it seemed to us natural enough that each of them singly would emit not only its own appreciable musical sound, but in many cases the respective harmonics of that sound. The motion of the vehicle causes the simultaneous vibration of all these sounds collectively. Here, we own, the train of our logic struck upon a difficulty: How, did we ask ourselves, can the ear be deemed capable of discriminating and extracting, ad libitum, from this chaotic compound of "sweet sounds," just those which may suit its purpose, and not be disturbed and utterly put out of countenance by the immense mass of compound remaining pro tempore unappropriated? Our logic, with the assistance of a little compliment to our musicality, proved a match for this dilemma. It was conceded that in an ordinary musical subject, the above objection would be fatal; but the fact being within our ears, nothing was more clear than that the hypermusical construction of our frame would enable us, and others equally happily organized, to discriminate, however unconsciously, the very elements of the musical chaos; in the same manner as an experienced gastronome, on partaking of a rich ragout, would readily discriminate the taste of the truffles, shallots, pommes d'amour, and of every other individual ingredient; or a great composer on hearing a symphony, individualize the march of the flutes or the bassoons, at the same time that he seizes the undiminished effect of the aggregate of the performance.

SONNET OF VINCENZO FILICAJA

ON THE SEASONS.

"Così con saggio avviso il giorno e l'ore."

THUS with a still but stern solemnity

Time bids us seize the hours that glide away,
And every speaking season seems to say,
Be wise in time-man only lives to die.

The

pomp of woods-the gloom of hills on high,
The shooting trees-the Sun, that far away
Bears, or from distant realms brings back the day-
The flow'rs, expanding to the morning sky,
Expiring with the noon-all sadly show,
Too sadly show, alas! how all below
Yields in its turn to Time's devouring sway.
Why then pursue with vain and groveling care
Vain hopes, and empty names, and shapes of air,
That like the breezes come, and pass away?

THE BORE'S BOX. AN ADVERTISEMENT.

GRATEFUL for a past season of unexampled patronage, and fully satisfied, thus far, with a present one, the proprietor of the King's Theatre in the Haymarket requests the attention of the nobility and gentry to a candid and concise statement of facts. It has come to the knowledge of the proprietor, in the course of his Shakspeare sales in his other profession, that "the course of true love never did run smooth" and some of his enemies have charged him with allowing five more pebbles to be cast into the Cytherean current. It is necessary therefore that, toward his own justification, he should go somewhat into detail.

:

It is known to grammarians that there are three degrees of comparison, the positive, the comparative, and the superlative: it is known to householders that there are three floors to let,-the ground, the first, and the second: and it is also known to subscribers to the Opera that there are three tiers of boxes for the accommodation of people of distinction. Of the tiers above these, it is unnecessary to speak. Like the attics of other residences, there are people who inhabit them but where they come from, heaven above (toward which they aspire) only knows. It is exclusively of the three degrees of fashionable comparison in his Haymarket edifice that the proprietor feels himself now called upon to speak. The second-floor tier is, as his patronesses are aware, chiefly taken by ladies whose ancestors, coming in with the Norman conquest, brought with them the Norman nose. This feature, accompanied, as it usually is, with dark eyes and arched brows, produces good stage effect at a distance. Here, too, ladies, who have weathered Cape Forty, find a genial harbour; as middle age, well lighted and rouged, is at a distance not distinguishable from youth-a proposition as plain as the nose on Signor Di Giovanni's face. The first-floor tier is, in the opinion of most people, the best in the house. Here beauty exhibits itself in full blaze, and whilst, in apparent unconsciousness, it gracefully adjusts the green silk shade that interrupts the rays of the stage lights, exults in the number of human hearts which it transfixes in the pit below. The female frequenters of this tier have also the inestimable advantage of attracting that mass of puppyism which barks in the train of the goddesses of midnight, inasmuch as the said mass may, from this open plain, exhibit its own visage, while it affects to fawn upon its tutelary deity. But if the mere multitude of fashion give the palm to this tier, the race of prudent wives and mothers decidedly prefer the ground-floor tier, which sinks to a level with the pit. This, like the ground-floor of a set of chambers in the Temple, is, the proprietor confidently assures the public, the real place for doing business. Here a young lady, in quest of an establishment, talks to her swain in Fop's Alley almost face to face. Here, between opera and ballet, she stops the whole procession of beaux, to assure him whom she accosts that it is a very cold night, that Madame Ronzi di Begnis is highly attractive in La Donna del Lago, and that Alfred le Grand must have cost a great deal of money in getting up. Here, in short, while the single lady may flirt in front in desirable publicity, the married one may flirt in

the rear in desirable privacy. Upon this rock the proprietor builds his bank.

The great object of going to the opera, whether in Naples, Paris, or London, being to see and be seen, to talk and be talked to; the proprietor has, by means of swing doors and stuff-curtains, sought to put these objects within the reach of the meanest capacity. May he venture respectfully to hint, that the privilege of talking ought to be used in a more diminuendo note than it lately has been? The proprietor is aware that, at an oratorio, such doings have been tolerated time out of mind. As an instance, he respectfully mentions Handel's chorus, "Unto us a son is born," where the unexpected halt of the voices and instruments after the word "wonderful," is sure to catch the whole house in a clack. This may do very well at so trivial a treat as an oratorio; but at an Italian opera ladies and gentlemen should conduct themselves with more decorum. The practice, too, implies remissness in the study of Rossini, and is apt to compromise the proprietor with his performers behind the curtain; of the female branch of whom the proprietor will merely hint, that, in angling for an Italian, he has not unfrequently caught a Tartar.

Vain, however, are all the efforts of the proprietor, if he is not seconded by the co-operation of a candid and enlightened public. It is worse than useless to leave box-doors openable from behind, if the most nauseous society be allowed to intrude itself. Better lock every box till the conclusion of the ballet, like pews in a Presbyterian Meeting-house, or marshal the sexes separately, as is done in Cathedrals. The proprietor employs very sober and decent door-keepers; but their eyes cannot dive into pockets. How can they, by the mere outside, distinguish coppersmiths from county members-poets from peers-men of rank from rank weeds-nine thousand a-year, a barouche, and Berkeley-square, from half-pay, a ricketty dennett, and lodgings in Maddox-street? Where cases are very flagrant, however, the proprietor can and ought to interfere; and this brings him to the chief object of the present advertisement. He alludes, in the opening part of the present address, to a charge made against him, namely, that of allowing "five more pebbles to be cast into the Cytherean current." The phrase is metaphorical: it means, as it has been whispered to the proprietor, that he has permitted five especial Bores (called by the French, Messieurs Trops,) to intrude themselves, as in and out visitors, on the three principal tiers of boxes, in such a way as to injure the fair trader, by marring the lawful love-making of the establishment. Having, as hereafter mentioned, provided a situation for these gentlemen elsewhere, the proprietor feels the less delicacy in publishing a description of their names and persons, that his doorkeepers may know, and knowing, hand them to their proper places.

The first of these Bores, commonly called Frank Fidget, is under the influence of the dæmon of locomotion. He will open and shut a box-door ten times in as many minutes, heedless of North winds and open corridors. He would make a capital mandarin to a chimney-piece: his head is never quiet, and unluckily the worst feature in it, his tongue, moves in quicker time than his head. He is the best wonderer going. He wonders what o'clock it is now? where

Lindley learned the violoncello? why Ambrogetti is not engaged? what Louis means by going to war? and what o'clock it will be before the ballet is over? In short, he is such a monopolizer of wonders, that he has only left one for his friends, and that is, a wonder that every woman in the house does not shut her box-door in his face. What renders his conduct less excusable is, that his income is only seven hundred a-year. In an

The second of the race that bore, is Sir Charles Chissell. evil hour he went to view the statues in the Louvre, and though it is now six years ago, he has positively talked of nothing since but Parthenon, Theseus, Memnon, Cheops, and Cleopatra. He wanders from box to box the whole night through, leaving every door open behind him, with his mason's gibberish, which he inflicts upon people who do not know the Caryatides from Mrs. Salmon's waxwork, and seems to think, like Perseus, that men are only made to be turned into marble. His friends have found a most eligible situation for him, namely, that of a stonecutter in the New-road, where, seated on a low wooden stool, and holding one end of a saw, he may, aided by a companion on the other side, and a modicum of sand and water, hew a block of granite in two parts, and thus be laudably and beneficially occupied. Unfortunately, however, the men leave off work before the opera begins.

war.

The third Bore, Jeremy Journal, is a regular retailer of a newspaper. He wanders into every box, telling every body what every body knows, and what nobody cares about. The fourth, General Broadley, is chiefly objectionable on account of his size, and his talking over the Spanish If any gentleman will cast an eye up toward the opera ceiling, "where sprawl the saints" of the fiddle-stick, and contemplate a huge figure who, pen in hand, is trampling upon a wreath marked "Cimarosa," he must, from the marvellous resemblance, recognize General Broadley when he meets him. His bulk occupies the whole back of a box, to the utter exclusion of bashful opulence peeping in at his rear. It has been calculated that, on one evening, he has kept eight and twenty thousand a-year out of a single box. It is high time he was removed. The fifth and most inexcusable of all the Bores is Colonel Rappee. He takes loads of snuff, and consequently out-bellows Signor Tromboni by the trumpet accompaniment of nose. The dust he strews at every box doorway may be ascertained by the sneezing of the sweepers on the following morning. How he has escaped extermination is a miracle to the proprietor.

Impressed with a conviction that the five gentlemen last mentioned must, if not checked in their boring, ere long make his boxes a desert, the proprietor has, for their accommodation and the relief of their friends, fitted up, at a considerable expense, a handsome lodge in the upper circle, marked, "The Bore's Box," to which Mr. Francis Fidget, Sir Charles Chissell, Mr. Jeremy Journal, General Broadley, and Colonel Rappee, are respectfully requested by the proprietor hereafter to confine themselves. There is one apparent objection to this scheme. The humane department of the candid and enlightened public may suppose that Bores of such opposite habits will quarrel and fight. It may be imagined, that the silver strains of Madame Camporese will be checked, and the fairy footstep of the first Figurante impeded,

by discord, oaths, and exclamations of "Throw him over!" nay, that the silver-craped head of some fair Cyprian in the pit, will be deranged by a bore or two cast headlong from the aforesaid box into the parterre, like young rooks in an avenue after a high wind; or like the incident which occurred to Baron Emanuel Swedenborg, who, after a conflict of "fiends in upper air," found five dead devils fall flat at his feet, immediately opposite his lodgings, at a barber's in Cold Bath Fields. The inference is specious, but the analogy is false. To prove his position, the proprietor requests the candid and enlightened public only to take one ride over Waterloo-bridge. Upon the Surrey side of that magnificent structure, they will behold an Italian mendicant, possessed of a strong wired cage, in which those apparently hostile personages, a polecat, a tom-tit, a white mouse, a rabbit, and a weasel, "play all about without anger or rage." The proprietor cannot distinguish between the two last-mentioned substantives, but doubtless Doctor Watts can. In conclusion, the proprietor begs leave to state, that the box, thus appropriated, is carefully coated with cast iron, to prevent the Bores from boring through.

TO THE SOUTH WIND.

O SOUTHERN Wind!

Long hast thou linger'd 'midst those islands fair
Which lie, like jewels, on the Indian deep,

Or green waves, all asleep,

Fed by the summer suns and azure air-
O sweetest Southern Wind!

Wilt thou not now unbind
Thy dark and crowned hair?

Wilt thou not unloose now,
In this the bluest of all hours,
Thy passion-coloured flowers;

And, shaking the fine fragrance from thy brow,
Kiss our girls' laughing lips and youthful eyes,
And all that world of love which lower lies
Breathing, and warm, and white-purer than snow?
O thou sweet Southern Wind!

Come to me, and unbind

The languid blossoms which oppress thy brow.

We, whom the Northern blast

Blows on from night to morn, from morn till eve,

Hearing thee, sometimes grieve

That our brief summer days not long must last :

And yet, perhaps, 'twere well

We should not ever dwell

With thee, sweet Spirit of the sunny South,

But touch thy odorous mouth

Once, and be gone unto our blasts again,

And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow:

And arm us (by enduring) for that pain

Which the bad world sends forth, and all its woe.

C. L.