mountains," said Charles; " our business was to knock down the grouse; but the gratifica. tion I wished to partake of was the last dinner we ate at Aberystwith."

"I am so much a stranger to modern systems," replied Millichamp, "that I did not know a soul was requisite to relish a dinner."

"That is a secret your books have never taught you," said Charles; "but I'll tell you how it was We bespoke every thing in the house. It certainly was a good dinner, and we ate like sportsmen; but that was not the best of it. We turned the waiter out of the room, and let nobody wait but our own fellows We dispatched all the pigeons cut of a noble pye; filled the dish with fragments of ducks and chickens, fish and lobster sauces, mutton chops, and sweet pudding, and then put the crust on again. We salted the jellies and peppered the custards. We ate half the fruit out of the tarts, mixed the remainder with mustard and vinegar; and, putting the lis on, we sent them out, as well as the pigeon pye, to all appearance untouched. We then rang for the waiter, and wrapping every plate and dish, glass and decanter in the tablecloth, we dashed them on the floor, and ordered our bill.-Now, I think, that was a flight beyond the ancients."

"Beyond any thing I ever read of, ancient er modern," replied Millichamp.

"You not only scared above history," said my bother "but above reason and common sense."

"But the best of it was," resumed Charles, "That, though we bid the people make their ow.. charge, they could not be recompenced; for we smashed almost all their stock of glass and earthenware, and the poor devils must send to Sarewsbury, above threescore miles, to replace it."

"I am afraid, Charles," said I, you will And the present party very insipid; you will

have no opportunity of shewing your wit in our excursion."

"By no means," answered he; "I should not think of shewing my wit in the company of ladies; and so I will go and take the landscape back to Margaret, and ask if she will trust herself in my curricle. I wonder, Sir," continued he, you do not lend her some of your prints, to copy; she would make charm. ing drawings from them."

"I should wonder more if I did," replied my brother. "I have often bɛen surprised at the facility with which many persons ask favours, that it is extremely painful either to grant or to deny. Such is that of borrowing books. In general I have refused the request; but refusing is so unpleasant, that I have now and then lent books of value. A lady with whom I was slightly acquaiated, made no difficulty of asking me for an elegant set of Costumes, to copy some of the figures. I knew not how to say I will not oblige you, when you know I can. I lent them. At the end of three months I ventured to send for them. She returned them; but was so offended, she would never speak to me more. Another time my physician borrowed my Shakespeare of 1623, to write out half a dozen leaves, which were wanting in his own. I did not like to deny him. He cured me of all my disorders and at last he cured me of lend. ing books; for he kept it half a year, and it was not without much trouble that I got it then."

"I have often wondered," said Millichamp, "that a man who would shudder at picking your pocket, should make no scruple of borrowing a book, and never return, ing it."

"Though that man might not pick your pocket," said my brother, "he would bor row your money, if he wanted, and never re turn it,"

(To be continued.)

ON THE SUPERIORITY OF VOCAL MUSIC OVER INSTRUMENTAL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF COUNT D'ECHERNAY.

I NEVER suffer my opinion to be biassed by partiality, prejudice, or prevention: I give myself up to the impressions I receive; I write them down, permit any one to differ from me, and indeed oppose me.

one through whose mouth I have been able, since my return from Italy, not only to endure the French music, but almost to become passionately fond of it. If it had several such disciples as him it would be equal to, and even rival the Italian music; but he was the founder of a school which had only himself for a

Whatever may be the merit of instrumental music, whatever pleasure it may give by the vastness of its imitations, and the indetermi-professor and a pupil. nate feelings it may produce on the mind through the organs of hearing, every one must confess that the greatest charm of music lies in that which we call vocal. Nothing can come in competition with the human voice; wind instruments resemble it in a small degree,ening out the cadences, a merit which he

His singing in these two cantatas was neither French nor Italian, it was a manner entirely by itself; he had, in a superior de. gree, what the Italians call il portamento di voce, or the art of conducting the voice, and length

made known to the French singers of that time. In the memoirs of Marmontel, Geliote occupies a place worthy of envy, that of the happiest among mortals! Such is he there described; while so many others, happy in appearance only, are little so in reality. Dur

but they articulate nothing. Let us think only of the inflections of that voice, which belongs to a good singer! I will cite only one amongst the known proficients at Paris, Mademoiselle Colbroon. I never heard any woman in Italy superior to her; I prefer her infinitely to Mesdames Todi, Mara, and Bas-ing the life of a certain Emperor, but whose tardella, all three equally known and estimated by the amateurs at Paris. I may cite Nosari in a cavetisre of Griselda, which I have often heard him repeat, whose voice is most perfect, and many others of equal merit; it always appeared to me, as I listened to them, that they were to the most famous Sopranos of Italy what an excellent miniature painter is to Ri gaud, Liotard, or Latour. Only compare a concert composed of the proficients whom I have named, with those we hear at the French Opera!

I arrived from Italy, where I had heard and followed the first proficients, such as Caffarelli, Giziello, Aprile, &c. I was at a concert in Paris where Geliote performed two of his most favourite pieces, and which he sang best of any: he did not take them from Operas, but they were two cantatas of Felider and Pygma- | lion. The delight which the great Italian Sopranos had given me did not prevent my listening to Geliote with rapture; to a species of melody which seems entirely abandoned at the present day, and which the present generation have not the least idea of. What magic is there not in such a voice! What taste, what method in this unequalled singer! the only

name I cannot now well recollect, who had reigned fifty years with glory, he could only count, amidst all his long career, one fortnight of happiness. Geliote, from the moment of his birth to that of his death, experienced unalterable felicity. This is an example, amongst many others, of distributive justice, against the chances and caprices of fortune.

What can be said of a serious Italian Opera? Every body knows that it dissipates the ennui of five long hours in transforming the theatre into a place of rendezvous, and assemblies divided into boxes, where instead of listening they play, eat and drink, or couverse. They only lay down their cards to come forward and hear one recitative, accompanied by two or three airs, or a duo sang in a superior mauner, but not played, by an excellent Soprano cra Prima Donna!

Of what use is the serious Italian Opera in exercising interesting composition and good writing? That, for instance of Apostolo Zeno, and above all, Metastasio, since they are not listened to, and cannot be listened to, by their want of stage effect, and the ennui caused by their long recitativos.

The comic Opera, which has all the defects

of the seriou Opera, and is equally long, i yet more insupportable; because the play of the actors has neither elegance, nature, nor dignity; and wants that lively gaiety of the French comic Opera; it is bombastic and often ridiculous and how can the actors make the

:

audience listen to those miserable pieces, in which we can scarce conceive how such men as Piccini, Cimerose, Sacchini, Paesiello, and Paer, would even associate their scientific harmony and seductive melody!

THE EMIGRANTS.

"Do not cry, dear papa," said the little Juliet as she clung round her father's knee; 66 mamma will soon come back."

ere I continue my narrative, I will request my readers to look back a few years, and retrace the circumstances that led to Mr. and Mrs. Beritou's present situation and misfortunes.

As Mr. Cleland, after a confinement of some months in France (during the dreadful revo

Mr. Beriton clasped the child with emotion to his heart, while the tears silently flowed from beneath a shade that covered his eyes, now mournfully closed from the glorious light of the sun; day and night were alas equallylation), was hurrying in the gloom of the unknown; and the smiles or tears of his be loved wife and child alike unperceived by him who bad till within a few months experienced from the effects of the former the only consolation during his unmerited misfortunes.

evening, disguised by the assistance of a kind friend, to reach a packet that was to waft him once more to his long regretted home and country, he passed through a narrow lane, his mind agitated by the fear of discovery and the various ideas that alternately assailed him, he felt his coat slightly detained by a feeble hind, and turning round, beheld a child who, in French accents, implored his assistance. Mr. Ciland, during his cosfiuement, had suf. fered so many hardships, and heard and wit nessed such dreadful cruelties committed by the inhabitants of France, that his soul revolted at the name of a Frenchman, and hardened a heart which till then had always been alive to the cry of distress; he shook off the child's hand, and continued his pace for a few steps, when he felt the pang that always attends a feeling mind in the nonperformance of a duty it has been accustomed to. He cast a glance of inquiry towards the spot he had passed; and beheld a sight that instantly recalled him. The poor little mendicant, enfeebled with the want of food, bad in his rude repulse fallen against the step from which she had risen to implore his assistance, and was supporting herself against the wall, the blood trickling in large drops from her forehead. Mr. Cleland hastened towards her, but ere he had finished

In a few minutes Mrs. Beriton entered the cottage; pale and exhausted, she sunk in a chair. Juliet ran towards her with infantine delight, and taking hold of her hands tried to climb on her knee; her mother averted her face in the hopes of concealing tears that glistened in spite of her efforts to restrain them; in turning her head she met the melancholy countenance of her husband; she immediately conquered the emotion that seemed before to over power her, and advancing towards him, inquired in the kindest accents whether he had wanted any thing during her absence? Mr. Beriton, pressing her hand, replied in the negative. A silence of a few minutes succeeded. At last, after some hesitation, he inquired if her walk had been successful? "Better, my dear," answered Mrs Beriton, with the forced accents of cheerfulness, "than I could have expected; and I trust I shall in a month's time have the comfort of seeing you enjoy the sea breezes, and deriving from them that benefit it is my daily prayer you may experience." In saying these words, and casting on ber husband a look expressive of the tenderest affec-binding his handkerchief across her temples, tion and concern, Mrs. Beriton hurried out of the room to indulge for a few minutes the emotions she could no longer repress. But

the child, from debility and loss of blood, fainted. In the greatest distress (delay being of the utmost importance to his escape and

liberty), he knew not how to act; to abandon agitated him; nor did he recover his usual the little unfortunate in her present situation presence of mind till the hateful shores of the was repugnant to his humane heart, and to country he had suffered so much in were fast wait her recovery perhaps his ruin. After receding from his view: he then remembered some hesitation he knocked against the deor his little companion, whom he had not relinof the house from the steps of which the child quished, and who had clung to him in wild bad first claimed his notice; it was opened dismay during his short struggle to gain adby a man whose countenance bore the strong-mittance on board the vessel. Opening his coat est marks of ferocity, and who demanded with he now relieved her fears, and was more at vulgar insolence what he wanted?