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and the tempest rages in all its fury-at last exhausts itself. The prisoner has escaped ! the “Ranz-des-vaches” is played ; it is echoed above, among the peaks of Wetterhorn and the snows of Blumlisalp, and zephyrs catching its refrain, re-echo it with brilliant accompaniment. The “ Cor des chasseurs" is the signal for revolt, which is attended with success, and here this descriptive and delicious overture terminates. Its last bars denote the composer. Immortal Rossini! who can thus clothe music with the romance of history; oh, Swiss, he is your compatriot; in him behold your historian!

Reader, if thou hast followed me through the above, and art acquainted, as doubtless thou art, with this sublime music, sure I am that thou canst enter into my feelings. If not, then lose not a moment; rush to the first music bazaar, purchase a copy of the overture, get thy prettiest cousin to study it-for 'tis difficult-be thou her instructor, and a sweet task awaits thee!

Several other morceaux were executed by the band with most laudable precision; chiefly waltzes and polkas, although Mozart's “ Aria con variazioni” was one, which gave ample opportunity for judging of the merits of the musicians, each instrument in turn sharing the solo. The band master, Monsieur Sabon, proved himself therein a first-rate clarionet. Poor Mozart! some of his finest instrumental music was composed for the open air concerts at Vienna.

The conclusion of the first part of the concert was the signal for the boat-racing. An English and a Russian gig stood out as competitors, the latter, so far as boat went, having a decided advantage, it being a perfect model, while our countrymen's proved only to be the best “Genevese-English” boat on the lake. The Russians had a small gun for’ard, which they fired off on starting and on returning, as they beat our countrymen in this race. However, the latter pulled well, and I, who have witnessed many a time the Thames regattas, can safely allege that they would not have discredited it. They had two essential points to contend against: to wit, a heavy gig, and undisciplined crew-undisciplined, inasmuch as it consisted merely of stray English, assembled at a venture, to combat men who were residents, and daily accustomed to pull together.

The music recommenced. Like all earthly things it had an end, upon which I prepared to return to the hotel.

In the crush of the departing crowd I heard my name distinctly uttered, and looking round, found it to proceed from a gentleman with mustachios, a fine-looking young man, whose face was quite familiar to me, but where, I could not at the moment remember. His tone, manner, and hearty salutation, soon assured me that I was not mistaken, and that he whom I now grasped by the hand was no other than my college chum

oarsman swept off by the stream, with difficulty recover himself from a dash against the bridge, or a plunge of two or three feet down to the Bains du Rhone. Flags of several nations were discernible, fluttering at the stern, or in the case of gigs, at the bow of these numerous little vessels, among which I, not without an emotion of pride, «espied our own Union Jack, as well as the Russian and the Tricolor. The assemblage of the fair sex was, as may be supposed, numerous. Here, a party might be seen waving to another on the water, or their friends might be near enough to exchange verbal salutations. There, under the shade of a tree, near the less frequented spot which faces the river, a youthful pair might be exchanging warmer sentiments, and mutually outpouring the secrets of their hearts, probably realizing in their conversation the truthful language of the immortal bard—at least, the verses occurred to my memory at the time :

“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep on our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."

Ah! there was many a Jessica and Lorenzo present on this lovely isle. Here, again, a poet, breathing inspiration from the enrapturing scene, doubly heightened by the strains of music gently floating o'er his ear,

“ Like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odours !”

And there, the writer himself, regarding with intense delight the scene around him, and which he in vain endeavours now to depict.

The clock of “St. Pierre" tolled out seven, the Genevese pulled out their watches, the conductor waved his báton, and the overture to "William Tell” began. The hum of voices was silent, the promenaders gathered nearer, the nautici rested upon their oars, and the violincello spoke out the ripieno passages with human voice. The introduction tells of Switzerland ; tells of its snowclad mountains, its rushing torrents, its simple peasantry, their patriarchal manners; how it is a land of freedom, where liberty is stamped upon its very soil. The invader comes. He tears the sucking infant from its mother, renders desolate the shepherd's hut, and bears him away to hard imprisonment. A storm arises--the violins grow excited—the winds howlthe chromatic passages are rendered with faultless precision

and the tempest rages in all its fury-at last exhausts itself. The prisoner has escaped! the “Ranz-des-vaches” is played ; it is echoed above, among the peaks of Wetterhorn and the snows of Blumlisalp, and zephyrs catching its refrain, re-echo it with brilliant accompaniment. The “Cor des chasseurs ” is the signal for revolt, which is attended with success, and here this descriptive and delicious overture terminates. Its last bars denote the composer. Immortal Rossini! who can thus clothe music with the romance of history; oh, Swiss, he is your compatriot; in him behold your historian!

Reader, if thou hast followed me through the above, and art acquainted, as doubtless thou art, with this sublime music, sure I am that thou canst enter into my feelings. If not, then lose not a moment; rush to the first music bazaar, purchase a copy of the overture, get thy prettiest cousin to study it-for 'tis difficult-be thou her instructor, and a sweet task awaits thee!

Several other morceaux were executed by the band with most laudable precision; chiefly waltzes and polkas, although Mozart's “ Aria con variazioni” was one, which gave ample opportunity for judging of the merits of the musicians, each instrument in turn sharing the solo. The band master, Monsieur Sabon, proved himself therein a first-rate clarionet. Poor Mozart! some of his finest instrumental music was composed for the open air concerts at Vienna.

The conclusion of the first part of the concert was the signal for the boat-racing. An English and a Russian gig stood out as competitors, the latter, so far as boat went, having a decided advantage, it being a perfect model, while our countrymen's proved only to be the best “Genevese-English” boat on the lake. The Russians had a small gun for'ard, which they fired off on starting and on returning, as they beat our countrymen in this race. However, the latter pulled well, and I, who have witnessed many a time the Thames regattas, can safely allege that they would not have discredited it. They had two essential points to contend against: to wit, a heavy gig, and undisciplined crew-undisciplined, inasmuch as it consisted merely of stray English, assembled at a venture, to combat men who were residents, and daily accustomed to pull together.

The music recommenced. Like all earthly things it had an end, upon which I prepared to return to the hotel.

In the crush of the departing crowd I heard my name distinctly uttered, and looking round, found it to proceed from a gentleman with mustachios, a fine-looking young man, whose face was quite familiar to me, but where, I could not at the moment remember. His tone, manner, and hearty salutation, soon assured me that I was not mistaken, and that he whom I now grasped by the hand was no other than my college chum

Joseph Long. To say how altered I found thee, Joseph, is not the least—as to friendship in no way, but in the outward manlet me say in what profession, and what brought thee here. Thy public character exonerates me from any blame which might obtain as scandal in the relation of thy history, and which I know full well cannot do other than add to thy laurels. Ah ! Joseph, you smile when I call to mind the time and place of our first meeting since our days of school companionship. How different our pursuits in life, when our feelings were so similar! And yet as chums we meet again on foreign ground.

Reader! hast thou not experienced the same emotions after a long, seemingly live-long, separation from some dear companion ; one with whom thou hast entrusted thy most confidential affairs, the forerunner of her who is soon to monopolize the cream of thine affections,-par excellence, thy college chum? Nurtured at the breast of Alma mater, thine ambitious views fostered at the same cradle, and cherished by the same incidents, thou whisperest thine earnest, though crude resolves, to a fellowdreamer, who, catching at thy spirit, enters wholly into thy designs, and declares how he also dreams of future glory. Then restraint is thrown aside by confidence, and visionary schemes are organized between you. One is to be the founder of a new order of society; the other, a great statesman, or else a literatus of no ordinary fame. You both depart from college, each to his profession, and the realization of all your dreams. Years

Old companionship is forgotten, or only remembered “thro' the haze of time,” when unexpectedly the would-be statesman and social reformer are thrown together, and can compare notes. So, in a manner, it was with Joseph Long and myself.

But night was setting in. The sun had sunk behind the hills about Bellegarde; the little island of Rousseau, whereon but shortly before had resounded strains of melody, was now scarce discernible from the opposite quay, as the shades of night buried it among the waters of the lake; and our conversation found a momentary pause, when I proposed to Long to come to my hotel, and socialize the remainder of the evening with a friendly gossip. He was about to comply, then hesitated.

“Will it not suit you as well to come with me? my rooms are strictly private. I can give you a bottle of first-rate chambertin. Say, will you come?"

I gladly consented. He led me across a sort of square, near the church of the Fusterie, then up by “L'Hôpital, where, in an adjoining street, we stopped at a house. He had two comfortable rooms, which had even the luxury of carpets, and I found an agreeable sofa whereon to lounge. He threw himself into an arm-chair, and spoke much to the following purport.

roll on.

THE HISTORY OF A GRAVE.

BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY.

a

This brief history will compel me to say something of myself. Rather more than twenty years ago I resided with my family at Chelsea, near London; I was then very young, yet without any of the bouyancy of youth, for the misfortunes of my kindred had made me more than thoughtful. I was stranger in a strange place, and unfortunately, I had no occupation. I sought out the solitary spots in the neighbourhood, and one of my favourite haunts was the grave-yard of the old church adjoining Cheyne Walk. I wandered amongst the tombs, deeming the dead happier than the living, as I thought of my far off home in the north, and the friends adversity had driven from us. In my rambles I discovered a detached burialground, situated in the King's Road; it was in a thoroughfare, and surrounded by buildings, yet it looked more solitary and far more desolate than did the old church yard; on two sides it was square and of small extent, it was surrounded by an ironrailing, partially broken and half eaten away with rust; and I used to wonder whether the padlock by which the gate was secured could be opened; it looked as if it would crumble at a touch. On the other two sides it was overlooked by the dead walls of some manufacturing buildings. This small enclosure was crowded with grave stones, most of them erect, and only to be distinguished midway above the long, rank grass that grew around them. The summer sunshine lent no brightness to that spot! it was winter there throughout the year ; it always looked damp, gloomy, earthy. I never was able to gratify my desire to enter it: and perhaps, owing to its crowded state, it seldom was opened; but I often walked outside the rails, reading every inscription within my reach. Conspicuous above all others was an erect stone, near to the road, bearing this simple inscription:

J. B.”

1815.

There the wicked cease from troubling, there the weary be at rest.”

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