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    vided for from the building ot ^ lie barn . One day there was the washing jftand ; fdiir ^ times a-week she was baking oat'byead ^ "M |^^ 3 ii ^ the morning till noon , as the oven a&d \ tn ^^ $$ e were not large enough to accomplish'm&re in ' a batch . It was all she could do to bake enough before dinner for two days' consumption . At half-past seven the whole band of men had their breakfast ; huge bowls of porridge , milk , and bread in various forms . At ten , large baskets were filled with luncheon—bread and cheese , and bottles of beer—which were sent out to the men . At noon all came in to dinner , and a prodigious dinner it always was , to meet their prodigious appetites . At two , the afternoon lunch , like that of the morning , was sent out to them . At four , they came in to tea , which was a substantial meal . And at seven , there was a supper , very like the dinner . Besides this , the men were always dropping in to light their pipes , to beg a mug of beer , or to give Rosa something or other to do ; so that , as her father said , her business seemed to be never ending . After supper she sat down to mend stockings or other clothes ; but she did not get on very well , for it was difficult to keep awake . Her father chose to be present at that hour , whenever it was possible , and it was his time for reading the newspaper , whenever he had the chance of seeing one . The rustle of the paper , and the whisper of his lips as he read , were the only sounds heard , except when Tom was snoring with his head on the table . The labourers sat on their benches , kicking or pinching one another , when in danger of tumbling off . One and another stumbled away to bed ; but some were always left on the watch for the old farmer's exit , in hopes of a little fun to finish the day with . Sometimes they got it , and sometimes not . Now and then Rosa would make a clearance , and hurry her father away , and then sit down again for a gossip , or even condescend to a little romping , if it was without too much noise . More beer would be drawn , a little of which would be spirted into somebody ' s face . Some one would ask when the dancing-master was coming his rounds , and then they would stand up to practise , grimacing curiously in the attempt to tread softly with their heavy clogs . One time with another the stockings got mended ; and Rosa's father might fairly ask his old brother whether any young woman could do more than Rosa did . Her uncle smiled , and said so valuable a young woman would be much sought in marriage , even without her fortune ; but he found he must not touch on that subject . Her father shook his head more dolefully than ever , and said he could not hear anything of that sort ; he could never part with Rosa . The uncle , who knew something of life , suspected that this had gone too far . Rosa ' s pertness and disrespect in speaking of her father , and a certain gloom and hurry in her face and manner , which struck him this evening , suggested that there might be an attachment . She was six-ami-twenty ; ehe was probably courted ; and she might well be tired of the toils for which her father praised her bo proudly . Her uncle determined to watch , during the few days of his visit . The first business was to see the new barn . It was a most solid , satisfactory edifice , —built as if to stand a thousand yeans . ( To be continued . }

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    AT THE OPERA . T want to say a word to you about a new publication , a volume of mystic thought , set forth in twelve designs , bearing this title : Chorea , Sancti Viti ; or , Steps in the Journey of Prince Legion . By W . B Scott . The sight of that volume affected me strangely , withdrawing as it did the veil thick-folded over the once beaming countenance of youth , recalling the days of hope , of labour , of intense ambition ; when the future seemed so plastic to an energetic will ; when Fame , with the far-off sunshine round her brows , beckoned us up the steep ascent of Art , and the mystery of Life was then pressing for an answer which was never to be given—days of pure study , youthful hope , and youthful confidence ! Some thirteen years were pushed aside , and once more I was sitting beside the grave and highminded Scott , in his low-roofed study , crammed with books , casts , wood-blocks , sketches , and papers . There we spent so many elevating hours ,

    " Talking of lovely things that conquer Death ;" striving to assist the struggling new birth of thought—to become clearer to each other and to ourselves . He was at that period a wood-engraver by profession ; but a poet , a philosopher , and artist by ambition . The wood-blocks gave him bread ; art gave occupation to his soul ; reverie sweetened life ; hope beautified it . He led a lonely life : but he led it like a noble soul . To see him ,

    to hntiw him , was an influence not to be forgotten . Sad he was ; or should I not say , grave ? Nature had given him a melancholy soul , which made him incline to the mystic thinkers ; and although by nature I was as strongly repelled from mysticism as he was attracted to it , yet the force of sympathy , the ever-probing curiosity , the chance that some light might be found there , and , above all , the admiration I felt for him , made me , too , plunge into those waters . I had then the twofold ambition of

    philosopher and poet . We read together , argued together , told each other all our magnificent schemes , admired each other with unfeigned sincerity , were certain of each other ' s success ! Among our plans there was one to this effect : Scott had conceived a series of designs of the great typical events of life . I was filled with thoughts as he unfolded the scheme to me , and proposed to wiite a poem illustrative of the designs .

    Our fortunes lay apart . I left bngland and solaced many long winter nights by the composition of my IA fe-Journey of Prince Legion . I nave the fragment , still , and read it not a year ago : it is detestable ! When Scott's volume came to me and I saw there the Designs , and read in the Preface a brief allusion to the time when they were composed and read also the doubt whether " the subject proved as genial to me as the opera criticism wherein I now disport myself , " I felt as if the past were suddenly opened , and a voice of wail and of warning sadly called to me , saying " Is this the goal of so much effort ? is this the crown you strove for ? is this the consummation of those exalted hopes ? "

    To read Plotinus , to write tragedies , to plan Prince Let / ions , to feel your bosom swelling with a divine afflatus , to give up days and nights to study and all to arrive at Criticism ! In those days Meditation was a severe delight , and with Leopardi 1 could have exclaimed—* ' Dolciseitno , poHsente Domimitor di in it * profunda mente ; Terribile m : i earo Dono del ciel ; consovto Ai lugubri miei giorni I ' ensicr die innauzi a me Hi spe-sso torni . "

    But now the austere luxury of sustained thought and study must be given up for operas and bad plays ! Sic transit ! Thus pass away illusions , hopes , ambitions ! The hoy starts impetuous on his career , resolved to be crowned in the Capitol ; midway lie discovers that lie is hald , commonplace , and gouty . He meant to be a hero ; he finds himself Mr . Smith . Instead of convulsing the world , he lias outraged Mai thus and can ' t pay iiis butcher . Why then should I despond P What , tome are youthful hopes destroyed p 1 at , least am not hald , — I am not . Mr . Smiili , — I haven ' t grieved the Reverend Mr . Mali has , — I have no butcher unpaid , mid if I write Criticisms instead of Epics , who shall say thai I am not more worthily occupied ' ! I will heed no remonstrances ; for there is (» iuli , i ( ji ibi ' a image hovering before me , and insiating

    that I pay rightful homage to its irresistible beauty . What a woman she is ! I have seen her anytime ( his last fifteen years play Nornia as nobody can play it ; arid on Saturday I went to see her again , and was almost as enraptured as the first time I saw her . In extraordinary beauty of person and carriage she of course surpasses every one else ; her arms are more eloquent than their faces ; her face is as grand and beautiful as that of almost any woman I ever saw . It is this superb person of hers which makes her Norma unapproachable ; she is Norma , and the oftener you see her in it , the more astonished you feel

    Poor little Signora Morra , who made her debftt as Adalgisa , was overpowered by the terrible Norma —she was as a straw blown to the corner by the tempest of Grisi ' s passion ; and I cannot tell you whether she was good or indifferent , so completely was she in the shade . Grisi fills the scene . There is no one else on the stage when she is there ! Her singing of Oh non tremare was as terrific as ever—in mi man alfin tro sei as agonizing , and Qual cor tradisti as reproachfully tender . Tamberlik—the only Pollio who makes anything of the part—sang with exquisite feeling ; and in the finale , I am not ashamed to say , they both brought the tears into my eyes .

    On Tuesday we hadfpe Prophete for the second time this season . ^ Far be it from me to withdraw my allegiance from such genius as that of Viardot ; but , pursuing my old plan of uttering what I really think , and leaving " consistency " to take care of itself , I must confess that every time I see her in the Projihete she pleases me less . At first the effect was beyond expression ; but subequent performances have left me somewhat cold . It will always be regarded as an artistic representation ; but there is something about it which prevents the recurrence of those emotions it at first produced ; probably that something is the disclosure of an over-elaboration which calls attention to the means instead

    of fixing it on the end . To use my favourite illustration , Viardot never drops the Mask , but she studiously exhibits herself as masked ; she is always doing something instead of being it . Grisi here stands in curious contrast . She always employs the same gestures , the same looks , and the same effects : see her once play a part , and you see her always ; yet there is such breadth , in her style , such a complete abandonment of her whole being to the character , that it is always effective . One reason of this difference may probably lie in the artistic method of the two actresses : Viardot proceeds by elaboration of details , and these details once known , their production seems mechanical .

    In making this remark I must not be supposed to express any doubt of her extraordinary powers . If she is less thrilling when her method is known , the immense influence exercised at first must not be overlooked ; probably the very exaltation of

    one ' s expectations causes the disappointment ; we expect so much , that not meeting with it we feel thwarted . Now , with Mario I did not expect to be much pleased on Tuesday ; the doubt as to his state of health prevented great expectation . Yet he was triumphant . His voice has nearly recovered its resonance and delicacy , and in the grand burst of the second act he was as line as possible . The great scene of the third act he played more expressively than ever : his face is a book wherein one may read the hurrying emotions of that terrible scene . THALBERG'S FLORINDA summoned me on Thursday en grand costume of criticism to her Majesty's Theatre . It had been long talked of , and curiosity was stimulated to an unusual pitch . A composer I had never thought him ; the pianoforte works bearing- his name being trivialities nothing but his playing could cover . But perhaps he knew that ; perhaps he did n « t care to " throw away" genius upon p ianoforte music—he left that to Beethoven and the classical

    dogs—( juien suiter who knows ? Let us not prejudge , him ; let ; Florinda he heard . It is ' <} nne subject , full of " situation , " though wanting •>» tllC simplicity requisite in a grand opera ; but you . shall judge , for here is the " plot" as reported by o / Iieial authority : — "At the moment when the opera coiniiieii «' <; » Setta , the impregnable fortress that barn tin ; eiiiM" ^ of tin ; Moors to Sp . iin , is besieged by their « ' |» » Munuzza . The Governor of Setta is Count J "" [ an old noble of high military fame and of the utrriM ^ honour—the father of Florinda . To corrupt thi holder of the key of Spain is Munuzz : i ' fl « : lui f , |' ^ and thiH he trusts to do by convincing h « n that ^ lie ill-used and neglected by the young < King , K « at > r '

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    HOPE . Long y ears ago , when light was fading fast , Alone I puced the solitary Hand , And with the lessening nail and waningmast Fled down the sunset to the morning land . Then wander'd lonely with the wandering light , Through moonlight meadows or by whispering trees , Or stood among the stars on somo dim height . When God was passing by me on the breeze . Far off , fur off , I saw the eternal skies , Far off , far oil " , 1 heard the angel's song ; I saw the suns that net , the . suns that rise , Where opening heavens to opening heavens belong . I clasp'd my hands , the tears fell thick an rain , I he : ird glad voices culling me Irom tar , I knew what terror , what majestic pain , And what delight in these wild longings are . •' I came from God , I said , "to God I go ; I help to ring the world ' s melodious chime ; I know life ' s loveliest mysteries , and I know Her music and her universal rhyme . " Long hours , loved hours , in quiet , dreams I lay , Thro' Sleep ' s bright air , ( i od ' s darling , I wiw borne ; But ah ! I said , these dreams may pass away , I with blank eyes may wake and see the morn . M .

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• Citation
  • Leader (1850-1860), July 5, 1851, page 638, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse-os.kdl.kcl.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/vm2-ncseproduct1890/page/18/