hold of the works of these composers. One would have to spend a year in Italy for the express purpose. There must be wonderful treasures in the library of the Conservatorium at Naples." "An immense quantity. All Cimarosa's manuscripts must be there. They once belonged to Cardinal Gonsalvi, who had quite a passion for Cimarosa. One could not give him a greater treat than to sing him something of his favourite's. I often did this while in Rome, and he was always most thankful." "And your own manuscripts, maëstro; is it true that you have hardly any?" "Not a note." But where on earth are they!" "Heaven knows! I had the right to demand them from the copyist after a year, but I never did so. Some may be in Naples, some are in Paris; the rest I know nothing about." "Haven't you kept even your studies with Mattei ?" "I kept them many years; but once, when I returned to Bologna, they were no longer to be found-thrown away, or stolen, or, perhaps, sold for waste paper." "Perhaps you have not got printed scores or arrangements of your operas?" said I, with a smile. "What would be the good of them? For years past I have had no music at my house. Surely I don't want to study them." "And how about the opera of Hermione, which one of your biographers says you are hoarding up for posterity?" "With the others." "You once before spoke to me about this opera, and said that you had made it too dramatic, and that it was a failure." Eolian harp for the Duchess of Vaudemont, and had had several made on the estate of his friend Aguado. It was pleasant to see them together. I had told Rossini a great deal about Neukomm; especially about his wonderful activity; and he began about it at once, 66 Always at work, I hear, Signor Cavaliere.” "When I can't do any more work," answered Neukomm, "I hope somebody will put me between six planks and nail them up, for I shall not care to live any longer." "You have the same passion for industry that I always had for idleness," cried Rossini. "Your forty operas do not exactly go to prove that," returned Neukomm. "Ah, that is a long time ago. But in this world one really ought to have one's nerves made of string," said the maëstro, rather seriously. "But enough of that. You have travelled a great deal, even to Brazil, haven't you?" "Yes, I was Court Capellmeister at the court of Don Pedro, who was a great amateur, and even dabbled in composition himself." "I know something about that," said Rossini. "He was kind enough once to send me an Order. When he came to Paris-rather against his will, I thanked him for it, and offered to get some of his compositions performed at the Italian Opera, to which he gladly consented." "He would have conducted them himself, if you had asked him," threw in Neukomm. "Impossible! He sent me a cavatina, which I got copied out after adding a few trombone notes to it. It was very well performed-and with tolerable applause—at a concert at the Opera-house; and Don Pedro seemed to enjoy it immensely in his box; at "Quite true," said Rossini, cheerfully: "it least, he thanked me most warmly." was most wearisome." "Had it no airs, or finales; none of those things that you generally captivate people with?" "Very kind of you; but there was really nothing in it but recitative and declamation. I put in one cavatina for David, that the poor fellow might have something to sing. That became known, and I daresay you have heard it. It begins like this:" and here he sang the air. IV. To complete this little anecdote, I must add that speaking of it to Countess B., she said,— "I perfectly remember that evening, for Don Pedro came here after the concert and seemed quite excited. He declared that he had never been so pleased in his life-which, from a man who had just lost a kingdom, seemed strange enough." TABLE TALK. CCORDING to the Moniteur, the follow DURING September, my old friend, Neu-A ing is the tariff at which wives are bought komm, came to Trouville. He wished to see Rossini, and, though they had not met for twenty-five years, Rossini remembered that Neukomm had shown him how to make an and sold in Algeria. The relation of supply and demand has some influence on prices, but more depends on the position of the father, and still more on the beauty and housewifely qualities of the woman. A further element in regulating the price in Kabylia as in other countries is the abundance or scarcity of the crops; when the harvest has been good, men are disposed to rest and be thankful, and to take a wife to help them. In the neighbourhood of Constantine prices are low; the best of the women hardly ever exceeding seventyfive francs; in other parts it may be higher, but nowhere does the finest specimen realise more than 1200 francs, and this only since the French occupation has developed the cultivation of figs, oil, and other merchandise, for which a ready sale is obtained at Algiers. The English adage that says, The more a woman is beaten, the better she is, has in Algeria a practical application; provided a man is ready with his weapon against other men, the wife will love him all the better if he is equally ready with the stick in her own case, -a song very popular among the women running, that a strong, healthy woman ought to be kept well in hand, as she is never satisfied. They have another which exhorts bachelors never to marry a divorced woman, which at least shows great benevolence on the part of the sex, considering how many there are in this condition. Divorce is an easy matter; the husband having merely to say, "I repudiate thee," and to the community, "I have repudiated her," and that part of the affair is finished. The real difficulty usually arises after this. The woman has the right of carrying away her dowry with her; and even then she cannot marry again without his consent, and this consent he is quite certain to withhold until he has been reimbursed his original outlay, or so much of it as he may consider her worth after allowing for deterioration. If he repents of what he has done he may retake her on the payment of a small fine to the village. A WRITER in Macmillan for December exposes the falsity of the last words popularly attributed to the mortally-wounded Kosciusko, “Finis Poloniæ !" and gives to the story what Mrs. Gamp calls "a bage denial:" the Polish hero "never said no such thing." But this fact will not damp the enjoyment of the reader of Campbell's Pleasures of Hope, unless the famous line "And Freedom shriek'd-as Kos ciusko fell!" be rendered as I once heard it at a Penny Reading, when, by an unfortunate lapsus linguæ, the reader destroyed the climacteric pathos by saying, " And shreedom freak'd when Kosciusko fell." I remember, too, a preacher talking of those who "wandered about | in skeep-shins," and another who asserted the fallacy that "heaviness may endure for a joy, but night cometh in the morning." But I think that there is no better example of this confusion of words than that given in Thackeray's Kickleburys on the Rhine. "Lady Kicklebury remarked that Shakspeare was very right in stating, how much sharper than a thankless tooth it is to have a serpent child." ONLY six years since there died at Largie, South Argyllshire, an old man who remembered the introduction of the first cart into that district. Such an excitement was aroused by it that people flocked from far and near to get a sight of the wondrous machine; and, in self defence, and to preserve his property, its owner took it to pieces each night, and stowed away its wheels, box, and axle, in a place of safety till the morning. And yet, before that man's death, the steam plough had been used in Largie; a penny newspaper, printed in English and published in the neighbouring town, was circulated among the Gaelic-speaking people; the steamers were daily to be seen off the Largie coast; and the electric telegraph wires were stretched from post to post within a few miles of his doors. I might add to this brief catalogue of wondrous inventions witnessed by this West Highlander, that of photography, did I not fear to fall into too palpable a pun by saying that this man who saw the introduction of the first cart also witnessed that of the first carte. AMATEURS who like to paint scroll texts or Tables of Commandments for churches, and who know how admirably zinc is adapted for their purpose, and yet how difficult it is to use oil paint on that material, will be glad to know that Professor Boettger has devised a plan to extricate them from the dilemma. He prepares the zinc plate by the following process. With a hard brush he applies to it a composition of one part of chloride of copper, one part of nitrate of copper, one part of sal-ammoniac, and sixty-four parts of water, to which is afterwards added one part of hydrochloric acid. The application of this at once turns the zinc to a black colour, which, as it dries, changes to a lighter shade of gray, on which the oil paint can be readily used. A ROUND mince-pie would shock the feelings of the purist in pastry, who recognises only one shape as orthodox, viz. :-the elongated oval, which is something like to the sacred vesica piscis, and is intended to represent the cretch or manger in which the Holy Babe was laid. The mince-meat symbolises the offerings of the wise men. The true oval mince-pie was once regarded as a test of orthodoxy; if the person took it and ate it, he was considered to be a Christian; but, if he refused it, he was scouted as a Jew. The twelve days, from Christmas Day to Twelfth Day, are the only true and legitimate days on which mince-pies should be eaten—at the rate of one a day; and, each of these twelve days will ensure a happy month in the coming year. Thus, you will perceive how easily and pleasantly both orthodoxy and a happy year can be secured! BARBAROUS customs are endowed with great vitality. We still give ourselves headaches by wearing chimney-pot hats, and we cannot eat our dinners until we have put on swallow-tail coats. I say nothing as to Court dress, the Windsor uniform, the Lord Mayor's coach, after-dinner speeches, and personal canvass at elections. They may out-last our time. Bullbaiting died hard, after conferring the name of Bull-ring to the largest open space in most towns. Yet I can recal the time, not thirty years since, when the annual wake at Gornal, Pipton, and other delightful places in the Black Country, was not shorn of its chief attraction, which was the baiting of a bull. But they don't bait bulls there now-a-days; though they continue to rear bull-dogs, who are among the most intelligent and cared-for of the population of that district. Yet, they showed at the last election, that they kept up another brutal custom; that of standing on their huge cinder-banks and throwing the formidable clinkers at the police, special constables, and soldiers, who endeavoured to protect the voters on their way to the polling booths. I remember an election in this same district some five-and-twenty years since, when the yeomanry were called out, and a certain butcher who served in that gallant troop of horse, took a sad farewell of his weeping wife, gave her a lock of his hair, and rode off to the in the direction of the dog, and cut off a tailunfortunately, not that of the dog, but of his own horse. I HAD imagined that shepherdesses were not now to be seen except on Dresden china and on the canvas of Watteau and Lancret; but I find that the St. John's Lodge of the Ancient Order of Shepherdesses have lately held their annual tea-meeting in the Peterborough Corn Exchange. Upwards of 150 Ancient Shepherdesses sat down to tea; after which, dancing commenced, the gentlemen being admitted by tickets. Whether these blissful swains were also ancient, I am unable to say; though I think I may venture to assert that they did not chant the praises of the Ancient Shepherdesses In the way of ancient shepherd men, Huggins and Duggins, whom Thomas Hood handed down to posterity, in A Pastoral, after Pope, enshrined in The Comic Annual for 1832. Here is a specimen for the delectation of those who have not the glorious original at hand for reference: HUGGINS. When Peggy's dog her arms emprison, I often wish my lot was hisn; DUGGINS. I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be, THERE is a little delay, I regret to say, in the publication of Victor Hugo's new romance; for we cannot begin to publish it in London before they do so in Paris. The readers of Once a Week, however, will be more than recompensed for this delay by the goodness of the story when it comes. It is one of Victor Hugo's masterpieces; and will be incomparably the best story of the year just begun. The Authors of the articles in ONCE A Week reserve to themselves the right of translation. ONCE A WEEK is registered for transmission abroad. All communications relating to Advertisements should be addressed to the Publishers, Messrs. Bradbury, Evans, & Co., 11, Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. New Series EDITED BY E. S. DALLAS. No. 54 January 9, 1869. Price 2d. VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. Professor Ansted as a wedge of granite at the The island of Guernsey is well described by entrance of the Channel; and just where the thin edge of this wedge commences to rise into rugged cliffs, lies the picturesque town of St. Peter Port. Prominent in the southern suburb, and on the apex of a projecting buttress-like hill, whose sides are covered with terraced gardens, stands Hauteville House, the residence of Victor Hugo. The aspect of the house from the street presents no extraordinary features; but rather, as M. Lecanu expresses it, has "that cold appearance common to English houses." A light iron railing running round the roof of the house forms a narrow promenade, and from the attics towards the sea project two glass look-out houses. Two, if not more, houses in Hauteville lay claim to the original title of Hauteville House; but naturally, before the world-wide fame of Hauteville House, par excellence, their claims are insignificant. Nowhere is the proverb, that a prophet is without respect in his own country, more fully exemplified than in Guernsey, at least among the aristocratic sixties and forties of the insular society. It was remarked in my presence by a member of one of the best families, and a clergyman, "We don't think much of Victor Hugo here;" but among the lower classes he is deservedly popular-the poor especially appreciate his generosity, whilst the charitable works of the late Madame Hugo are in the remembrance of all St. Peter Port and its neighbourhood. some An account of the interior of Hauteville House was published four years ago in the French language,* illustrated with effective etchings, and the proceeds devoted to charitable purposes. On the first leaf of the volume now lying before me, is inscribed in autograph, "Pour les pauvres. Victor Hugo." From this volume I have drawn largely in the following pages, inserting only here and there, wherever my own observation enables me to correct omissions or errors. M. Lecanu says, "The house (Hauteville House) is celebrated in Guernsey, where it formerly excited great curiosity. Marvellous things were reported of it, exaggerated by the mystery which hovered behind a threshold, at that time closed to the Guernsey world. was supposed to contain riches, in the way of furniture, worthy of fairy tales: the truth is, that the peculiar interest of the house rests in the fact of its being the home of a mastermind, and that the apartments were arranged entirely after the ideas, and from the designs, of Victor Hugo, who was employed for three years on this memorial of his fantastic taste. There is not a room or group which is not a rare curiosities, oak + masterpiece; most It *Chez Victor Hugo, par un passant, avec 12 eaux-fortes, Cadart et Luguet, par M. Maxime Lalanne. Paris. éditeurs; gérants de la société des aqua-fortistes, 79, Rue Richelieu. 1864. The letterpress of this, however, is by M. A. Lecanu, Avocat à la Cour d'appel de Paris. +In Guernsey, formerly, the farm-houses and cottages were or rudely full of old family chests in Guernsey oak, elaborately carved, as the case might be. They have been mostly bought up now by local archeologists and lovers of art. Victor Hugo possesses some of the best specimens. carvings of the middle ages and Renaissance, ancient tapestries, enamels, porcelains, bric-abrac, selected with fastidious choice, are found here mixed with Venetian and Florentine elegancies. The interior of the house is a unique work of art, of which the very materials themselves are chefs d'œuvre." The difference between our insular shrinking from publicity, and the "acute Continental thirst for knowledge of the private affairs of known men" is neatly put by B. J., the author of a clever article in a late Athenæum, thus : "In France, all the men and women who can read, of all degrees, are interested in everything that concerns the intellectual man, even to the manner in which his linen is marked; in England, the vast mass do not know or care much whether he has a shirt." However, it must be taken for granted that the readers of M. Victor Hugo's new novel have some slight interest in his surroundings at home; for as M. Lecanu goes on to say, "To describe the house is to make known the man; for, if we transcribe the devices and inscriptions which the poet has traced here and there upon the walls and furniture, which are so many unpublished lines of Victor Hugo; if we surprise him in the intimacy of his private life, does it not seem as if he made himself known to us? In ancient times people had a natural pride in hanging on the walls of their dwellings their trophies of victory, and the arms of their ancestors, in such a way that they could not but see these great examples: they lived in the midst of them. Victor Hugo has scattered about his house those maxims which he has epitomised from the experience and trials of his life. "On entering Hauteville House one is immediately struck by the arrangement of the vestibule. Immediately before you is a sort of edifice, supported on an oak pillar in the purest Renaissance, forming as it were an inner porch, the lintel presenting in deep bas-relief the principal dramatic situations in Notre Dame de Paris, with an inscription in antique letters, VICTOR HUGO, NOSTRE DAME DE PARIS. This frontispiece, as it were, presents a deep effect: it appears as if the romantic family created by the poet welcomes you into his house, and that one cannot enter the abode of Victor Hugo except through the gateway of his first work. The bas-relief is bordered by a glass window with panes of bossed glass like those one sees in the cottages of the Black Forest. To the right and left are framed in the sculptured oak two bronze medallions by David, of Victor Hugo and his |