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courage, fully determined that the time should come when she would establish and maintain her position here, as she had already done abroad.

It is not alone, however, as against vocalists and instrumentalists that this system of criticism, so much complained of by the musical profession prevails. It extends very much further. Let me take a well-known case in point. Whether correctly judged or not, I will not pretend to say, but M. Gounod is assumed to be the leading operawriter of the day. It so happened, however, that when that composer's first opera, "Sappho," was brought out in London, a feud existed between the musical critic of "The Times," and the prima donna-Madame Pauline Viardot-who introduced it. That the work itself was weak and patchy, unequal in some respects, and pretentious in others, even M. Gounod's greatest admirers have not ventured to deny. It was, however, by no means judged upon its merits, but was cruelly mauled, no less by "The Times," than by the musical critics of other journals. That M. Gounod should have failed in this one instance was not at all remarkable. Several of Mozart's early operas, brim full as they are of sparkling melody, and abounding with delicious instrumentation, no longer hold possession of the public ear. By far the largest proportion of the compositions Rossini threw off at railroad speed, when he wrote for bread, and had to make his reputation, are wholly unknown in this country, and totally forgotten even in Italy, where they were written and produced. But it would be set down as the height of absurdity were it assumed that, because these great maestros failed with some of their earlier effusions, they had no talent, and that their later works are not worth listening to. Yet it was in this manner that M. Gounod was treated by the "leading journal of Europe." So pertinaciously, indeed, was the prejudice maintained against this composer, that the belief became general, in the best informed circles, that "Faust -an opera which has gone the round of the world-was for several years by such means kept out of England. When Mr. Coleridge, Q.C., asked Mr. Benedict, at the trial of "Ryan v. Wood," in the Court of Queen's Bench, last February twelvemonth, for libel against the "Orchestra "-that journal having attacked Mr. Ryan on the score of the unfairness of his criticismswhether this were not the fact, that amiable and accomplished musician expressed his doubts whether it could possibly have been so. Mr. Benedict's mind evidently revolted at the supposition that such great unworthiness could anywhere prevail. Nevertheless, the impression is still prevalent that it was so; and the comparatively scant praise which that

work still receives, induces the belief that Mr. Coleridge was much nearer the truth than Mr. Benedict imagined. Who that remembers the manner in which Mr. Costa's "Eli" was criticised in "The Times," when it was brought out at the Birmingham Festival in 1855, can doubt that personality was at the bottom of the severe remarks then passed upon a work which, in spite of the damage intended to be done to it, yet lives, and becomes more and more popular every time it is heard? At that time it was well-known that Mr. Costa-having been assailed because "The Times" critic had taken up the cause of Professor Bennett, in reference to the Philharmonic Concerts, out of which he did his best and worst to write Mr. Costa, and into which he certainly wrote Professor Bennett, who succeeded Herr Wagner, whom unfavourable criticism crushed-had preferred a complaint to the proprietors of "The Times," not so much on his own account, as in behalf of the profession, of which he is no less a strenuous champion than an eminent member. Of late, however, Mr. Costa is no longer attacked as of yore-public approbation doubtless having been sufficiently strong to endorse the opinion of no less an authority than Meyerbeer himself, that he is "the greatest chef d'orchestre of the world," and to render the depreciation, at one time attempted by a portion of the press against him, innocuous. This, however, has not changed the tone of another journal, which, with unceasing pertinacity-evidently because of something unknown to the public being behind-continues, on every occasion, to carp at his direction of oratorios and operas, and to denounce whatever curtailments he may make, be they great or small, in works of considerable length, which, if they were given as written and played abroad, would detain audiences-if they would stay-long after midnight.

From an exactly similar cause, the works of Wagner, although daily increasing in popularity upon the continent, are prevented from being given in London. The fiat has gone forth to abuse those worksto assert, in fact, that there is nothing in them but " sound and fury, signifying nothing." Chiefly in consequence of this decision, the managers of the two London opera-houses refrain from producing the Tannhäuser, the Rienzi, the Lohengrin, and Der Fliegende Holländer, so that the public, if they wish to hear them, must go all the way to Berlin, Dresden, Munich, or Vienna for that purpose!

From so 66 plain and unvarnished tale" as I have told-which, however, but skims the surface of the general unfairness of musical criticism now prevailing-it will be apparent that the public is very far from obtaining a just, or even a reasonable, opinion about artistes on

the one hand, and compositions and composers on the other. The musical profession "sighs and cries" against the many unfair inflictions its members have to endure; but they have not the courage to resist a system of terrorism which would be denounced with the utmost vehemence, were it reported as existing in any other country but our own. Continental professors despise us, because of journalistic persistence in this line of conduct, and repudiate the idea that we can, by any possibility, be entitled to the character of a musical people. Devoutly is it to be hoped that the time may not be far distant when the object, for which this paper is solely written, may be obtained -that the metropolitan press may be thoroughly purged from even the suspicion of such unfairness as I have-after much considerationresolved to do my best to expose; when its repetition, either by means of the signature of the critic being attached, or by some other arrangement, will have been rendered impossible.


ONLY to hear her voice,

When the pure breath that doth its sound compose
(Sweet as the fragrance of a fresh bud-rose),

Comes with a gentle cadence in its tone,
And speaks of friendship she is pleas'd to own;
To hear this is for me

Supreme felicity,

And I rejoice.

To look into her eyes

(Books that can tell such charming histories,
Bright orbs where dwell such wond'rous mysteries!)
And watch them melt, and drops of crystal bleed,
At a sad story, or at some brave deed,

Emit quick sparks of fire,

Must make true souls aspire
To high emprise!

To see her turn and speak

To some poor cripple-beggar in the crowd,

With simple grace, her thoughtful features bow'd
In humble def'rence to his wretched state-

To mark her precious sympathy elate

The broken castaway,

Might move lost souls to pray

For one so meek.

G. D. A.

Running Down to Brighton.


Nor a very novel theme, perhaps, but one that always rings pleasantly in the ears of a confirmed Cockney; for it means that he can take his beloved London away from the mud and fog, and plant it with himself in a sort of Neapolitan climate, within an hour and a half of his making up his mind, as he calls it, to go "out of town." Nor is he by any means unwise in his generation, for so long as man is gregarious, and prone to take his pleasure and the air in good company, what pleasanter spot is to be found in October or November, than this queen of watering places; and if nothing very new is to be said about her, surely we should find some consolation in the fact that there is no more agreeable or easy occupation, than canvassing people and localities. with which we are all familiar.

And who is there, that is anybody, who is not familiar with Brighton? Familiar with it under most aspects. Arriving, say, a little before dusk, we spin along the Queen's Road, and down West Street, from the station on to the cliff, where the gay throng has not yet dispersed for its dinner. The sun, setting like a huge red wafer in the sea, the air calm, or only just so much of it as to keep the smoke from overlapping the sea-front of the town; what a contrast we find to the murky atmosphere we left behind us but ninety minutes since! Although the gas is lighted (the gas is always lighted in Brighton long before it is wanted) there is enough of the day still left to show us who is here, or rather who is not here; for if you do not meet Hob or Nob during the first twenty minutes you are in the place, you may be pretty sure that they are not here.

Never mind! they will be down again to-morrow, and in the meantime here is Mob, so taking his arm, you stroll along towards the Bedford, and tell him what sort of weather we have had in town. "Thick fog all day, my dear fellow ;" and he tells you that "the sun has been so hot in the middle of the day here, that you could hardly move." It is five o'clock, and yet the people don't seem inclined to go home; for with the exception of a few invalids, they linger, apparently loath to seek the solitude of their hotels and apartments, as the evenings are the worst time in Brighton. There is very little going on for the Londoner in the evening, and he uses up the daylight to the last inch. The

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