except when it enables us to double our delight in this manner; for none can hold in greater contempt than we do the common cant of criticism, or less pride themselves in finding out those common defects to which critics in general have a natural attraction. It is truth that gives Madame Pasta her advantage; the same truth, yes, the very same spirit of sincerity and straightforwardness which is charming in conversation and in matters of confidence; which enables one face to look at another, unalloyed with a contradiction, and makes the heart sometimes gush inwardly with tenderness at the countenance that little suspects it. The reason is, that some of the most painful infirmities with which the state of society besets us are then taken away, and we not only think we have reason to be delighted, but are sure of it. For this we know no bounds to our gratitude; and it is just; for you could not more transport a man shaken all over with palsy by suddenly gifting him with firmness, than you do any human being, in the present state of things, by making him secure upon any one point which he ardently desires to believe in. There is, therefore, a moral charm, of the most liberal kind, in Madame Pasta's performances, which argues well for her personal character; and personal character, wish as we may, always mingles, more or less, with the impression created by others upon us. It is, indeed, a part of them, which helps to make them what they are, off a stage or on it, pretending or not pretending. It is true there is a difference between moral truth and imaginative; and it does not follow that, because Madame Pasta tells the truth in every

thing she does on the stage, she should be an example of the virtue elsewhere. It is an argument, however, that she would be so; just as the taste for an accomplishment implies that a person is more likely to excel in it than if there were no such taste. Madame Pasta has to look sorrowful, and no sorrow can be completer: she has to look joyful, and her face is all joy, — as true and total a beaming as that of a girl without a spectator, who sees her lover hailing her from a distance. We have seen such looks, and they have stood us instead of any other certainty. Madame Pasta knows the truth well, and knows how to honor it; and this is an evidence that the inclination of her nature is true, whatever the world may have done to spoil it. We are aware, mind, of no such spoliation. Our impulse, if we knew this charming performer (which is a pleasure incompatible with the confounded critical office we have taken upon us), would be to give as implicit belief to everything she said off the stage as on it. But we wish to guard against a wrong argument, and to show the triumph and the beautiful tendencies of truth, whether borne out in all their quarters or not.

1828.

MA

AYER'S opera of the White and Red Rose (La Rosa Bianca e la Rosa Rossa) was brought out at the King's Theatre on Saturday evening, Madame Pasta being the hero of it. We remember noticing a playbill of this piece once at Genoa, and making up our minds not to go and see it, because it was historical. Song is for passion in its own shape, and not mixed up with the squabbles and pretences of history. Great writers, as a musical friend observed to us, have rarely laid their scenes in the midst of these impertinences, which augur ill for the composer. It is true, there is apt to be very little history after all in such pieces; but what there is does them injury. We do not want a singing Earl of Derby, singing foot-guards, and a warbling sheriff. These matters of the Court Calendar jar against one's enthusiasm, and the case is worse because it comes home to us in our own country. Fancy a love adventure mixed up two centuries hence with the differences between our Military Premier and Mr. Huskisson; the king going in and out, singing Oh Dio; Lord Goderich tender in a cavatina, the ladies all mystified, and a chorus of journalists at midnight (Numi and lumi) calling upon the powers above to throw a little light on the business.

Signor Huski. Dice di si, come io, il

(Entra il Duca.)

Coro di Giornalisti.

Vellingtonne.

Di si? Di no.

Or cosa dice Huskisonne?

[Mr. H. The Noble Duke says

Yes; so all is done.

(Enter Duke.)

Says Yes? Says No.

Chorus of Journalists.

Now what says Huskis

son?]

READER. But, sir, this is a caricature.

CRITIC. It is so, like the subject; but the spirit of our objection is good, and opera goers feel it to be so.

Signor Mayer's opera is not of the highest order, nor is it by any means of the lowest. We do not know whether this is the same composer who has written several pleasing airs, one of them with a very striking and characteristic exordium; we mean Chi dice mal d'amore. The emphatic drop on the last syllable of the word falsità in that air, is a touch of real genius. Madame Pasta would give it with a corresponding beauty of gesture, impressing her firın and indignant hand upon it with all the grace of a noble scorn. There are two Mayers, we believe, both writers of pleasing melodies; though, perhaps, we are naming together two unequal men. One of them. is the author of a graceful ballad, beginning Donne l'amore escaltro poragletto. At all events, the name led us to expect more melody than we found in the new opera; or, perhaps, we should say, more original airs for there is a vein of rambling melody

throughout the piece, and, if not much invention, a great deal of taste and feeling. The music is so good that we expect it every minute to be better. There is now and then a very delicate commentary of accompaniment, throwing out little unexpected passages both learned and to the purpose. The best of the regular compositions are the duets. There are two between Madame Pasta and Curioni (In tal momento in the first act, and E deserto il bosco in the second) for which alone the opera is worth going to hear. Curioni, who has a manner of feebleness and indifference in general, seems inspired when he comes to sing with Pasta. Her part is one of the least effective ones she has had; but everything becomes elevated by that fine face of hers, and that voice breathing the soul of sincerity. The words core and amore are never commonplaces in her mouth. They resume all their faith and passion. They are no more like the same words in ordinary, than gallantry is like love, or than scipio, any walking-stick, was Scipio who supported his father. Pasta has a large heart in her bosom, or she could not have a voice so full of it. This it is that gives her the ascendency in the scene: that lifts her, "dolphin-like, above the element she lives in," and sports, and rules, and is a thing of life, in those deep waters of her song. Not that other singers have no hearts, and may not be excellent people, but that they have not the same faith in the very sounds and symbols of cordiality, and cannot be at a moment's notice in the world which they speak of. The common world hampers and pulls them back. It was well noticed by a lady in the pit, that she is