No. 29.]

OR

MONDE

AGNES.

(A Tale of the Heart).

WE have been told of men who have died brokenhearted-it is a fable-did the sickness of the heart kill, I should long since have been numbered with the dead.

How distinctly present to me is that evening when my friend-my kind, my only friend-left the hand of her whom he loved even beyond the love with which he regarded me, in mine! He was summoned by that voice of duty, whose words he never failed to obey, to a scene which claimed all the sympathies of his noble heart. His vast estates in the West Indies required the eye of a master to correct the terrible abuses which prevailed there; and Reginald, without hesitation, resolved to make the sacrifice of a year's absence from the two beings whom he most prized upon earth. His marriage was deferred till his return, for he was willing to expose his young and beautiful bride to the fervid sun of the West Indian Islands. It was indeed a sore and bitter trial, for he left her lonely and almost companionless. All her lovely sisters had one by one, drooped and died; and I, her distant cousin, was her nearest living relative. To my care-I might almost say to my bosom for as we parted, he led her to my arms, did Reginald commend his treasure. How little did he think that the blessing he then pronounced over us, was so soon to be changed into a curse.

un

He went,

and I carried Agnes to my mother's house; there, in the ancient woods and the pleasant prospects that surrounded it, I trusted that the long and tedious year of Reginald's absence, to the termination of which, both Agnes and myself looked with impatience, might be not unprofitably spent. I vow to heaven, that at that time, my heart was as pure as her's whom I led there!

"The Hallows," which had been an old hunting lodge, was very remote from any populous neighbourhood, but in this Agnes rejoiced. She said that the society of my mother and myself would be delightful to her, and she wished for no other. But what solitude would not have been brightened by such a presence. All the light and captivating accomplishments, which women alone possess, were united with her, in the highest cultivation of intellect. Books and delicious music, and painting from nature's own scenes of loveliness, and conversation, in which innocence, intelligence, and happiness were even speakers, filled up the hours of the first happy days which we spent in this retreat. For upwards of three months, buried in this delicious solitude, I was utterly regardless and unaware of the progress of my own feelings. During this period Agnes and I were never, from morning to night-fall, at any one time, two hours asunder. In the spring meads, and in the summer woods, we wandered arm-in-arm:

[VOL. 3.

Her

I-so I may see heaven, thinking no ill. At length the autumn came, and brought with it new delights-delights! It brought with it that which blighted my heart for ever. One warm and sunny August evening, Agnes had wandered out to sketch, leaving me reading to my mother. In about an hour I followed her, though for some time in vain. I went to the waterfall and through the woods, but still in vain; I was becoming rather anxious, when passing a little summerhouse, in the deep bosom of a cluster of beech trees, I discovered the object of my search. Fatigued with the heat, she had sought this shelter, and fell asleep. pencils were scattered beside her, mingled with the wild flowers she had gathered in her walk. Her long dark ringlets were gently waving in the warm evening breeze which seemed to raise upon her cheek its softest and loveliest suffusion. Some gentle thoughts were stirring in her dreams; for as I stood gazing upon her, she smiled. From that very moment my whole being was changed. Unknowing what I did, I bent down, as one worshipping, and kissed the parted lips before me. She still slept; but not so my feelings; they were awakened, never more to know rest. As I knelt before her, I felt for an instant, exalted beyond my human nature, and in the next moment I knew that hope and happiness had passed for ever from my heart. My doom was fixed-my race was run-my light was extinguished.

But what was the course which honour and virtue, and friendship bade me pursue? In the solitude of that whole night, I meditated on the subject, and before the rising sun, I took, on my trembling knees before God, an oath, which by God's grace, I was enabled to keep sacred. I swore to bury for ever in my bosom, the feelings which the last evening had awakened, and still to be the true and faithful friend of him who had trusted every thing to my honour. I knew and felt, when I took this resolution, that my heart must be crushed in the performance of it, yet still I resolved. It was, indeed, a difficult and dangerous part to act; but if my life had been required of me for its performance, I would have freely given it!

I should in vain attempt to describe the feelings which seemed to be consuming me, during the remainder of the year, which I passed with Agnes. By efforts which now appear to be almost supernatural, I became at once a most accomplished actor,-I might almost say hypocrite. I was gay and cheerful as usual; I went through the same round of occupations; I walked; I read; I sketched; I sang with Agnes as gaily as before, and no one, not even she, for a moment suspected the hollowness of all this. It has always been an inexplicable mystery to me, that my health did not desert me during this fierce conflict, but no symptom of the kind appeared. I had hoped that the semblance of indifference, might in time produce something of

reality, but I was disappointed. My passion for Agnes still grew; but I had so completely schooled myself into all outward suppression of it, that opportunities that to others would have seemed irresistible, hardly offered a temptation to me. The touch of her white delicate hand, the odour of her warm balmy breath, created no sensation but that of deeper despair.

Once, and once only, did I stand in danger of betrayal, it was not in her presence, for there I was always invincibly guarded. She had been, towards the close of the year, unwell; and her physician, as he left her one evening, taking me aside, told me he apprehended she was suffering from the same fatal cause, which had destroyed her sisters. The remainder of this fearful interview I do not recollect; I only remember a stern resolution to betray no emotion, and I suppose I succeeded, for on the following day, Dr.-made no allusion to what had passed. My attention to Agnes now became most anxious, and I looked with strangely mingled feelings for the return of Reginald from abroad. At length he came-but how changed! The fervid climate had done its work upon him, and his health had suffered even more than that of Agnes, during his absence. Madeira offered the only chance of recovery for both, and thither they entreated me to accompany them. But before our voyage, a ceremony was to be performed, which called for all the firmness of my soul. I was to give away the bride; I did it, and they who were present commended me for the cheerful seriousness with which I performed the duty. Could they have read my heart, how deeply would they have pitied me. Gentle breezes and calm seas wafted us to the happy climate to which we were bound, but that climate seemed to have no balm in store for us. Reginald grew rapidly worse; and as we tended his sick couch, Agnes and I were scarcely ever separated. Never in the hours of that happy summer which we spent together, under the shade of the old woods, amid the melody of birds and the odour of sweet flowers, did she seem so truly lovely as when bending over the bed of her dying husband. He died in our arms, blessing Before this event occurred, I had never dared to think of it-I could not bear to couple any thing like hope, with the loss of my earliest and dearest friend, with that fearful infliction which would deprive Agnes of the husband she adored. But now that he reposed in the bosom of the green mountains of Madeira, I myself expected, that some traces of hope, some embers of former feeling would be awakened within me. But I found the current of these feelings had been dried up, The violence which I had so long exercised over my heart had crushed it, and in vain I attempted to revive it. Never in all my former sufferings, did I experience sensations so sickening as those which now oppressed me. I seemed as if I was losing the faculty of appreciating and understanding the virtues and charms of Agnes, and I grew disgusted with the torpor that stole over my soul. In the mean time, while Agnes visibly declined, and though I watched over her with a brother's fond attention, it was evident she would shortly follow him whom she had lost. The summer came on, and to avoid the heat, we retired to the mountains. Agnes was still able to walk a short distance abroad, and in the evening, she was accustomed to wander for a little while alone. These moments I thought she devoted to a preparation for the awful change which awaited her.

us.

One evening I went to meet her, and found her, as I had before found her, in sweet and tranquil slumbers. Once again I bent down and kissed her; and like the touch that drew the running waters from the rock, that kiss drew from my indurated heart all its former feelings. At this moment Agnes opened her eyes, and I cast myself before her in an agony of passion, at the recollection of which, even now each nerve within me trembles. Nothing but the instant death of one of us could have prevented me from disclosing the great secret of my existence-my unbounded, my unrequited love. I told her, as she listened motionless and speechless, the whole sad history of my sufferings, my struggle and my triumph; and yet I breathed not a single whisper of hope-I knew that Death was waiting for his bride; and he came to claim her. As I concluded my wild and hurried confession, Agnes took my trembling hand and tenderly kissed it. "You have" she spoke faintly and indistinctly, "my deepest pity, my purest affection, my warmest gratitude. God will bless you for all that you have suffered for my sake, and for that of him whom I am going to rejoin; and yet, to leave you thus,-you my more than brother, is the sting of death." She spoke no more, but leant forwards into my arms and died. Bijou.

Yesterday, at the great gate of the church of the Petits-Peres, an amusing circumstance congregated the passengers around a funeral procession. I met accidently a friend who recounted to me the following details of the affair. "6 Every lady knows that the chevaliers of St. Louis have never been extremely fortunate. Attached to the destinies of the Bourbons, for forty years, they have given as many proofs of their fidelity to that family, as hatred to its competitors, Napoleonists, Republicans and others. This immoveable constancy in suffering, which is evidently inculcated in the symbol of the patron of their order, has been little appreciated by the Bourbons, who have proved themselves to be as ungrateful, as they are unskilful. The Restoration saw these poor chevaliers stripped of their resources, suffering from emigration, hawking vainly their crosses from the office of Aumônerie, to the saloons of valets de chambres, sometimes succoured

They have

I

when the hounds had taken their repast, perhaps hastened the fall of the Bourbons, by the obstinacy of their prejudices, but respectable even in their errors, the result of conviction, they have fallen with their masters. Justice demands this admission. know one under the Restoration, who, in the midst of the greatest difficulties to procure an existence, has never lost his gaiety. He lives yet, he was at the funeral I am speaking of, he was pointed out to me by the coffin bearers. This is his history. The poor checalier is afflicted with a gout very similar to that of Louis XVIII., with this difference, however, that he has outlived him, and even his dynasty. His physician recommended him as a remedy, frequent carriage exercise. But all the chevaliers of St. Louis do not keep carriages, especially since the revolution of July. The omnibus offers a ride too full of interruptions to be agreeable; besides, the springs of this vehicle have not that gentleness of motion which communicates itself to the members of the sufferer, and removes the humours. The chevalier felt this, and regarded the physician with a piteous expression-his hands insensibly plunged into his empty pockets. Suddenly an idea struck him, this was two years since. Every morning while taking his coffee, he monopolized the Petites-Affiches, then the Moniteur, then the Quotidienne; having digested the politics, he busies himself with the interments of the deceased of the city. When he possesses perfectly in his memory the list of deaths, he classes them by their importance, estimates the rank and luxury of their funerals, and accordingly that he presumes the interment may be attended by mourning coaches, or reduced to a simple cotillard, he brushes his black suit or remains in bed. Habit in these affairs has made him a wonderful tactician. The day fixed for the funeral, he attends at the church, dressed befittingly. While waiting for the body, he mixes with the by-standers, and seeks an eye to whom he may address himself, he informs himself concerning the defunct, he recounts his marriage, he remembers it, he danced at it. Soon as the coffin appears, his eyes become humid, he exclaims pooh! He kneels. During the mass, he converses on the virtues of the deceased, he asks the details of his malady, his pocket handkerchief is moistened with his tears. They raise the bier-they place it on the carthe mourners pass round it. Our chevalier, recommended by his cross, his mourning habit, his silver locks, imposes silence, gets into the coach between the heir and the vicar. They set out to the grave—it is closed. The spirituel friend of the defunct wipes his eyes, and the journey is finished. His physician is enchanted. He was yesterday morning at his three hundred and thirty-seventh interment. The chevalier calculated another journey to St. Pere la Chaise. The footstool was placed, he bows to the curate, he enters the coach. A little man in a black mantle, with a sinister expression of countenance and sharp nose, approached him and pulled him by the habit. it was the heir. "To whom, Monsieur, have I the misfortune to speak?" "A friend of the dead," replied the haunting chevalier, with the greatest sang-froid. "You knew my cousin intimately?" "I was his friend." never spoke of you, you dined very rarely with him?" "He was, notwithstanding, my friend." "That is astonishing, you were perhaps his physician?" "Precisely." "Oh, monsieur, how many obligations !''

NO. XXIX.-VOL. III.

"He

"Indeed less than you imagine." The heir was on the. point of embracing him; but a tall, pale, withered, light-haired man interposes, passionately claiming the benefits of the malady of the deceased. It appeared that his account had not been discharged. He came to claim his fees at the coffin of the deceased, he bore the proofs in his hand. Here the adventure became inextricable. The chevalier of St. Louis choking with laughter, but fearing to be embroiled, slipped off by the Sacristy, and the real physician jumping into the coach, rendered to his debt or his last duties. C. W. C.

TO MAY.

May, thou month of rosy beauty.
Month, when pleasure was a duty;
Month of maids that milk the kine,
Bosom rich and breath divine;
Month of bees and month of flowers,
Month of blossom-laden bowers;
Month of little hands with daisies,
Lovers' love and poets' praises;
Oh thou merry month complete,
May, thy very name is sweet;
May was muid in olden times,
And is still in Scottish rhymes;
May's the blooming hawthorn bough,
May's the month that's laughing now.

I no sooner write the word,
Than it seems as though it heard,
And looks up and laughs at me,
Like a sweet face, rosily;
Like an actuat colour bright,
Flashing from the paper's white ;
Like a bride that knows her pow'r,
Started in a summer bower.
If the rains that do us wrong,
Come to keep the winter long
And deny us thy sweet looks,
I can love thee, sweet, in books;
Love thee in the poets' pages,
Where they keep thee green for ages;
Love and read thee, as a lover
Reads his lady's letter over,
Breathing blessings on the art,
Which commingles those that part.

There is May in books for ever,
May will part from Spencer never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books;
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms,
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains then if ye will,
May's at home and with me still;
But come rather thou good weather,
And find us in the fields together.

VOCAL MUSIC.

Leigh Hunt.

IT is a mistake too general among amateurs, that, as singing is, in a measure, giving vent to the feelings, unaccompanied by any visible mechanical operation, they should make the ear their sole guide; with such, science is superfluous, and practice unnecessary. That those are best calculated to succeed as singers, who have great liveliness of ear, accompanied by a musical

1 2

memory, there can be no doubt; but it often occurs that such natural advantages are obstacles to perfection.

A good course of practice on the piano forte, should be accomplished before the solfa is commenced: this is the plan usually adopted on the continent, and, with what result, the admirable singing listened to during the opera season of 1828--9, plainly evinced. The science of singers will cease to become a by-word for laughter, when the same system becomes general in England. How much has the word science, with regard to singing, been abused! We have heard it attributed to the vilest flourishes upon wrong harmonies, and to many other absurdities upon which the theatrical public no longer waste their applause. The vulgar graces and embellishments so called, copied from the theatre, and heard at second hand at every drawing room a few years back, made sound judges despair of the success of music in England: but private performers have subsequently been taught to look else-where for models, and the style of the theatre is now left to the admiration of mechanics, and the imitation of street musicians. Even of professional singers, the education has in England, been hitherto extremely superficial, and it is not surprising that the pupils of such masters should be scarcely better informed. A fine voice being held here, according to the Italian proverb, ninetynine out of a hundred requisites for a singer, all that the master did to fit his pupil for the public, was to strengthen it, to teach a shake, a few cadences, and get half a dozen parts in operas, acquired by the labor of infinite repetition. The pupil then, knowing no more of harmony than the chords which accompany the scale, and those upon no certain principles, became instructor in his turn, and daily thought himself fulfilling his duty to parents, by teaching their children the turns and graces to a few fashionable songs. Indeed, ignorance of music is so remarkable among singing masters, more especially among Italian professors, most of whom are patronized for some eccentricity of person, manners, or habits, that it is vain to expect from them a fundamental and systematic course of instruction. Among the exceptions to what we have just advanced, are two splendid ones: the composer Coccia, who has left England for some time; and Liverati, who has made excellent pupils; both these are well-grounded musicians, and therefore, bestow not too much care on externals.

We would not have any of our readers repress an inclination to the study of singing from diffidence on the score of the voice: daily practice will almost create a tone where none existed; and, after all, if the defect of quality can be compensated by an exuberance of feeling and good taste, it will delight infinitely more than those powerful voices which, in unskillful performers, are perfectly overwhelming and disagreeable; when, indeed, the loudness of the voice makes any variation from the pitch, or misplaced emphasis, more distressing to the hearer.

A radical defect of ear is, then, the only real objection to the cultivation of singing, since voice may be acquired by artificial means; and as it is impossible that a true lover of music can exist without a fondness for vocal melody, we hope to be rendering a service to our fair readers by showing them how easily, without extraordinary natural gifts, they may please themselves and others. Want of judgment or self-appreciation is cause why private performances often displease; and those who follow the prevailing fashion in music, with

out considering their natural inclination, or how far their voice or their accustomed practice may have fitted them for peculiar imitation, generally excite disadvantageous comparison. This is never the case with any who sing what they feel strongly impelled to. In the first place, we would have the natural compass strictly adhered to, and thus all those forced, harsh tones, which generally lead to the utter ruin of the voice, will be avoided; no mezzo soprano should be allowed to scream up to C, or high treble descend to A; we would have no sweet voiced placid girl attempt a scena that demanded the impassioned declamation of a Pasta in Medea ;-nor any, excellent in ballad, attempt Rode's variations, to remind us of the perfect articulation of Mademoiselle Sontag. Few have the discrimination to select that species of music which is perfectly accordant with their disposition, as well as within their powers; and it is notorious in public singers, that many have gone through part after part without any decided success, who have at length gained it by a casual experiment.

:

Remembering, as was just observed, the natural limits of the voice, the diligent student should unremittingly follow up the practice of the solfa, beginning piano, swelling out the voice and diminishing it again, in as long notes as a judicious economy of the breath will allow making the exactness of the pitch and intonation the subject of the most vigilant attention. The tendency of the voice is to sink, and the performer is less likely to be aware of such accidents than the audience. When it is remembered how exquisitely delicate is the structure of the organ, and that its intonation is liable to be injured by the slightest agitation of the spirits, or nervous dread, to which the best singers are subject in performing before certain companies, little need be said on the necessity for care in the outset. Previous practice on the piano-forte will greatly quicken the improvement, and render the acquirements solid; and an instrument always kept in the perfection of tune, must be the standard of truth, and the umpire between the ear and the voice. So much, with respect to compass and tone, depends upon the general health, that the scale will be lengthened or curtailed several notes, in proportion as it is good or bad; but as it is injurious at any time to fatigue the voice by over-application, it is especially so to exert it, at peculiar times, to reach extreme notes with difficulty. After daily practice of the scale, and the attainment of readiness in hitting distances or intervals, it will be highly advantageous to the young performer to take the lower part in duets, or the middle voice in trios; this prevents too great a reliance being placed upon the upper melody, facilitates the reading of music, gives confidence, and forms a good preparation for singing to the accompaniments of modern music. The voice should, as quickly as possible, divest itself of the assistance of those go-cart and leading-string accompaniments, by which popular song writers enervate the taste; and destroy the capacity for improvement; for if the pupil be well accustomed to read and to keep time, it matters little what goes forward on the instrument or in the orchestra: and here, instead of a barred accompaniment, with the melody on the top of it, in unison with the voice and helping it all the way, we may have our enjoyment doubled, in listening to the fancy and ingenuity of the composer, as they are employed in setting off his prominent subject. There is

a strict analogy between the light and shadow and the other resources by which an historical painter draws attention to his principal figure, and the use of varied accompaniments to a grand air; they are, doubtless, to be used with discretion: but we cannot listen to the beautiful phrases in Mozart's accompaniments, or to those in Beethoven's cantatas, of which the one "Ah! Perfido," will instantly occur to the mind of the concert-frequenting amateur, and persuade ourselves that they injure vocal melody. Ignorance and vanity were the causes why many public singers, at first, set their faces against free accompaniments;-because they were compelled to sing in strict time; to learn the music of their parts thoroughly, which their want of habit in reading rendered difficult; to leave out cadences and flourishes; and to share the public attention with the performers in the orchestra.

All that we urge tends to this, that neglect of laying a foundation of musical knowledge, and too great dependence on the ear, hinder many from becoming fine performers; and these errors, therefore, cannot be too zealously combated. In Mrs. Billington there was an example of the wonderful effects produced by industry and cultivation, upon natural genius. This lady was as fine a piano-forte performer as a singer, but she had the good sense to keep the knowledge of her skill in the back-ground; because she knew that the public would not believe such a phenomenon of perfection, in all the styles of vocal and instrumental music, could possibly exist; and that, as she showed excellence as a player, the public would detract from her merits as a singer. One instance of the talent of this extraordinary woman is worth recording. Mrs. Billington proposed to bring forward, for her benefit, Mozart's opera, La Clemenza di Tito, which had never been heard in this country, and of which there was only one manuscript score in the kingdom. This copy was in the possession of his majesty George the Fourth, then Prince of Wales, who kindly sent it to the Opera House for her use. The whole band, the singers, the chorus, were anxious to hear the contents of so precious a novelty as a manuscript opera of Mozart; and Mrs. Billington gratified them by sitting down to the piano-forte, and playing the accompaniments from the score, and singing the principal part-that of Vitellia.-In this way she went through the whole of the opera, from beginning to end --giving Mozart's expression and character so admirably, at sight, that the audience were in a state of enthusiasm, no less with what they heard, than the admiration of her wonderful powers and fine musical mind. If industry and knowledge of the mechanical part of music were the means of perfecting a Billington, we may conclude that they are equally calculated to make the most of the poorest voice. Students should not become impatient of practice, because the tone does not flow freely, or appear of a good quality, during their first attempts:-such is the case with every unused instrument, every violin not played upon, or flute not breathed through; but perseverance in the rules of art will soften imperfections and correct defects.

The influence of the temper upon tone deserves much consideration. Habits of querulousness or ill-nature, will communicate a catlike quality to the singing, as infallibly as they give a peculiar character to the speaking voice. That there really exist amiable tones is not a fanciful chimera. In the voice there is no deception;

it is, to many, the index of the mind, as well as of moral qualities; and it may be remarked, that the low, soft tones of gentle and amiable beings, whatever their musical endownents may be, seldom fail to please; besides which, the singing of ladies indicates the culti vation of their taste generally, and the embellishment of the mind. Shakspeare felt that there is a reciprocal charm reflected from music on the singer, and from the singer on music, when he wrote that beautiful comparison of the sound of a loved voice to

"Ditties highly penned,

Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower,
With ravishing division to her lute."

For an instant compare the vulgarity of a ballad singer, her repulsive tone of voice and hideous graces, to the manner of an equally uncultivated singer in good society; or watch the treatment of a pretty melody from the concert room, at the west end of London, until it reaches the ears from under the parlor window, and observe how it gains something new of vulgarity with every fresh degradation. The discrepancy between the copy and the original air becomes, at length, ludiThe pretty air, “Oh, no, we never mention her!" will serve to illustrate our observation.

crous.

Where several young ladies, or friends, reside in one family, there is an opportunity for bringing the social harmony of voices to a kind of perfection, which casual intercourse can never lead to. In a country life the accomplishment of music is especially graceful. What can better befit morning or evening society in an arbor, or in the shady recesses of a park or pleasure-ground, than an Italian Arietta of Millico or Paesiello, aided by a few touches of the extempore guitar? A social glee sung by heart, may not render the labors of embroidery less interesting, or ill occupy the interval of reading aloud. One of the chief delights of ladies' work is that it so little engrosses the thoughts. While their fingers are mechanically employed, they may, in a hundred ways, entertain themselves, and those about them, as well with the music of their voices, as with the merry conceits of their wit and fancy.

To resume our practical hints;-as it is necessary that solo singing should have a considerable degree of polish in the execution, we would recommend the young pupil to the choice of slow expressive airs of the old Italian school, as the best to initiate the voice. Some

of the airs in Artaxerxes, composed by Dr. Arne, in imitation of the Italian style, are excellent for this purpose; as are also the charming canzonets of Millico. A close and brilliant shake is so necessary an ornament to many styles of vocal music, that the daily practice of it (taking care that, it be very slow at first, and quickened by degrees) is indispensable. Avoid any attempts at brilliant passages, or show songs, until your solfeggi have put it in your power to accomplish them with ease and distinctness. To swell the number of those who have worn out the patience of whole parties of innocent, unoffending people, by the everlasting "Di Piacer," is not a commendable ambition. The public, from the time of Farinelli, downwards, has consented to applaud divisions; and, to a certain degree, the study of them is advisable, as they give fluency and power in dramatic music; but arpeggio passages, like the celebrated variations to Rode's air, so inimitably executed by Mademoiselle Sontag, serve, in themselves, no purpose of music. Above all, they should not be