tragedy that can happen now-a-days in an Italian opera?
But we have done. The quotations we have made will serve to show the absurdity of the “libretto,” and awaken commiseration for the composer, that he should be compelled to link his music with such intolerable trash. New music ought to demand new words—new musical pieces new dramas. It is unpardonable that so much exquisite music should be dressed in so mean a garb, and the whole splendour of Italian opera be depreciated by a set of scribblers who know so little of the rudiments of letters. It is time that some change should be effected. It is time that musicians should remember (for we cannot bring ourselves to believe that they are altogether blameless in the matter) that music and poetry are twin sisters, always pining for each other’s society, and never more happy than when they are interchanging sentiments. The poets of olden time were musicians in their own right. In days more especially noted for a division of labour, we cannot perhaps in justice expect these things. But surely there can be no just reason why composers should select the worst authors for their associates, and link their music for ever with doggerel of the worst class, calculated to plunge it into untimely oblivion and bring discredit upon themselves for being associated with triflers.
Critics and the public at large are getting tired of this perpetual wrangling between the tenor and baritone. They want a change in the dramatis personæ. They want a few more “Masaniellos” with a few more Scribes to write them, and a great deal less of poisoning, duelling, and seduction. Can they not have it? Surely there must be some available talent somewhere to which the genius of the composer might ally itself. It were folly to suppose that the country that produced an Alfieri cannot produce a dramatist. It would doubtless cost a good deal to harness a young Pegasus; and Apollo would not play for the wages of an organ-grinder. But the accession of beauty would bring with it an accession of fame; and the accession of fame an almost inevitable accession of fortune. Pegasus would pay for his keep and Italian opera would be represented by a series of well-written libretti calculated to raise it still higher in the public estimation.
George Eric Mackay.
SONG.
What can it mean?—that glance so tender,
Out of the depths of two soft dark eyes;
Can it be earnest of heart-surrender,
Making me blest with a sweet surprise?
What can it mean?—white hands caressing
Between them a hand that is scarred and brown:
Is it a dream?—two soft lips pressing
That hard rough hand while the tears fall down.
What can it mean?—you kneel beside me,
Laying your dear head upon my breast,
Giving me all that you once denied me!
Is it, sweetheart, is it love confessed?
FRENCH CASTLES.
No. I.
CHAMBORD, CHAUMONT, AMBOISE, &c.
To spend the summer months in becoming thoroughly acquainted with the most celebrated French châteaux situated in Touraine and the neighbouring country, is to procure oneself as much interesting and enjoyable occupation as can possibly fall to the lot of a traveller in any country: whether we value them for their historical associations, for their picturesque and beautiful situation, or for the romantic stories connected with so many of them, they form quite a chronicle in themselves.
Touraine, especially, was the chosen residence of the French kings of the Valois line, down to Louis XIV. The vast and castellated Chambord, with its turrets and pinnacles, all surmounted with the crescent—emblem of Diane de Poitiers; the gloomy Blois—terrible scene of the assassination of the Guises; Amboise, the favourite residence of Charles VIII.; Chenonceau, the abode of Diane de Poitiers herself; Chinon, where occurred the opening scene of the wondrous career of the Maid of Orleans; Fontevrault, the last resting-place of our own chivalrous Richard Cœur-de-Lion; and others that I cannot pause to name,—all are national monuments,—portions of French history as it were, bringing before me with the utmost reality (so unaltered in most instances are these royal dwellings) the localities where took place the thrilling scenes of those stirring times.
Blois, a very ancient and highly picturesque town, is a good starting point for the tour we had in contemplation; indeed its own castle is one of the most historical and interesting of the number. The town stands on a steep ridge, with the castle at one end and the cathedral at the other. The river Loire is here crossed by a magnificent bridge of eleven arches; the ancient town standing on the right bank, and the handsome new suburb on the left. The walk to the castle leads one through very narrow lanes, past wonderfully picturesque old buildings, and into all sorts of out-of-the-way nooks and corners.
This castle is very ancient; for centuries it was the abode of the high and mighty ones of the earth, and the scene, at different times, of the most revolting crimes and the most striking events. It had been desecrated by being used for barracks, and in far more objectionable ways, but in 1843 it was in part most admirably restored. The fine Gothic portal is not in the centre of the edifice; it leads into a court, part of which has a cloister running round it; on the right is the part of the building raised by Francis I., and the western side was begun under Gaston, Duke of Orleans. The salamander emblems of Francis are everywhere seen in the richly carved roof, overhanging the gorgeous staircase leading to the suite of rooms rendered terribly famous as the scene where the tragedy of the Guises was enacted!
It is singular how tradition has preserved the minutest details connected with this edifice; and