sentially different in flavor, yet alike in the peculiar properties of dryness, delicacy and superior value over all other wines of their respective countries. So, too, we may trace the Burgundy grape in the Collares (of the little parish of that name, near Cintra, in Portugal), the Tinto of Madeira, and the Assmannshäuser of the Rhine; while the Muscadine furnishes examples in the Malvasia, or Malmsey of Madeira, the Malvasia of Italy, the sweet wines of Malaga, and the Constantia of the Cape of Good Hope. That these varieties sprang from stocks of different species among the wild grapes, is not unreasonable. Our native vines afford a wonderful assortment of flavors, from the excessively sweet Muscadines of Georgia, to the dryest of all wines, "the Herbemont," of North Carolina.

"Let us look at the present condition of the vine in Europe," we have said; and the reader, by this time, naturally inquires what all this has to do with it. Very much, good reader, lend us still a little patience, and we will get along bravely.

A few years ago there appeared a disease among the vines of Madeira, which, up to the present time, has not ceased; and so extensive have been its ravages that entire districts have been completely stripped, not only of the grapes, but of the vines themselves. The disease first manifests itself upon the berries and leaves, then extends to the branches, and finally attacks the body of the vine itself, which speedily dies. Singularly enough, the disease was first observed in the grapery of an English gentleman, Mr. Tuckor, from whom it is named the "Oidium Tuckori." Simultaneously, the vines on the Duoro were affected; the grapes of Medoc; on the Charente (whence we get our fine Cognacs); in the south of Spain; in Italy, and, in fact, more or less throughout the wine countries of the Old World. The more hardy vines of the north, in Burgundy, on the Rhine, and in the Champagne district, appear less susceptible of its effects; but there is no doubt but that the famous wines of the south, in the course of a few years, will be no more. In Madeira, the grape-vines are rooted up and cast out from the most celebrated vineyards; the old established wine-houses are winding

up their affairs as speedily as possible; commerce has ceased almost entirely; and this once famous island presents as cheerless an aspect as the shop of a bankrupt, with its empty shelves, its dusty desk, its old, mouldy ledgers, and the discolored space where once the sign stood, in all its gilded glory. Not less fatal has been its appearance in Portugal; the "Old Port" which Englishmen were wont to praise, is no longer yielded by the generous grape of the Douro. In Italy, the Orvieto and the Monte Fiascone will soon be historical wines onlywines of traditional excellence, like the famous Chian and Falernian, of Horation memory; and France, proud France, has "Not yet to see her dreariest days.

a working-man in France is now able to have his customary bottle of wine," is the information conveyed in a letter from a gentleman whose extensive information in regard to the wines of his native country may not be disputed.* If, then, we call to mind that all the wines of Europe are of one stock, derived, mainly, from the wild grape of Persia, that these have been propagated by one method only, layers or cuttings, through many centuries,-that this is opposed to the. method by which nature reproduces its kinds, and that one common, fatal disorder has attacked these vines at the same time-a disorder whose end is certain extermination, we must incline to the belief that some general cause must have produced so general an effect. It cannot be in the climate, for climates vary; it cannot be in the soil, for soils vary; it cannot be in the culture, for cultures vary; nor can it be in the species, for species vary. What if it be in the method of propagation? What, if cutting after cutting, have, at last, exhausted the reproductive powers of nature, even in the vine, the most hardy of her children? This is not unworthy of consideration. The potato, subjected to the same treatment, yields up its Irish ghost in less than three centuries; and why not the vine, in more than twenty? Europe may have to return to the wild grapes of Ferdistan for her future vineyards, or she may supplant her Chateau Margaux and Sercials, with the Catawbas and Scuppernongs of America.†

The average produce of the vineyards

of the old world, heretofore, has been over two thousand millions of gallons of wine annually, an amount almost beyond the limits of finite comprehension. Whither this mighty revenue will drift, as the oriental vine bows before time, fate, and circumstance, is the question? Here, where the soil and climate unite to produce the largest yield, and the spontaneous growth of the grape is without a parallel, here seems to open a golden opportunity. What if we neglect it? What if we embrace it?

The earliest discoverers of America, the Northmen, landed at the island where now Newport stands, and christened the "Vineland." new world

"I am not surprised that the Northmen should have called this Vineland,'" says an old gentleman of our acquaintance, who was born and bred at Newport; "I can remember, when a boy, seeing the wild grapes growing all over the banks, down to the water's edge."

Sir John Hawkins, who was knighted by Elizabeth, for his services in the action with the Spanish Armada, still better known as the Englishman who introduced the slave-trade, speaks of drinking a wine from American grapes in Florida, in the year 1564-memorable as the birth-year of Shakespeare. "Landonnière says, writing the history of his voyage to Florida in 1562, that the trees were environed about with vines bearing grapes, so that the number would suffice to make the place habitable."* Master Ralph Sone, in 1585, commends the grapes of Virginia-" grapes of suche greatnesse, yet wilde, as France, Spaine, nor Italie have no greater." Vineyards were established in Virginia as early as 1620. Beauchamp Plantagenet, in 1648, commends the wine of Delaware (Uvedale) for its intoxicating qualities. "A

* Redding.

second draught," he quaintly says, "four months old, will foxe † a reasonable pate.' William Penn, in 1683, and Andrew Dore, in 1685, attempted to establish vineyards near Philadelphia; Kaskaskia, on the Mississippi, still earlier, had its vineyards planted by the Jesuits; Fort Du Quesne, now Pittsburgh, produced its vines and wines under the French, prior to the year 1758. Volney, who visited America in the year 1796, speaks of drinking an American wine at Gallipolis, Ohio; Dufour, in 1796, speaks of a Frenchman at Marietta, on the Ohio, who was making several barrels a year out of the wild grapes, known by the I drank some name of sand grapes. of the wine when about four months old, and found it like the wine produced in the vicinity of Paris, in France, if not better." In the beginning of the present century, the vineyards at Spring Mill, near Philadelphia, and the Swiss settlement at Vevay, Indiana (in 1805), were established. Ät Spring Mill, a variety of foreign grapes were tried and abandoned, but a native vine, "The Schuylkill," an abundant bearer, succeeded well as a wine grape. This, under the name of "the Cape grape," was transplanted to Vevay, Ia., where it flourished many years. It produces a coarse, red wine, of tolerable quality only, not to compare with the wine of the Catawba and İsabella. These two vines, hereafter, may form the great arterial branches through which the future prosperity of the Northern States shall flow. In the next number of the Monthly, we shall pursue the subject. Meanwhile, reader," think of it. Think of the effects of this terrible oïdium in Europe! Think of the thirsty world, minus ten thousand millions bottles of wine, and America the only country able to supply it!

+"Foxe," intoxicate.

ON

The young man followed the little girl, who gambolled before him, and they arrived thus in a gloomy corridor leading to a room, the misery and squalor of which I will refrain from describing. The mother was at work in a corner. The young man saluted her respectfully, and learned from her that, not counting the girl whom he had encountered in the street, she had four children, of whom she was the sole support. He consulted this poor mother upon the precocious talent for music exhibited by her daughter. But to all his questions the mother constantly replied, "You see, sir, that I am too poor to give my daughter the instruction necessary;" so that, finally, the stranger said to her, that if she would consent to abandon a part of her authority over the child, he would undertake to obtain admission for her in a vocal school. "I can but bless you a thousand times." The stranger and the girl, who laughed in merry peals, went away together.

Among the secondary institutions which owed their existence to the munificence of the Restoration, one of the most remarkable, without a doubt, was

the school of classic music founded by Alexander Choron. Called into being in 1816, it disappeared in 1830 with the government which had created it. In spite of its short existence, it had an important influence upon the musical movement of that epoch; and, hereafter, I will tell all that it has done for the propagation of the true principles of the art. At the time when this story commences, Choron was fifty years old. He was a rotund little fellow, almost entirely bald, with a wrinkled face, fine and delicate features, and a lively, smiling countenance, which expressed a rare benevolence. His little eyes were full of life, spirit, and mischief. He did not walk, he ran, he skipped, singing, whistling, now stopping short to reflect, now resuming his course, and not reaching his destination without ten or a dozen such stoppages. All his movements were abrupt. He spoke rapidly, often slapping his forehead, as if to jerk out more rapidly the idea which he wished to utter. was a man of great talent, variously and profoundly learned.

He

He studied at the Polytechnic School at the time of its foundation, and distinguished himself; but, carried away by an irresistible love of music, he abandoned the career for which he was destined, to the great dissatisfaction of his family. He studied music at a late day; for he was at least twenty-five years old when he placed himself under the learned instructions of the Abbé Roze. So, although Choron was one of the first theorists of Europe, he never completely controlled the mechanism of composition. The silence of his study and much reflection were necessary for his comprehension of the simplest harmonic combinations; and even these he handled with timidity. But that which distinguished him and made him stand alone, was an exquisite sensibility, a profound feeling for the tone, erudition of a high order, an uncommon knowledge of the history of the art, and, above all, a perception, the far-seeing penetration of which was truly prophetic. Duprez had yet attained but fourteen years and the feeble voice of childhood, when Choron said to him, "Mind me, you will be the first singer of your day."

Both from his constitutional organization and his musical studies, Choron

had an almost exclusive admiration for the old Italian school,—the Scarlattis, the Pergolises, the Porporas, whose works he edited. He initiated his pupils into the knowledge of these great masters: he made them sing those limpid melodies devoid of unmeaning ornaments, but rich with an incomparable beauty. In them the singer is left to his own resources; he must struggle with difficulties the more arduous, because they are all of sentiment.

Thrice a-week all the pupils of Choron, who numbered nearly a hundred, came together in one class, over which the master himself presided. Then strange scenes took place. What pupil of Choron does not remember the beautiful duet of Roland, by Piccini, sung by the young Duprez and Mlle. Duperron, now Madame Duprez?

"Médor, vous avez lieu de croire,

Que je m'intéresse à vos jours !”

At these words Choron adjusted his little silken cap, turned up the cuffs of his coat, struck one hand into the other, and cried, "It is not so that that recitative should be sung, mademoiselle. Listen to me." Then he coughed, and recommenced with his little sharp voice:

"Médor, vous avez lieu de croire,
Que je m'intéresse à vos jours !"

Mademoiselle Duperron began again in turn,

"Médor, vous avez lieu de croire.

"But you haven't it yet, my child. What the devil! This is the expression with which you must give it,”—

"Médor

(His voice quivered,)

vous avez lieu de croire.”

(He struck his forehead, he became agitated.)

"Que je m'intéresse à vos jours !"

(He sobbed, he wept silently and then aloud, and his pupils wept with him.)

Choron was not sufficiently master of that precious sensibility without which there is no great artist. An impressible man, he abandoned himself to the emotion of the moment. He gesticulated, he sung, he laughed, he wept as freely

in the salon of a minister as in his own house. Choron was an excellent man, obliging, generous, ready to aid with his purse and his advice all who were in need of them. He loved his pupils much, and was adored by them. He knew how to awaken their enthusiasm, and to direct them in that way for which they were best fitted. No one could be more passionately devoted to his art than he he gave himself up to it, body and soul: and this last word will not be thought hyperbolical when it is known that he died of grief at the abandonment of his school by the government of July.

He travelled yearly through the provinces in search of fit scholars. He went through the towns and the villages; he entered the colleges, the boardingschools, all the establishments for public instruction, where he had all the scholars brought before him. First he examined their physical constitution: then he said, "Sing something for me. Let us see, sing me the gamut, ut, re, mi, fa." The child, who understood nothing of all this, stood aghast. What, you rogue, do you know nothing? Sing me, then, Ah! vous dirai-je, maman?" The child sang, and then the master said, “Well done; you have a charming voice; you shall go with me; your fortune is made." Choron returned to Paris with a dozen brats in wooden shoes, whom he presented to us, saying, "Here is the hope of France!"

These last words recall to me an interesting incident in his life.

Among those of his pupils who had made an epoch in the school of Choron, there were four whom he loved much, and whom he always brought forward when he wished to give the best idea of his instruction: these were Duprez, of the opera, Boulanger-Küntze, an excellent professor of singing in Paris, Vachon, who has left Europe, and he who relates this story. Each of these youths, with more or less of talent, had a particular style which the master had been able to discover and help to form. At sixteen years Duprez already possessed that large style, that canto spianato, which has won for him his splendid reputation. On account of the promising talents of these pupils, and the high favor which they enjoyed with the head of the institution, they were honored with the style and title of artists. Was there a fête, a dinner, a soirée, Choron presented himself, accompanied by his four evangelists. On breaking-up days; when he

had money, which did not always happen, he stole into the refectory, and whispered to some one of us, "Don't cram so much, there will be some sweetmeats." This was as much as to say that we should go to the Rapee to eat a matelote. Then indeed our forks lay idle: we turned up our noses at every thing, even at the lard omelette. Madame Choron, who suspected the plan, grumbled in a reproachful under tone, "They are going to the Rapee." "That, indeed," answered Choron. And he escaped, laughing.

We go

One day he arrived at the school, out of breath. He called all four of us, and said, "Messieurs, here is news! The minister of the palace is changed; he is now a M. de Lauriston, so ill-disposed toward us, that he wishes to suppress the school. I have obtained, with difficulty, that before making such a decision as that, he will hear us. this evening. Courage, then! Our future depends upon it. You must sing your best: first, each one an air, afterwards two duets. Duprez, come hither, my lad you will sing, O des amantes déités tutélaires: You, Boulanger, Oh! que je fus bien inspirée! You, Vachon, simpleton that you are, Di piacer mi balza il cor: do you understand? Di piacer mi balza il cor: and you, my charming Venetian, Non piu andrai farfallone amoroso. Ah! Monsieur de Lauriston, so you would bid us good by-O des amantsDi piacer-Non inandrai,-he cannot resist: no, no and the conservatoire would be in despair." Saying this, he danced, he laughed, he sung. "All will go well," he added, very well. Go and brush your coats and your boots, rub up your buttons: be brilliant, dazzling. Above all, eat little: d'ye hear? You shall have a drop of Medoc to elevate your imaginations."

After having dined as sparingly as he had recommended us to do, and covered ourselves with immense chapeaus, which formed a part of our uniform, we left the corner of the Rue Mont Parnasse, and followed the Boulevards. It was a beautiful July evening. The moon flung her lovely light upon the tops of the trees which waved their dense foliage above us. We walked in silence, each charged with a roll of music, following our master, who went on with his head bowed and speechless. We practised under breath, diminishing a tone, venturing upon a roulade, contriving a cadenza. We arrived thus at the Hotel of

the Minister of the Palace, Rue de Grenelle Saint Germain. A terrible thumping of our hearts seized us when the huissier announced-"Monsieur Choron and his pupils."

We entered a vast saloon, where we found a dozen persons. A commanding voice said to Choron, "Are these all your scholars?" "No, your Excellence, they are my best: they are the expectancy of France." "The devil they are!" laughed Lauriston. "Your Excellence shall judge," replied Choron. Then making us all approach, and taking each, in turn, by the hand, "This is the lover, said he, presenting the broad-chested Duprez; "Boulanger, the demi-caractère: Vachon, the graceful; and il signor buffo cantante." "It seems that you have in your school all styles and all varieties of talent," said the minister, smiling. "Yes, your Excellence, all styles. Duprez, Scudo, sing your beautiful duet from Bella Nice." We ap

proached the piano-forte with some lack of confidence, but resolved to make the best of it. Pauseron, who accompanied us, struck a few chords to give us breathing time. At last we began. There

was a dead silence: all eyes were bent on us. Ten measures and an approving murmur arose to swell our bosoms. Our voices vibrated, rung-our style became elevated-they covered us with applause. “Charming, we heard on all sides. "Yes, yes, it is charming, it is ravishing," said Choron, his eyes full of tears.

Begin again, my lads; all goes well. The country is saved," he whispered to us. The evening finished as happily as it had begun. We left the hotel of the minister dancing like fools, and throwing our chapeaux above the tops of the trees on the boulevards. The school was sustained, and when we went to the opera the men in office said, as we passed, "There goes the hope of France!”

Such was the school into which the young girl whose story I am relating was about to enter. Her name was Rose Niva. Mademoiselle Rose Niva was not what is usually called a pretty girl. She was too large for her age, meagre, and wanted that grace of manner which is the result of good breeding. But she had a little foot, a charming figure, a face full of character and vivacity, eyes black and gleaming, and a mouth somewhat large, it is true, but made lovely by a smile quite adorable. She had talent, nuch talent, but no culture. She must needs be unmade and remade.