the result of a battle between Frederick the Great and his first singer. No other entertainment was arranged for the evening; the king commanded the preparations to be completed. Evening approached; the director, in despair, hastily donned his court-dress, and repaired to the king, to whom he represented that he had seen Mara; thst she was really ill, and could not be induced to leave her bed. Frederick, who either really thought, or affected to believe, the indisposition feigned, merely said, "Do not disturb yourself: she will be present;" and, half an hour afterwards, one of the royal carriages, accompanied by eight dragoons, stopped before Madame Mara's door, and the officers announced to the terrified servants that he had orders to bring their sick mistress by force to the theatre. We will detail the story in Madame Mara's own words to Goethe. She says "I rose from my sick bed, and dressed, with the soldiers standing at the door of my apart ment. Ill as I was, only thoughts of the direst revenge filled my soul. As I placed the dagger of Armida in my girdle, I wished with all my heart that I could slay my pitiless tyrant with it. 'Yes,' I said to myself, as the heavy diadem was pressed on my poor aching head, 'yes, I will obey the tyrant; I will sing, but in such accents as he has never heard before; he shall listen to the terrible reproaches I dare not utter in words.' In this mood I went to the opera; the common people showed their sympathy, when they saw my guard of dragoons, my face wet with tears and wan with sickness. Some even rushed forward to rescue me, but they were driven back by the soldiers. The officers had orders to accompany me to the side-scene, and stand there until I was called upon the stage to sing my part. I felt sick unto death as I stood waiting; and my physician, who accompanied me, has since said that he feared the worst. I looked on the stage once, as the ballet-dancers swept past; it seemed to me as if they were dancing on my grave. Now, I had to appear. I sang the bravura in weak, trembling voice; but I felt very much vexed that I could only sing so feebly, for an ambition awoke in me. When, in the second act, I had to sing the Mi serame,' I poured out the whole sorrow and oppression of my heart. I glanced at the king, and iny looks and tones said, Tyrant, I am here to obey your will; but you shall listen only to the voice of my agony.' As the last piteous tones died on my lips, I looked round; all was still as death. Not a sound escaped the audience; they seemed as if they were witnessing some execution. I saw my power, even in my weakness; this gave me strength; I felt my illness yield for the time to the power of melody within me. Vanity, too, I came to my assistance; she whispered that it would be an eternal disgrace if I allowed the grand duke, who had heard of my fame in a foreign land, to suppose that I was not equal to my renown. Then came that magnificent duet, in which I had to address Rinaldo, Dove corri, O Rinaldo?' and then I raised my voice, but did not put forth all my power, until I had to sing those burning words, Vivi felice? Indegno, perfido traditore!' My audience seemed overpowered; the grand duke leaned over his box, and testified his delight in the most evident manner. For some moments after I had finished, there was a breathless silence, and then came the full thunder of applause. I was sent for to appear again, and receive the plaudits; but no sooner had I got behind the scenes than I fell into a fainting fit. I was carried home, and for many days my life was despaired of." Such was Madame Mara's account of this singular act of despotism, one worthy of Nero himself. "The Colossus of the age" certainly behaved like a petty tyrant to his principal singer. In vain she pleaded ill-health, and begged to be allowed to resign her honourable post; the answer was always the same-" You are to remain here." At length, urged by her husband, and heart-sick of her slavery, she attempted to fly with him; but the fugitives were discovered, and brought back as state prisoners. Frederick, who desired nothing more than praise from the French press, had been rather mortified at the view taken by the Parisian journals of his barbarous violation of Mara's sickroom; they expressed, in the strongest terms, the deepest indignation at his conduct, and the most heartfelt pity for the sufferer. The voice of public opinion, added to a secret consciousness that he had gone too far, determined the king to inflict no punishment on Madame Mara herself; but he indemnified himself for this forbearance by making her husband feel the whole weight of his anger. The luxurious, pampered, royal musician was forthwith ordered to repair to Kustrin, in the capacity of drummer to a fusilier regiment! Forgetful of her many wrongs, the faithful wife wished to throw herself at the king's feet, and beg that the sentence might be revoked. He would not see her, and sent her a large portfolio of music, with the following note: Study these, and forget your good-for-nothing husband: that is the best thing you can do." The unhappy drummer wrote the most piteous letters to his wife; touching her heart by complaints of absence from her, which he professed to find unspeakably bitter; and vowing that he had never felt his love for her till now, that absence taught him how dear she was. Poor Mara, unaccustomed to words of affection, and willing to be deceived, made the most urgent efforts to obtain his recall, and succeeded at last, when all appeals to Frederick's generosity, honour, and clemency had failed, by an appeal of a different nature, which was far more likely to weigh with the parsimonious monarch. She offered to purchase her husband's freedom with the resignation of half her annual salary; and the great hero of the eighteenth century was nothing loth to comply on these terms. The sacrifice for so unworthy an object was the wonder and admiration of Berlin. It happened that the first time Mara appeared afterwards was in a little opera called "The Galley Slave." The audience applied a scene, in which | first, the music and that heavenly voice all the singer, unbinding the chains of the galley slave, was addressed by him in these words: "Ame tendre et genereuse, tu brisas mes fers," to their favourite herself. In spite of the royal prohibition, garlands, bouquets, and even costly jewellery, fell at her feet, as these words were pronounced. One of the fairest trophies of her public life was a fine engraving of this scene, from a sketch taken on the spot, by Chodowiecki. Madame Mara preserved it carefully, and loved to contemplate the picture even to her dying day. At length in 1779, after having resided at the Prussian court as first singer for nearly ten years, Elizabeth Mara obtained her most welcome dismissal. "Now," she wrote to her friends, "the imprisoned bird is let loose, and can fly everywhere." She went to Vienna, where an incident occurred, of which she always spoke as the most gratifying and exciting she had ever known. We will give the full particulars of an example of the power of harmony, only equalled by the story in Holy Writ of that sweet singer of Israel who charmed by his melody the gloomy demon from his royal master. Count S, a powerful Hungarian noble, had lost, under the most distressing circumstances, his only child, a beautiful girl, who was on the eve of marriage. Although two years had elapsed since this bereavement, the unhappy father remained in the most melancholy condition. From the hour when he had looked his last on the dead body of his child, he had remained in the same room, shedding no tears, and uttering no complaints, but in a speechless melancholy and despair. The most celebrated physicians had been consulted, and every means which could be thought of used, to awaken Count S from his lethargy of grief; but all was in vain; and his medical attendants at length despaired of his recovery. Most fortunately, a member of the sufferer's family had heard Mara sing, and entertained a firm belief that if any sound on earth could reach the heart which was already buried in his daughter's grave, that voice, which seemed more like that of an angel than a human being, would have power. The other relatives, though hoping little from the experiment, yielded to the solicitations of this sanguine friend, and every arrangement was made to give full effect to the singer. An ante-room, opening into that where the count sat, was prepared. The choir for an oratorio was placed in a concealed gallery; Mara alone stood in the foreground, yet in such a position that she could not be seen in the next room, which was hung with black, and a faint shadowy twilight only admitted, excepting a few golden rays from a small lamp, which burned in a niche before a beautiful Madonna. Suddenly, upon the solitude and silence of that sick-room there broke a wonderful harmony. Elizabeth had chosen Handel's "Messiah," and took her place deeply moved with the singular circumstances under which she was to exert her talents. At seemed to be unheeded; but, by degrees, the desolate parent raised himself on his couch, and glanced with earnest longing towards the spot whence those soul-moving sounds proceeded. At length, when Mara sang those words"Look and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow," she appeared inspired by the sympathy she felt; and the relatives of the count, who listened with beating hearts, could not restrain their tears. Nor did these alone bear witness to the singer's power: heavy sighs escaped the sufferer-large tears stood in those eyes which the very extremity of grief itself had long forbidden to weep. Crossing the room with feeble steps, he prostrated himself before the image of that Heavenly One, who "bore all our griefs;" and when the full choir joined in the Hallelujah Chorus his voice of praise and thanksgiving mingled with those strains. The recovery was not only complete, but lasting, and was at that time the marvel of Germany. In 1784, she again visited England, where she had not been since, an ugly, sickly child,_she was despised for her excessive plainness. Now, however, full justice was done her, and she was welcomed as the queen of song. George III. and his graceless son were at least agreed in their admiration of Mara's voice. During her stay in England, those bonds which she had twelve years before so eagerly embraced, and found such galling fetters, were broken, and she separated from her worthless husband, pensioning him off so amply as to satisfy the selfish debauchee. After this separation, her days were calm, if not happy. She retired early from public life and settled at Revel, where on her eighty-third birthday she received a copy of verses from Goethe, who, on the same day, sixty years before, had, as a student at Leipsic, sung her praises as Mademoiselle Schmähling. Madame Mara died at Revel, on the 20th of January, 1833, having nearly completed her eighty-fifth year. THE HERO OF VIRGINIA. BY WILLIAM READE. Let others reap the full reward Of wealth and fame and gifts bestowed By those who all their safety owed Unto the victor's puissant sword. Let press and orator resound Success's pœans, while the tongue Of the weak people loud hath rung Its fickle praise in dulcet sound. Be thou content, O hero-chief, With the calm knowledge that the sun Ne'er shone on duty better done, Or nobler life than thine. The grief PAUL BLECKER. PART III.-(CONCLUSION). "Skin cool, damp. Pha! pha! I thought that camphor and morphine last night would cure you. Always good for sudden attacks." The little woman's stumpy white fingers were very motherly, touching Grey's forehead. "I promised Doctor Blecker you would see him in half an hour." "It is not best," the girl said, standing up, leaning against the mantel-shelf. "It is best. You say you will not consent to the marriage are going with me to-night. So, so. I ask no questions. No, child. Hush!"with a certain dignity. "I want no explanations. Sarah Sheppard's rough, maybe; but she keeps her own privacy, and regards that of others. But you must see him. He is your best friend, if nothing more. A woman cannot be wrong, when she acts in that way from the inherent truth of things. That was my mother's rule. In half an hour,"-putting her forefinger on Grey's temple, and pursing her mouth. "Pulse low. Sharp seven the train goes. I'll bring a bottle of nitre in my bag,"-and she bustled out. Grey looked after her. Strong, useful, stable: how contented and happy she had been since she was born! Love, wealth, coming to her as matters of course. The girl looked out of the dingy window into the wearisome grey sky. Well, what was the difference between them? What crime had she committed, that God should have so set His face against her from the firstfrom the very first? She had trusted Him more than this woman whom He seemed glad to bless. There were two or three creamy wildlilies in a broken glass on the sill. The girl always loved the flower. "It's hard," she said, turning sullenly away from the window. of the fire-engine house: the same which they : "I will not," she said, pushing it from her. "I will go to God pure.' side. She heard a man's step on the clay path out- more nervous. the home! him tight to her breast. "I won't have any- Pen kissed her, the kiss meaning little, and ran out to the sentry, who made a pet of him. But what the kiss meant was all the future held for her: she knew that. Whatever the hours of this past day and night had been to her, they had left one curious mark on her face-a hollow sinking of the lines about the mouth, as though years of pain had crept over her. Suffering had not ennobled her. It is only heroic, large-brained women, with a great natural grasp of charity, that severe pain lifts out of themselves: weak souls, like. Grey, who starve without daily Now came the strange change which no food of personal love, contract under God's judg-logician can believe in or disprove. While she ments, sour into pettish discontent, or grow maudlin as blind devotees, knowing but two things in eternity-their own idea of God, and their own salvation. Nunneries are full of them. Grey had no vital pith of self-reliance to keep her erect, now that the storm came. What strength she had was outside: her child-like grip on the hand of the Man gone before. "In half an hour." She tried to put tha thought out, and look at the chamber they ha given her last night: odd enough for a woman a bare-floored, low-ceiled room, the upper store stood there, holding her hands over her eyes trying to accept her fate, it grew too heavy and dark for her to bear. What Helper she sought then, and how, only those who have found Him know. I only can tell you that presently she bared her face, her nerves trembling, for the half-hour was nearly over, but with a brave, still light in her hazel eyes. The change had come of which every soul is susceptible. Very bitter tears may have come after that; her life was but a tawdry remnant, she might still think for that foul lie of hers long ago; but she would take up the days cheerfully, and do God's will with them. There was another step: not the sentry's now. She bathed her red eyes, and hastily drew her hair back plain. Paul liked the curls falling about her throat. She must never try to please him again. Never! She must bid him good-bye now. It meant forever. Maybe when she was dead- He was coming: she heard his foot on the stairs, his hand on the latch. God help her to be a true woman! "Yes, I must go. He will not claim me. I am glad I was spared that. I'm going to try and do right with the rest of my life, Paul." Blecker said nothing, paced the floor of the room, his head sunk on his breast. "I'm "Let us go out of this," at last. choked. I think in the free air we will know what is right, better." She put on her hood, and they went out, the girl drawing back on the steps, lest he should offer to assist her. "I will not touch you, Grey," he said, gravely," unless you give me leave." Somehow, as she followed him down the deserted street, she felt how puny her trouble was, after all to his. She had time to notice the drops of sweat wrung out on his forehead, and wish she dared to wipe them away; but he strode on in silence, forgetting even her, facing this inscrutable fate that mastered them, with a strong man's desperation. They came to the river, out of sight of the town. She stopped. "We must wait here. I must stay where I can hear the train coming." "The train,—yes. You are going in it? Yet, Grey, you love me?" She wrung her hands with a frightened cry. "Paul, don't tempt me. I'm weak: you know that. Don't make me fouler than I am. There's something in the world better for us than love-to try to be pure and true. You'll help me to be that, dear Paul?"-laying her hand on his arm, beseechingly. "You'll not keep me back? It's hard, you know,"-trying to smile, her lips only growing colourless. "I'll help you, Grey,"-his face distorted, touching her fingers for an instant with an unutterable tenderness. "I knew this man was here from the first. If there was crime in our marriage, I took it on myself. I was not afraid to face hell for you, child. But, Grey," meeting her eye, "I love you. I will not risk your soul for my selfish pleasure. If it be a crime. for you to stay with me, I will bid you go, and never attempt to see your face again." "If it be a crime? You cannot doubt that, Paul!" "I do doubt it. You can obtain a divorce,"looking at her, with his colour changing. She pushed back the hair from her forehead. Her brain ached. Where was all the clear reasoning she had meant to meet him with? "No, I will not do that. I know the law says it is right; but Christ forbade it. I can't argue. I only know his words." He walked to and fro: he could not be still a minute, when in pain. "Will you sit there?"-motioning her to a flat rock. "I want to speak to you." "You She sat down,-looked at the river. If she saw that look on his face longer, she would go to him, though an angel's arm stretched between them. She clenched her little hands together, something in her soul crying out, "I'm trying to do right." Martyrs for every religion have said the same, when the heat crept closer over the fagots. They were true to the best they could discover, and He asks no more of any man. "I want you to hear me patiently," he said, standing near her, and looking down. said there was something better for us in the world than love. There is nothing for me. I've not been taught much about God or His. ways. I thought I'd learn them through you I've lived a coarse, selfish life. You took me out of it. I am not very selfish, loving you, little Grey," with a sad smile,-" for I will give you up sooner than hurt you. But if I had married you, I think it would have redeemed me." He was silent a moment. It is a pitiful thing to see a man choke down such weakness. Grey would not see it her eyes were fastened on her hands. He controlled himself, going on rapidly: "I say nothing of myself. I'm only a weak, passionate man; but I mean to let your soul be pure. Yet I believe you judge wrongly in this. You think of marriage, as women in your State and in the South are taught to think, as a thing irrevocable. There are men in New England who hold other views,-pure, good men, Grey. I've tried to put you from my mind, and look at society as it is, with its corrupt, mercenary marriages, and I believe their theory is the only feasible and just one, that only those bound by secret affinity to each other are truly married." Grey's face flushed. "I have heard the theory, and its results,"in a low voice. "Because it has been seized upon as a cloak by false men. Use your reason, Grey. Do not be blinded by popular prejudice. Your fate and mine rest on this question." "I will try to understand." She faced him gravely. "Whom God hath joined together no man shall put asunder. Somewhere, when our souls were made, I think, He joined us, Grey, You know that." |