ON a beautiful evening in the autumn of the year 1779, two young officers might have been seen standing in the Rue St. Honoré, engaged in animated conversation. In the midst of this, one of them started back; and the next instant their swords flew from their sheaths, and crossed each other, flashing in the light of a lantern.

"Mort de ma vie !" was the exclamation of a third person, and his weapon struck the swords of the combatants to the pavement. "A duel in the streets -and without any seconds! Put up your swords, gentlemen, till to-morrow; then I will be your second. My name is St. Val, captain of the regiment of Hussars."

"St. Val!" repeated both the young men; and St. Val, recognizing them, cried laughing, "How-Arnault! Montespan! Orestes and Pylades fighting! By Jupiter-that is a wonder. What could you be quarreling about? "Oh," replied young Arnault, " My friend and I were only arranging a little difference concerning our opinion of the two composers of the opera Iphigenia at Tauris. My friend votes for the chevalier Gluck; I for the admirable Piccini." So saying, the two young men were about again to commence the combat.

Away with your swords!" exclaimed St. Val, interfering again between them, and adding, Is that the only reason for your duel ?"

"Does it seem too little to you?" asked M. de Montespan.

"Not at all," returned the peacemaker. "I know that at present the inhabitants of Paris are divided into Gluckists and Piccinists! But, M. de Arnault, if you will quarrel with the Gluckists, begin with your own uncle, and your idol Jean Jacques! Follow my advice, gentlemen, put up your swords and come with me to the Palais Royal, to the Café du Feu, where you can cool your blood with orange ices. It is the first time I ever tried to prevent a duel, but this time it is no folly to do so."

The ardour for fighting had abated in the breasts of the young men while the captain spoke. They shook hands, put up their swords, and followed St. Val.

The brilliantly illuminated saloons of the Cafe du Feu were at that time the place of meeting for the fashionable beaux esprits of Paris. Every evening they met there, and besides, a number of young gentlemen of the higher classes, with many friends and protectors of the arts, and artists who came to Paris to admire and be admired. Our friends therefore found a very numerous assemblage, including nearly all the celebrities of which Paris could boast. The company was disposed around several tables in the rooms; everywhere there was vehement talking, arguing and disputing; the confusion was great, and the watchword ever "Gluck" and "Piccini." Although our friends were used to the noisy conversation of the Parisian Café Saloons, they now anxiously sought a quiet place. One of the waiters was stopped and questioned, and soon the three young men were seated in a comfortable side room.

Only three persons occupied this room with them. One, an elderly man, was seated opposite the entrance, at a small table, in the shadow of a pillar. His features were in shadow; he reclined comfortably in an arm-chair, beating time with the fingers of his right hand on the table; his head leaning back, his eyes lifted towards the ceiling, without taking, as it appeared, any notice of what was going on. Near to the opposite door, at the table by which our friends were placed, were the two other gentlemen. The younger one seemed about twenty, a handsome sprightly looking Frenchman, not tall but elegantly shaped; his dark blue eyes, shaded by black brows, threw free and careless glances around him; his profile was marked and fine; his mouth and chin might have been models for the sculptor; his complexion was

of that beautiful brown so much admired among the Provençals; his voice was agreeable, his motions easy and lively; his dress not rich, but perfectly neat. The most singular contrast to this fascinating stranger was offered by the figure of his neighbor. He looked not older than thirty, and was very much like the description which Diderot gave of Rameau's nephew, except that he was not as tall and slender. In all his movements there was something sinister, and his features expressed discontent and malignity. His head was covered with a wig of a faded brown color. His pronunciation of French was bad, and showed that he was a Saxon.

“Excuse me, sir," said the young gentleman in a courteous and gentle tone, Excuse me, for troubling you with so many questions; but you are a German, and it must be of importance to you that we French should appreciate your noble countryman,-him, who shows us new roads to the temple of fame, to immortality in the heavenly art! You are yourself a musician-a composer -you feel what we owe to that glorious master. Speak-tell me what you know of him. Think you he would condescend to give friendly advice to a youth whose whole soul longs for improvement?"

The other passed his hand a moment over his face, squinted from one side at the enthusiastic speaker, distorted his mouth to a lamentable smile, and answered maliciously, "You want me to tell you something of M. Gluck?-indeed, I will do so with pleasure; although I cannot comprehend how a nation of such elegant and refined taste as the French, can see any thing superior in that man."

"How, sir? you speak of the author of Armide, of Iphigenia, of Orpheus?" "Of the same. To say truth, we think not much of him in Germany, as we know that he understands nothing of true art,-I mean by that, the higher knowledge of it. The learned M. Forkel at Gottingen, and several other scientific men, have proved it.”

cast upon him, be well founded."But," he continued, with increasing animation, "I am convinced that Gluck has a noble and powerful mind. All I have heard of his works elevates my feelings. No common or vulgar thought could take possession of me while I listen to his music; and if I feel sometimes cast down and subdued by the troubles of life, all sorrow disappears in the sublime pleasure with which his creations fill my soul."

"And believe you, Sir German," said the young Arnault, "believe you that the celebrated Piccini would condescend to compete with one whom he thought unworthy his rivalry?"

The German seemed embarrassed by this question, and answered in short, broken sentences-"Oh no! how could I dare believe such a thing! I respect M. Gluck very highly, although I cannot boast of his kindness to me. But that is not saying he has such high superiority. Oh, we have other men, as the learned M. Forkel has shownand certainly M. Gluck in a style of sacred music-"

"But, ma foi !" interrupted the handsome youth, earnestly; "we are not talking of sacred music, but of a grand opera style. Do your German critics pretend that Gluck's Armida should sing a convent hymn, or that his wild Taurier may be introduced in sacred choirs ?"

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Nay," returned the cross-eyed Saxon, as the learned Forkel has proved, Gluck understands nothing about singing."

"Nothing about singing!" exclaimed all present, except the gentleman in the corner.

Exactly," continued the squinter; "Chevalier Gluck understands nothing about singing. He is not able to lead a melody in the prescribed rules. His singing is nothing but an exaggerated declamation."

The young man sprang from his seat; his face flushed with indignation. "Sir!" he cried, "you are not worthy to be a German, if you think as you speak, about your great countryman. That Gluck is a great artist, every one knows in Paris; the dispute only is, which is superior, he or Piccini. We all know, also, that Gluck, if he departs from ordinary rules, gives the true expression of human feeling and

passion; and that is the only true aim for the composer of an opera. The church-the concert, is quite a different thing; if Gluck is able to reach thisif he wishes it-neither you, nor I, nor the public, can tell. But this I know, that all disputes would cease, could we understand Gluck's object, which he follows with all the strength and energy that always accompany true genius." "What is your name, young man ?" suddenly asked a clear, musical voice. All looked around; the man who had been sitting in the corner was standing between them, the light of the lamps shining full on his face.

"M. Gluck!" was the general exclamation.

"The same," said Gluck, smiling; and repeated his question to the young man, who bowed, trembling with joy, to the great master, and answered:

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My name is Etienne Mehul, and

I am a musician."

"That I perceive," replied Gluck. "Come to see me; here is my address." After handing it to him, he turned round to the squinter, who grew pale and red by turns, not daring to raise his eyes. Gluck enjoyed his embarrassment for a few minutes, and then said, contemptuously:

"My dear M. Hegrin, I am truly glad to meet you so unexpectedly in Paris-to repeat to you, that you are a pitiful miscreant. So, sir, I understand nothing of singing and music; and yet you followed me in Vienna, took lessons from me, had your works corrected by me, and accepted without any reluctance what I offered you out of my pocket, and what I induced my friends to give you. To be sure, your vanity was mortified when I said, candidly. You can compass only the dead form, but not the soul of music; you want to force what is not to be forced, not for the love of art but for the sake of gain; and would do better as an honest tailor or shoemaker, than a bad musician.' This you could not forgive; and you betrayed me for thirty pieces of silver, to your Caiphas in Gottingen! I forgive you, man; I pity you; go in peace, and try to reform, if you can. God bless you, gentlemen!" Saying this, Gluck left the room, bowing once more to young Mehul.

In the apartments of the young and beautiful Queen Marie Antoinette, a lively scene was passing. The Count d'Artois, the favorite of the Parisian ladies, had just returned from his sporting-palace in the country, and came with his brother, the Count de Provence, to present his respects to his charming sister-in-law.

The queen received the sprightly youth very graciously. The count inquired, playfully, "What is the news of Paris? how many balls had you during my absence? how many courtintrigues have been commenced and finished? who played the accoucheur to the Count de Provence, at the birth of any new piece of wit? what is the latest spectacle? and what are the Parisians quarrelling about?"

Many questions at once," replied Marie Antoinette; "but I answer only the last-because it is an interesting subject to us all. The newest spectacle is the rivalry between Gluck and Piccini. Both have composed a work on the same subject; and their respective merits are to be decided in the representation."

"I am for Gluck!" exclaimed Count d'Artois. "He is a great man, this countryman of yours, madam! He hunted with me, and made five capital shots, one after the other. The Italian does not know how to manage a gun."

"With all that," said the Count de Provence, "I prefer the music of the Italian to that of the German, by which one can neither dance nor sing, as Noverre remarked the other day, very justly."

such a man was just the right one to manage the gentlemen and ladies of the opera, who were getting every day more presumptuous and arrogant.

A page announced Chevalier Gluck, who came to give the music lesson to her majesty. We were speaking of you," said the Princess Elizabeth to the great artist, as he made his appearance," The queen praised you as a good dancing-master."

"And my brother praised you as a good sportsman," said the Count de Provence.

Oh, let him alone," said the queen, "and do not put him out of humor with your talking; he is like enough, without that, to lose his patience with me."

"Because thou playest, as queen, not half as well as in former times, as arch-duchess," replied Gluck, very gravely, in German.

Nay, Christophl," said the queen, in the same language, "thy ears shall have a treat to day. Silence, gentlemen and ladies," added she, in French; and went to the piano to open it. But with all the turning of the key she could not succeed, and called, at last, impatiently to Gluck to help her. Gluck tried his best in vain; the piano remained fast.

"This is provoking." said the queen. And Gluck exclaimed, "What fool made that lock?"

"Hush, chevalier," whispered the Count de Provence, "the lock was made by the king. It is one of a new fashion."

"The deuce take the new fashion," was Gluck's muttered reply.

Artois had left the room, and returned accompanied by the king himself.

Louis XVI. in a short jacket, his head covered with a cap of leather, heated, with soiled face and hands, a bunch of keys and pick-locks hanging to his belt, looked indeed more like an honest blacksmith than a king of France. He made himself busy at the piano, tried the lock with the serious air of a connoisseur, with one key after the other, till at last he found the right one. The lock yielded, and with the triumph of a victor who has gained a battle, he said to the queen, See, it is open! Now, madam, you can play."

But the hour fixed for the lesson was gone by. The queen felt no longer dis

posed to play; and Gluck was waiting for permission to withdraw, when the Princess Elizabeth asked him to play something from Iphigenia. The old master, who admired the lovely sister of the king as devotedly as if he had been less than sixty-five years of age, seated himself at the instrument, and played the scene of Orestes' madness.

All listened with attention- Louis XVI. particularly; and when the piece was finished, he approached Gluck, and said, with downcast eyes, 66 Excellent -chevalier, excellent-I am moved, rejoiced-and I will have your opera represented with care-with splendor

exactly as you wish. I hope the result will be to your advantage."

The Chevalier Noverre, intendant of the royal theatres, and Signor Piccini, were just then announced and admitted. Noverre seemed surprised to see Gluck, and somewhat embarrassed at his presence, but his vanity suffered him not long to appear so. Piccini was polite and easy in his manner, and greeted his rival with dignity and kindness, to which Gluck responded.

"What news, gentlemen?" asked the queen. Noverre said, solemnly, "Your majesty condescended to permit Signor Piccini to play the newest parts of his opera of Iphigenia-"

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Certainly," interrupted the queen; and then turning to Piccini she said graciously, "What choice have you made, signor ?"

Piccini bowed, and answered, “The Chevalier Noverre wishes that your majesty may allow me to play the Dance of the Scythians, number one."

Count d' Artois burst into a loud laugh. The other high personages, except the king, who appeared embarassed, could hardly refrain from joining in his mirth.

"I will hear it with pleasure," said the queen.

Piccini took his seat at the piano, and commenced his Dance of the Scythians. The Count de Provence and Noverre beat time by movements of their heads, and the others thought Piccini's dancing music more agreeable than Gluck's.

But Artois whispered to the king, "The dance by itself was excellent, but better suited for the dancing saloons and the masquerade, than for the Greeks at Tauris."