passages, it is a very shower of delicious sound, and quite as remarkable for its feeling, as its brilliancy. Donzelli, and, Tamburini, are rich tenors. Donzelli, has the greater volume of voice; indeed, I never heard any thing to be compared to his voice, for the prodigious heap of sound which he can pour forth, and it is all music. Braham's fortissimo passages, were little better than shouting; but Donzelli, is louder, and yet does not seem to shout. We used to think a good deal of Curioni, but, now, that we have become accustomed to Donzelli, he would appear but a second rate singer. Tamburini's voice is deeper, mellower, and richer than Donzelli's. He is the more delightful singer, I think, of the two; though, the less powerful. He is an admirable actor also. I have seen him play a great variety of characters from the merry Figaro, to the bluff Harry the Eighth of England, and he sang and played in all, with admirable discrimination of character, and correct appreciation of the sentiment he was to pourtray. Zuchelli's voice goes much lower than Tamburini's, and equals it in rich softness of tone. When Rubini, Tamburini, and Zuchelli, sing together, in La Gazza Ladra, it is the most delicious concord of sweet sounds, that I ever heard, or am like to hear again. Madame Cinti, has a delightfully soft, round tone of voice, with singular ease and flexibility in the use of it. Her singing, seems to give her no trouble whatever, yet, she is by no means deficient in such energy as the parts she performs require. Her greatest success is, in the expression of joy-nothing can be more expressive, than the beautiful gushings out of melody, in such passages-it is happiness set to music. But, Pasta Pasta, is the Queen of operatic performance. In that immense theatre, with thousands gazing upon her from the wide pit, and tier above tier of closet boxes, and gallery far away in the distance, filled to the top with heads, all fixed in attentive gaze upon the stage, Pasta, comes forth, habited like a Queen, and, for the time, no doubt, feels herself every inch a Queen. Her Medea, you have, perhaps, seen, but, her Anna Bolena, I believe you have not. Never did I behold such noble energy of acting, or listen to more glorious music. It is by Donizetti, and (they say) it is chiefly stolen from Mozart's Masses.-I cannot tell, but if it be, I forgive the theft, as I have heard the Opera, and, probably, would never have heard the Masses as such. Pasta's voice is finer than ever, though, it has still, in some few notes, that slight huskiness, which prevents it from being perfection. Mori, now leads the orchestra. I don't know what has become of Spagnioletti, we have Dragonetti, as of old, and Lindley, and Nicholson, and Wilmer, and Platt, and Harper. What a concert of instrumental music these performers make!-yet they cannot bring audiences without the great singers, and, now, that we have them, the audiences are so great, that in the pit, one almost half dies with the heat. Every thing has its draw-back-every luxury its attendant inconvenience. But, notwithstanding the delights of Italian music, I have, for my own particular part, so much of national feeling about me, that I derive more genuine hearty satisfaction-more solid enjoyment, if I may thus express myself, from a good, plain English song, by such a man as H. Phillips, than from any other kind of vocal music. If you have never heard H. Phillips, you can scarcely have an idea of what a very admirable thing, a good English song is, when given with the plain, unaffected, incomparable excellence of his singing. Certainly, the English are the most "unmoveable" race in the world, or they would get into much greater raptures than they do, with Henry Phillips's singing. They es teem it very much, but it is not in the power of music or sentiment to make John Bull enthusiastic. Nothing, but an infringement of what he considers a public right, or an alarm about matters of money, or credit, will shake him from his propriety. I heard Phillips, sing a song the other night, before a huge crowd, so finely national in its feeling, and sung with such admirable expression, that I thought they ought to have gone wild about it; but it was merely encored, and very little applauded when repeated. The song is a curious one, and as I never heard it, or heard of it before, I copy it here, for your edification : I'll sing you an old song, which was made by an old pate, His spacious hall was hung around with pikes and guns and bows, When winter old brought frost and cold, he open'd house to all, These good old times have pass'd away, and all such customs fled, Yet may we live to welcome back that memorable day He sung this in a kind of chaunt, accompanying himself on the piano forte, and gave every line and word with a distinctness of articulation, and feeling expression of the sentiment they conveyed, such as I think it would be impossible to surpass. As an English singer Braham does not deserve to be named in the same day with Henry Phillips. Our English acted Drama seems to have received the coup de grace-it is all over with it in London. This is rather a strange illustration of the boasted progress of intellect and information among the people, which we hear of from those who wish to make this alledged improvement the apologist of political revolution. If sound knowledge, and good taste, had really made great progress with the public at large, is it probable that we should mark their consequences in the complete desertion of the regular drama, while opera, and spectacle, and dancing, obtain large audiences? I suspect that the people have been of late acquiring more of French habits and tastes than of "useful knowledge," and that the amusements and moral sentiments, as well as the political principles of the modern French are making more way amongst us, than is for our good. Be the cause what it may, good English tragedy and comedy are out of fashion. Malibran's singing, and the French ballet, and the German operas, are given for the popular entertainment at one of the great national theatres, and the other is shut up, and its company forced to take refuge in an insignificant minor theatre, which, small as it is, I believe they cannot fill, even by the performance of Knowles's new play, which is highly spoken of by all who speak of it at all. Knowles deserves a better fortune than this-his dramatic genius is an honour to our country, and our time, and it ought to be more fitly rewarded. His new drama The Wife" is a delightful play, and abounds in those passages of vigorous freshness and touching simplicity, which one wonders can be written by a man who has rubbed through the world, and been made subject to its habits of continual affectation, or mere designing hypocrisy. Knowles writes like one with the strength of a man, and the spirit and feelings of a youth. 66 The Wife" is--but you have seen the plot set forth in the newspapers, and perhaps some extracts, which were well chosen. I cannot help, however, quoting one for you, which I believe the newspapers did not give. It is when Leonardo discovers himself to Mariana.-'Tis he! Leonardo.-It is my love! Mariana, who had just avowed her love for him, not knowing he was present. 'Tis he who won thy heart not seeking it! I did not see the way for thee to bless The passionate joy of this passage its simplicity, and yet fervour of expression, are, to my thinking, exceedingly felicitous. But our people, enlightened as they are by "useful know ledge," will not crowd to hear such music of sound and sense as this, they like opera better, and the French danseuses, with their short petticoats, and much-revealing pirouettes! A word here, however, about Taglioni, whom I was atrocious enough to forget just now, when I jotted down something about the Opera. Taglioni is by no means to be confounded with the ordinary herd of Premieres dan scuses. She is no mere jumper and twister, and twinkler of the feet; there is gentleness, sentiment, and most exquisite gracefulness in her movements. Her action is festina lente done into dancing. Her motion is as leisure, and as lightsome as the waving of a downy feather in a gentle air. As Tommy Moore singeth has formed an idea of the perfection to which dancing may be brought. But it is time now to try to answer your serious question, the which I have deferred so long while I discussed these trifles, from a reluctance to enter upon a subject to which I can do so little justice. You ask me what seems to me to be the moral and religious state of this great metropolis, and whether London society, with regard to these great concernments, appears to be advancing or retrograding? It would require a greater experience, a more extensive knowledge, and perhaps a more deeply serious habit of observation than mine, to give an answer of any value to this question; but such an opinion as I am enabled to form from what I see, and hear, and read, I shall give you. I am, then, inclined to think that the effect of our continental intercourse since the peace has been to deteriorate the morals, and to weaken the religious principles of the mass of society. I have no doubt that the aristocracy and gentry of England, notwithstanding their manifold vices, for which I seek neither to be their judge their temptations and opportunities, and nor their apologist, are, considering luxuriant mode of living, a less sinful race than might have been almost expected, but, for the most part, their morality I should say, is the morality of good manners, rather than the result of religious impressions, and to many, the Tartuffe morality, would not seem very heinous, "Le scandale du monde, est ce qui fit l'offence Et ce n'est pas pecher, que pecher en silence," But after all, it is very difficult to judge what may be the average progress or retrogression of these classes in sound doctrine and virtuous practice, for though vice and presumptuous philosophy are more rife than formerly, yet on the other hand the active zeal of Ministers of the Church is found in many places much greater than it was wont to be, and I believe this pious activity seldom fails to produce at least some good fruit. The churches and chapels in the districts chiefly inhabited by the gentry, are, for the most part, crowded, and the preaching is generally good, though by no means so energetic or exciting as I remember to have heard in Dublin. Preachers here seldom address the feelings of their congregation, and they are right, for nine out of ten English people would be wholly unmoved by any appeal to their sensibilities. Within the limits of the "city," which is thickly studded with fine old churches, blocked up among warehouses and counting houses; I am told that the congregations are very scanty, for the more wealthy have their houses of residence in some other part of London, and very many of the middling classes in trade are dissenters. It were much to be wished that some arrangement could be made to transfer the revenues and service of these unattended churches to places where they are very much wanted, and would be constantly and abundantly useful, but unfortunately the tide of Church Reform runs rather towards stripping the church of its revenues and abridging its influence, than towards the application of its existing strength to the spiritual wants of the people, by a better apportionment of the means it possesses. But as regards the working classes of the metropolis and the class between them, and what may be called the middle class, I fear that there is a great and increasing amount of positive irreligion. This I believe is owing very of certain political teachers, by newsmuch to political causes. The object papers, and tracts distributed at a very cheap rate to the lower orders, is to root out of their minds the principle of reverence. A Parson is held up as a man worthy only of hatred and ridicule -a part of the machinery of "corrupt government," and from the Parson, the that which it is his business to teach. scorn and contempt is transferred to It is lamentable to see the crowds of pale mechanics," most of them young men, and well clothed, who stray about London in groups on Sundays, and never think of going to church. I have endeavoured sometimes to catch the general conversation of these groups and I have found it a strange mixture of smartness, jest, obscenity, irreligion, and self-satisfied contempt of every thing and every body in the world except those who have made speeches in public in favour of the popular side in politics. "66 Now all this is a very meagre answer to your question, but you will, after the manner of the wise, extract something from my nothings, and so I leave it. You interdict me from writing you what you call an essay on Tories, Radicals, and Whigs, (I am glad you put Whigs last) but you will permit me to tell you that I have seen the quondam idol of the mob, Hobhouse, pelted off the hustings of Covent-garden with rotten cabbages and turnips, and I have heard Burdett execrated by a thousand tongues as the vilest of mankind. This is what I call "retribution." Make my affectionate remembrances to my cousins, and believe me, my dear aunt, Your affectionate nephew, H. R. THE EDITOR'S OMNIBUS-HIS TESTIMONY TO HIS OWN. CHARACTER AND MERITS- HIS GRAND COLLEGE.. BREAKFAST ON JULY THE FIRST IN THE MORNING CLEAR, &c. THE EDITOR, WITH A BECOMING DEGREE OF MODEST ASSU-1. To the whole of this flesh and blood world in general, the whole wide family of man*, Antony Poplar, Esq. Editor of the Dublin University Magazine, offers by these presents a gentle greeting and friendly salutation. "From the first moment that there issued from the press the first number of this our magazine, a work, the idea of which first suggested itself to our worthy publishers, when casting about in their minds to confer a solid practical benefit on the species; and in effecting which, as a grateful world will testify, they have admirably succeeded, we were fully aware of the inconvenience which, from the public nature of our editorial office, would result to a person like ourselves of re tiring habits, and endowed with degree of sensitive shrinkingness,” as Leigh Hunt, the cockney poet, 66 Some of our excellent Tory friends may, perhaps, be offended at the possibility of the act of courtesy we have just performed in the text, being construed from the general nature of the terms employed, to include among its objects that class of existences unhappily too well known in these days by the name of Whigs. This most grievous misapprehension of our meaning, for most grievous it is, could only result from an ignorance of the late improvements in zoological science; the fact being, that in addition to certain peculiarities of external form and the power of emitting articulate sounds in succession, the capacity of accompanying them with something like ideas or common sense, and which, of course, decides the question against the poor Whigs, is now absolutely insisted on as a mark of humanity among the soundest thinking naturalists of the present day. Of this most comfortable conclusion, and one in which every stickler for the dignity of our species must heartily rejoice, we were well aware when we used the terms above referred to. Before we dismiss this nice point of classification, the effect of which is to turn our present rulers out of their places in creation; which, perhaps, they might seem to lament much, as in any other times it would lose them their places in the cabinet, a case which they would lament far more, ploratur lacrymis amissa pecunia veris; we confess that in our softer moods; for really we do not hate the Whigs, we merely despise them; |