward made so powerful an impression on the public mind in this country. The readers of Roman history will remember how rival jockeys had vast factions to support them in the Eternal City. Such persons will experience no surprise that, among the indolent and voluptuous citizens of Paris, every eminent prima donna has her party ready to sacrifice the reputations of all other ladies at her shrine. But Malibran and Sontag, instead of studiously exciting this absurd feeling among their admirers, had the good sense to perceive how much better it would be to cultivate each other's friendship, which they did, to the no small surprise of those petty agitators who constitute so large a portion of a singer's audience, and contribute so much to the spread of her fame. No one who has heard the two singers can fail to be sensible how vast was the difference between

their styles. Calm and sweet, and possessing consummate skill, Mademoiselle Sontag displays all the resources of art in

her impersonations of passion. Gifted with a superior understanding, she knows how to represent every shade of feeling by the intonations of the voice; but, in her most enthusiastic moments, she is acting still. She never forgets herself in the character she assumes; but, by observation and diligent study, has acquired the power to project herself successively into a variety of parts, with immense facility and effect. Malibran, on the contrary, fiery and impetuous, often forgot herself entirely, and was hurried away irresistibly by the illusions of the stage. She did not act, but lived the part. For a moment, she was what she seemed, and her voicerich, warm, flexible, and full of powerpoured through the theatre like a flood, agitating every breast, and inundating it with pleasure.

It is one of the characteristics of genius to be generous and compassionate; and Mademoiselle Sontag is said to have always possessed this quality in an eminent degree. Having, in her early years, known what poverty was, she has always cherished a lively sympathy for the poor, and sought, by every means in her power, to mitigate their sufferings. This is better even than professional success-to triumph is to enjoy personal delight; but to distribute largely the fruits of that triumph among the poor, to shed joy and gladness over the humble hearth, to be a protector to the widow and the orphan, and a friend to the friendless; these are the achievements of something still nobler than genius itself-they belong to virtue and religion, and raise the mind that performs them far above all conventional greatness. One cold night, when Mademoiselle Sontag was quitting the theatre, still full of the deep emotion inspired by her having performed the part of Donna Anna, in Don Giovanni," she saw, on the step of a door, three German girls, clustered around their mother, singing the songs of their fatherland. She was immediately attracted to the group, and, on drawing nearer, discovered that the mother, a woman of about thirty, had once, as she remembered, been a singer in the theatre at Darmstadt. All persons understand the love of country all know what it is to have one's patriotism awakened by distress in a foreign land. Imagine one of my readers hearing an acquaintance, however slight or casual, striking

up,

66

VOL. XIX. NO. I.

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,"

She

on the banks of the Mississippi or the Oronoko! What would he not do for him? Would not his purse be out in an instant? Would he not take the man to his inn, and perform on some scale, small or great, the part of the good Samaritan? Mademoiselle Sontag at least did this. asked the woman where she lived, gave her money, and left her. The same evening a trusty servant was sent to the poor actress's lodging with the means for her return to Darmstadt, namely, £120 sterling; and, for seven years afterward, Sontag, without making herself known, allowed her a pension sufficient for her support, and the musical education of her daughters. This is acting in the true spirit of Christianity; this is to—

"Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame."

One of these three girls has since risen to the highest eminence as a singer on the German stage. Her name, for obvious reasons, need not be mentioned; but it is only within the last two years that she has learned the name of her long invisible benefactress.

During her residence in Paris, Mademoiselle Sontag was married to the Count di Rossi, a diplomatist of respectable talents, but who would never have been known widely to the public, save as her husband. The King of Sardinia, in whose service he was, thought it an act of condescension in a count to marry a singer. The condescension was on the other side, and Mademoiselle Sontag may be said to have ennobled Count di Rossi, by giving him her hand.

However, she had been herself ennobled before the ceremony by the King of Prussia, who, with that ludicrous generosity for which princes are sometimes remarkable, granted letters of nobility to her and her ancestors for seven or eight generations back Mademoiselle Sontag does not know exactly which. Many an honest burgher of Coblentz, therefore, went to his grave without knowing he was a count; which, seeing the estimation in which titles are held in Germany, may be regarded as a particular misfortune.

We now come to Mademoiselle Sontag's appearance in London, which may be regarded as by far the most important event in her life, all she had achieved on the Con7