"We've chased each other down the hill,

And through the primrose vale,
But now we'll listen, while you sit
And tell the promised tale.

"We've run to meet you at the gate,
And watched and waited long:
Come on, come on-we're all right glad
To have you in our throng!"
And then the urchins, clambering up,
Gave many an earnest kiss ;
And led me on, with wild delight,
Towards their fields of bliss.

Oh, how I loved the fairy elves!

I blessed them for I knew

Their inmost thoughts were on their lips,
Their welcoming was true.

There was a strong endearing spell
Around their artless ways;

I feared no treachery 'neath their smiles,
No falsehood in their praise.

Let cynics sneer ;-I sat me down

And wreathed their waving hair;
And, pleased as they, 'twere hard to tell
Which heart was happiest there.

I blessed them all; and much I doubt
If Time will ever bring

Words to my ear more musical
Than children's welcoming.

DINNA FORGET ME.

seat

THE last time we roved through Lochaber's dark glen, When the red blooming heather wi' night-dew was wet,

You ken, bonnie lass, what you promised me then? You canna forget, love! you canna forget.

When the elm's rich leaf is seen

Losing its freshness fast, And paleness steals on its vivid green As the autumn wind moans past; When it eddies to the cold damp ground, All crushed beneath the tread; Then, then may the tear in my eye be found, For I muse on the fair ones dead.

For, like that orb of light,

That chord, and shining leaf,

Forms were once near as rare and bright,
And, oh! their stay as brief.

I watched them fading-I saw them sink,
Light, beauty, sweetness fled;

And a type of their being bids me think
Too fondly of the dead.

The sun will rise again,

The string may be replaced,

The tree will bloom-but the loved in the tomb
Leaves the world for ever waste.

Let earth yield all the joys it may,
Still should I bow my head;
Still would my lonely breathing say,
Give, give me back the dead!
As the thickest verdure springs
From the ashes of decay,
And the living ivy closest clings
To the ruins cold and grey;
So my feelings most intense and deep
By the shrouded and lost are fed ;
So my thoughts will yearn, and my spirit turn,
To be nurtured by the Dead.

THE LONDON OPERAS.

THE extraordinary wealth of London is displayed in its Operas, which command the finest array of musical talent in the world. London outbids all other capitals in the remuneration which it offers to singers and to musicians; and no sooner does a new genius in music arise, some great artiste, whose fame has reached the ears of the London managers, than forthwith tempting offers are made, and the artiste is secured for one or other of the rival houses. Thus you will find singing on the boards of the London operas, Mario, Grisi, Lablache, and Ronconi, from Italy; Formes, Tamberlik, and Sontag, from Germany; Viardot Garcia, Roger, and Duprez, from France; and Jenny Lind from Sweden. England and Ireland, too, are represented on the opera boards,-Sims Reeves, Catherine Hayes, and Fiorentini, an English woman (though with a foreign name), vindicating the musical character of our country. The orchestras also include men of all nations-Italians, Spaniards, Frenchmen, Germans, and English-the one being led by Balfe, an Irishman, the other by Costa, an Italian. It is money which commands this superlative array of talent, such as no other capital in the world can equal.

You step out of the noise and bustle of the Haymarket into Her Majesty's Opera House. If you have taken your stand at the pit door by half-past seven, on some night of more than ordinary interest, you will find many persons already there before you,-and by the time the doors are opened, you are jammed in by a dense crowd, which fills the lobby out to the pillars of the arcade. Be thankful if, when the doors are opened, and you are, at length, squeezed in through the narrow road, thus passing through the small sieve, be thankful if you find your coat-tails still behind you, or that your fair companion carries with her the full complement of lace. But it is at the gallery-door, where we have had the misfortune to be in the press on more than one of the great Lind nights, it is there, when the crowd of ardent operagoers extends out to nearly the centre of the street, despising even the shouts of cabmen and the plunging of restive horses sweeping past,-it is there that the terrific squeeze of the Opera lobby is to be experienced in all its horrors. First, waiting for a full hour, jammed in by ardent and perspiring foreigners and citizens many strong men, and a few squalling women-until you are ready to drop down with fatigue; then the false alarm that "Now the door is going to be opened;" on which there is a surging of the pent-up bodies, a rush from the impatient mass behind, and many "Oh! ohs!" from the more tender and bulky; then, at last, the door is thrown open, and such a rush! The stair is at once jammed full to the top, the mass sways to and fro, and sometimes falls back superincumbent on the mass behind, which, however, bears it up again, and slowly, inch by inch, and step by step, the "Pay here" is reached, the long stair ascended, and you are seated, spent and gasping, far aloft in a magnificent theatre, on a level with the great chandelier, and see below you, a great way off, the splendid proscenium, the foot-lights, and the tops of the double basses, in the still dimly-lighted orchestra.

But let us enter the pit, where the accommodation is of a very superior description, and from which the house is seen in all the beauty of its proportions. It is grand and yet exquisitely beautiful. Nothing can exceed the skill, the high art, and the ability and judgment displayed in the painting and decorations, which are multiform and multicoloured; paintings, arabesques, carvings, and sculpturings, being combined in a light, rich, picturesque, and magnificent

whole. The pictorial portion of the decorations is striking, the copies of "Aurora" and the "Four Elements," which decorate the proscenium and the gorgeous ceiling, are beautiful, not merely as decorations but as pieces of skilful and effective painting. The house is of immense size, of a horse-shoe shape, rising to a great height, six rows of boxes extending round the house; and looking up towards the gallery ceiling, high up over-head, the gentle tone of blue in which it is coloured, thrown into partial shade as it is beyond the rich arabesques of the domed roof produces an effect nothing short of fairy-land. The boxes are hung with draperies of marigold satin, which light up the house with a blaze of splendour, the like of which cannot be seen in England, if, indeed, anywhere else. The rich and dazzling colour, however, of these draperies, is said to be rather trying to the opera beauties, whose attractions are equal to any others in the house.

But see! the house now begins to fill. Bright faces of beautiful women beam from the boxes above you : there are young girls budding into loveliness, full of anticipations of pleasure; it is their "first season" in town, they are yet unhackneyed, and enjoy all London delights with high zest and delight; and see, beside them, the riper beauties of " many seasons," opera frequenters for years past, who look round the house with less interest, but nevertheless often turn their opera-glass in different directions towards the boxes, to discern some familiar face; older ladies there are, too, -many beautiful matrons, lovely still, though their handsome daughters sit smiling beside them; and old diplomatists, too-generals, members of Parliament, royal dukes; and lo! there is the Queen and royal family in that box, the third from the stage on your left-hand side. Her Majesty has just entered, and seated herself behind the slight screen there, in the front corner of the royal box,-her accustomed seat, where she privately enjoys the delicious music of the opera.

And now the full gas is put on, and the house is lit up in a blaze of splendour. The orchestra is seated, Balfe has his baton elevated, and the overture commences. The opera is Gustave, one of Auber's finest works. Mark what delicacy and precision ;-there are seventy-four performers in the orchestra, and yet at times the music sinks into a melodious concerted whisper; and then what grand bursts, filling the house, the "whirlwind of little fiddles," as a friend characterized them, rising high above the rich deep clamour of the ophecleides and trombones. The music was glorious, and then the singing! how shall we characterize it? Not equal to the Lind nights, it is true, -for Jenny Lind, Coletti, Lablache, Castellan, were not here. Yet there was Caroline Duprez, a young, fresh, delightful singer, and she was worth much. Yet" one swallow does not make a summer;" and we must bear in mind that the great attractions do not usually appear at the Opera until the season is well advanced.

But in the ball-room scene, one of great magnificence, was there not Carlotta Grisi, the queen of dancers? It would be impossible to describe the scene in the midst of which she appeared. At the back of the stage appeared three tiers of pillared galleries, from which the spectators looked down on the glittering scene below-a scene crowded with life-at least a hundred-and-fifty masks on the stage at one time, giving you the idea of a real and not a miniature masked ball. And Carlotta's dancing is superb, the poetry, the eloquence, the fascination of luxurious motion, accompanied by superb music; making dancing worth almost any money (to those who have plenty of it) to go and see. And then, when the last scene drops, after an interval of about a quarter of an hour,

there is the ballet, in which the Queen's Theatre is quite unrivalled, the corps de ballet being very numerous and complete, and maintained at a great nightly

expense.

While on the question of expense, we may mention that it is not unusual for a first-class prima donna at the Queen's Theatre to receive from £2,000 to £3,000 in a season; and a first-class danseuse from £80 to £100 a night! Perhaps, on an average of the season round, the curtain does not rise at Her Majesty's Opera, under a cost of £1,000 a-night! And some idea of the value of the boxes may be formed from the fact that many of the double boxes on the grand tier have sold for as much as £7,000 and £8,000; and a box on the pit tier has sold for £4,000. No wonder, then, that the Queen's Opera House is a scene of such gorgeous and dazzling splendour, as if embodying the brightest vision of fairy-land, when such wealth is brought to bear upon its productions.

-we

Turn we now to the second opera-house in London, which, though younger in origin, is in point of musical excellence and high art, unquestionably the first,mean the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden. Her Majesty's Theatre is the home of Fashion, but this emphatically is the home of Art. The first operatic company in Europe is here; and also the best orchestra, led by Costa, the prince of conductors. Whoever would hear operatic music performed in perfection, must go to Covent Garden. For, does not its company of singers include Grisi, who, though nearly twenty years before the public, is yet still in the full maturity of her transcendent powers? See her in the "Huguenots," in "Semiramide," in "Lucrezia," in "Norma," or in the "Prophète," and there behold the great tragic actress and the great singer! Then there is Viardot Garcia, that gifted child of genius, who throws herself into a character by a kind of impulsive instinct, and seems not so much to act, as to feel and live the character she portrays; who loses herself, and makes her audience quite forget that they are the spectators of a got-up scene; indeed, we know of nothing that can equal the acting (not to speak of the singing) of Viardot, at this day, except it be the vivid personations of Rachel, a woman of entirely kindred soul and genius. Then, the Covent Garden corps includes Mario, out of sight the finest tenor in the world. Even while Duprez was in the height of his fame, Mario, though wanting in his intensity of histrionic acting, possessed vocal merits of a far higher and purer order. His voice is bird-like in its easy, gentle clearness, deliciously caressing when breathing of love, and full of vigour and naturalness in all that he does. Mario has also greatly improved as an actor of late years, in spirit of bearing and energy of delivery, in the exhibition alike of passion and of pathos; and those who have seen him in the "Prophète," will see the great actor as well as the great singer. But Mario did not sing on the evening on which we propose to introduce the reader to Covent Garden.

It was the first night of the season, and Semiramide was the opera. The house was full to the roof, and from the pit a scene equally magnificent with that in the Haymarket was discerned on entering. The decorations have a quieter look, the hangings of the boxes being of crimson, a less trying colour to the opera beauties than the gayer hangings at the other house. Six tiers of boxes rise up to the roof, the supports of which are profusely and exquisitely decorated. The colours are of white and gold, relieved by turquoise blue. The raised devices of fruit, flowers, and foliage in gold, and satyrs, cupids, and bacchantes in flake white, are highly poetical, and shed a picturesque richness over the whole, in combination with the greatest possible simplicity in the final design. The first range of boxes is supported upon a circle of

caryatides; and the proscenium is carried to its great height with consummate art in the colouring and choice of ornaments. But the ceiling, painted in Paris, is the crowning charm. A burst of golden sunshine breaks out in the centre, from whence issues the dazzling effulgence of the chandelier, and, gradually subsiding into profound blue, the round is completed by a deep border of emblematical figures, finely executed. The sweep of the boxes, in a horse-shoe shape, round the house, is most graceful, and the whole scene affords a coup d'œil perhaps unparalleled for the union of exquisite taste in design with breadth and boldness in general effect. Perhaps never did the practical hand of the architect more clearly realize the airy fabric of a fairy tale, or a sudden dream of enchantment.

The orchestra is now full, and the blaze of gas is turned on, pouring a flood of light on the interior. Costa takes his seat, baton in hand, and is saluted with repeated plaudits, which he acknowledges with many graceful bows; and then the baton descends, and the overture is off! It is the very perfection of instrumental playing; light and shade; forte and piano; tender and playful; solemn and martial; are all rendered in the most admirable style. Costa has his band marvellously drilled and organized: his wind instruments are unrivalled, and his tenor violins are the finest in Europe :--it is indeed a treat of no ordinary kind to hear that orchestra render Weber's overture to Der Freyschutz! Semiramide, which was given on the night in question, is an opera full of classical memories; affording full scope for the powers of the band and the gigantic chorus of the opera; introducing the resources of the house with great pomp. The grouping of the chorus, which looks like a real populace so vast is the number of persons on the stage at one time, the marchings and processions, one of which is headed by a full military band, which adds to the force of the band in the orchestra; and the effect of the light perfectly disposed on the masses of gorgeous costume and colour-perhaps surpass anything of the kind ever put upon the stage.

But lo! here comes Grisi, the mainstay of the house! She is received with repeated plaudits, and acknowledges them like a queen. She is still beautiful, round and full, with large lustrous eyes, a charming sweet face, exquisitely modelled, though perhaps more English than Italian in its expression; and when she sings, you feel that Grisi's great powers are still unimpaired: that she still remains the incomparable. She fills up her part with the skill of a great artist, and looks the queen whose part she for the nonce assumes. Angri also, who comes forward as Arsace, receives a warm welcome, and vindicates her claim to the highest standing as a contralto singer-finished in execution, and possessing a voice of remarkable extent and beauty of tone, with a dash of coarseness now and then, but which time, we trust, will enable her to control. Salvatori too sung well, though influenza had seized him our raw climate plays sad havoc occasionally among these foreign singers, who have been before accustomed to only the mild and balmy air of the Italian cities. In short, at this opera, you will hear the best assemblage of singers and actors that were ever yet collected on any stage. Italian and German operas so played as they have never yet been played before, and beyond which you can scarcely conceive it possible that singing, acting, and orchestral accompaniment can go.

It was very much discussed in London, at the time this new opera was started, whether there was room for two operas in London. But the issue has proved that there is ample room enough. For it is no unusual thing for both houses to be crowded to the ceiling on the same night. Indeed, it is not on

the London public that the operas mainly depend, so much as on the increasing visitors from the country, who are poured into town by the railways, and also on the large number of foreigners, who either reside in London, or visit it from the continent in great force annually. These temporary inhabitants of London are the best patrons of its public entertainments. Besides, there is a rapidly growing taste for operatic music among the higher classes of the population, who have the means of indulging in the luxury of opera-frequenting. These circumstances seem to justify the inference that London is quite able to support two first-class operas, even though the expense of maintaining them be of the most formidable description.

Some remarkable facts connected with the cost of upholding Covent Garden, came out in the revelations made in the course of young Delafield's recent bankruptcy. This rival house was started originally by Mr. Beale, in conjunction with some of the artistes, who withdrew from Mr. Lumley's theatre in a tiff; but Mr. Beale soon found himself unable to defray the enormous expense of the company, and communicated confidentially to Mr. Delafield the predicament of the concern. To avert the closing of the house, the ingenuous young gentleman gave a promissory note for £3,000; then he was led on to become a partner in its affairs; the issue of which was his total ruin. So long as he could draw upon his bankers, he continued to pay the various artistes at the following

rates :

In the course of three years, not less than £100,000 was swallowed up by the expenditure of the opera, and on other promiscuous extravagances of Mr. Delafield; besides leaving a debt to be defrayed of £33,000. In the year 1848 the loss amounted to £34,756 (or about £500 per night); and in the following year, 1849, the loss was £25,455. The division of expenses in 1848 was as follows:-The vocal department cost £33,349; the ballet, £8,105; and the orchestra, £10,048. The Royal Italian opera is now carried on by the leading artistes, who defray the expenses, and divide the profits according to a scale arranged among themselves thus adopting the principle of the cooperative associations. They have dispensed with the ballet altogether, except when it is incidental to the opera the number of instruments in the orchestra has been slightly diminished; but it still remains the most complete, classical, and attractive opera known in the world.

THE STRAW, THE CINDER, AND THE BEAN.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THERE once lived in a certain village a poor old woman, who, having gathered a dishful of beans, proceeded to cook them for her dinner. So she first made a fire, and that it might burn up quickly, thrust into it a handful of straw; she then put on her pot and poured the beans into it. It happened that as she did so, one of them, unperceived by her, fell on the ground near a piece of straw, and presently a red

hot cinder jumped out of the fire and alighted close to them.

"Dear friend," cried the Straw, "where do you come from?"

"I have most fortunately escaped from the fire," replied the Cinder, "if I had not exerted all my strength, death would have been my portion: I should certainly have been burnt to ashes!"

"I also," remarked the Bean, "had the luck to get away from it with a whole skin; had the old woman put me into the pot, I should have been boiled without mercy, as my poor companions will be !"

"And should I have experienced a better fate?" exclaimed the Straw, "all my brethren have been consumed amid flame and smoke! Sixty of us at once did the old woman seize to deprive of life,happily, I slipped through her fingers!"

"But what shall we do now?" said the Cinder.

"It is my opinion," replied the Bean, "that as we have all so fortunately escaped destruction, we should be good friends and keep together; and lest any ill luck befal us here again, we had better depart and seek fortune in some strange land."

The proposal pleased the others, and they accordingly set out. They soon arrived at the margin of a little brook, and as there was no bridge over it, they were much perplexed to discover the means of crossing to the opposite side. At length, after some consultation, the Straw thought that if he laid himself straight across he could serve as a bridge to his companions. He therefore stretched himself from one edge to the other, and the Cinder, who was of an ardent impetuous nature, hastily tripped upon him. But when she had reached the middle of the frail bridge, and heard the water rushing under it, she became nervous, and stood still, fearing either to go on or come back. So the Straw was burnt into two pieces and fell into the brook, carrying the Cinder with him-the water hissed as it received her, and she sank lifeless to the bottom.

The Bean, who had prudently remained on the bank, was so amused when she saw all this that she began to laugh most heartily, and did not cease until she burst. It would have gone ill with her then if, by great good luck, a travelling tailor had not come at that moment to rest himself by the side of the brook. He had a compassionate heart, so he instantly unpacked his needle and thread and stitched her together again. She returned him many grateful thanks for this timely service; but, as it happened that he had used black thread, since then, all beans have a black seam down one side.

SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER.

FEW living writers have done more, or achieved a higher standing in his own peculiar line of literature, than Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer has done. That he has been a very hard worker, his numerous works bear ample witness. When Sir Walter Scott died, Bulwer at once succeeded him in the living and hopeful interest of the readers of fiction, and he has since retained his supremacy over all writers of the same school. Had he persevered as a politician, he would doubtless have acquired no less distinction; for, notwithstanding many defects of manner, during the few years that he held a seat in the House of Commons, he made rapid progress as a debater, and also as a practical legislator.

But not only has he succeeded as a novelist and a politican: he has been equally successful as a dramatist. For, is not the Lady of Lyons the modern play which, of all others, is the most popular at this day, both in town and country? What modern drama