the regret of the people I had subdued. My vessels were crowned with green vine branches; the vine herself entwined round the masts and the cordige, presenting but her vermillion clusters. As the sailors expressed their delicious nectar, they sung the pleasures of the vintage. The nymphs of Amphitrite, attracted by their songs, surrounded our fleet; || they raised above the waves their bosoms of lily and their arms of snow. The zephyrs, wafting their wings, fondly fanned the beauties of these nymphs; and their sweet breaths, mixing together, impelled our light navy through the liquid lapse. Soon the isle of Naxos appeared like a cloud in the horizon. By degrees its rocks were seen to rise out of the depth of the waters. The ancient trees which crowned them, seemed to elevate their majestic heads as we approached the shore. I resolved to rest in that island. I found it uninhabited, and I knew not what secret charm that solitude diffused through my heart. An interior voice seemed to say to me, In the road where victory has conducted thee, even to this day thy heart has known but glory: bere thou shalt know love.' Attracted by a sweet reverie, I wandered alone in that enchanting desart. I fancied I heard the echo of a sigh. Farther as I advanced the more tender and plaintive became the sounds which reached me. At length I arrived near a rock, at whose foot the sea broke in waves of foam. The rock half opened, presented a grotto, the || entrance of which was shaded by black cypresses. From the bottom of this wild || cavern proceeded a touching voice, which pronounced these sad words:" Ah, cruel! why has thou betrayed me? I have sacrificed all for thee, and thou sacrificeth me. Thou hast condemned me to death. I displease thee, therefore I am guilty. Alas! if it were sufficient to love, to be amiable, ingrate, I should please you yet! Adieu! thy deserted mistress, too weak to hate thee, gives her last sigh with her last breath. 1 fly to meet death" "At these words, with pale cheeks and scattered hair, a woman springs from the grotto, and flies towards the sea. But, swifter than the lightning, I cast myself before her, and retain her in my arms. Sadness had subdued her; terror now seized her; she uttered a piercing cry, looked at me, and fainted. I need not tell you that she was interesting, for she wept. In drying her tears I suffered my own to flow, and gradually became intoxicated with a voluptuous sadness. At length she opened her languishing eyes, and casting on me a tender and melancholy glance, she said to me:- Ah! if my fate interests you; if you know how much love makes us suffer when he betrays our tenderness, in pity leave me to die!' "The accents of that melodious voice diffused through all my senses inexpressible de light. My heart palpitated against that of the unfortunate, and my arms, in sustaining her trembled under their sweet burthen.” At these words, Venus, with a bitter smile, exclaimed:" The moment is critical, and I see your heart, my dear Bacchus, just ready to fall.-Hebe, our amiable conqueror, requires your assistance.” At these words the blushing Hebe approached, and, with downcast eyes, distributed nectar to the heavenly circle. Bacchus, confused, presented his cup, looked at her, sighed, and stopped in the middle of his recital. (To be continued.) OAKWOOD HOUSE.-AN ORIGINAL DESCRIPTIVE NOVEL. LETTER XXIV. (Continued from Page 134.) TO MRS. BRUDENELL. Oakwood, Aug. 14, 1807. HABIT, which is invincible in old persons, works wonders in the young. It has already reconciled Barbara to Oakwood. She no longer complains of the length of the day, or wishes for evening, when we sit down to cards. She has found out an employment that never tires--teizing Millichamp. The only time he can enjoy Margaret's company, without interruption, is before breakfast. I canA a s not suspect such a girl of being seriously in love; but I am certain her behaviour gives him serious vexation; and I took the liberty of telling her to-day, that she did not allow him to dispose of his own time. "I do not think," said she, "that he could spend it better than in my company. He has hitherto only associated with people that have been dead five thousand years; is high time , somebody should bring him acquainted wit the living; and, as I have nothing else to do just now, I have condescended to take him in hand myself." "His former companions were his own choice; so, I think, should be his present." "Do you imagine it possible a man of Millichamp's age should not prefer the society of a beautiful young woman to that of an old, longbearded Grecian or Roman, if he had once experienced the difference?" "Beauty alone will never claim the preference of Millichamp.” "My dear ma'am, do not say another word; I shall believe there is something in the air of Oakwood that inspires uncivil speeches. I assure you have a great deal to teach him yet, before he has done with me. But perhaps you think he would take instructions better from Margaret Freeman ?" "Every body admires Margaret Freeman; and Millichamp, who has seen her in the bosom of her family, where every good woman appears to the greatest advantage; who has witnessed a thousand nameless virtues, which never go abroad; and the high estimation in which she is held by those who know her best; he cannot do otherwise." were talking of you. Mrs. Oakwood says you ike your books better than me; and Margaret Freeman better than your books." "I know Mrs. Oakwood too well to believe she would tell stories," said Millichamp. “Then I must tell them, of course,” replied Barbara. "However, I will not lead you into emptation; so we will say no more about it.” My brother then entered from the library, and said, " Pray who has the key of one of the bookcases? It is not in the door." "Not I," said Millichamp; " I have missed it, and searched for it in vain." "Not 1," said I; "for I did not know it was missing." "Not 1," said Barbara; "for I never enter the library." "Not I," said Charles, who came in as the Inquiry was made; "for I am like you, Sir, I look into no books but my own." My brother rang the bell, and ordered the house-maid who cleans the library, into the room. "Pray," said he, "have you seen the key of the bookcase on the left hand as you go into the library?" "No, Sir," replied the girl; "I dusted the library yesterday, and I remarked that the key was not in the door." "I know very little of you," said my brother; "you are almost a stranger to me. There are some animals that eat irou, and you may be one. Have you eaten it?" "No," she said, "she was not one of that sort." "Then," said my brother, turning to me, "either you or Millichamp must have it; and "Well, it is incomprehensibe to me what you all can see in Margaret Freeman! AI insist upon your emptying your pockets.” smattering of drawing, and a knack of cutting paper! For the one I would sooner fall in love with Angelica Kauffman, or any female dauber by profession; and the other is only fit to excite the admiration of father and mother when Miss comes home from boarding school at the vacation. She has no auimation, no spirit, no variety If I were a man, I might like to look at her; but should be weary of her company in an hour.-Millichamp," continued she, as he entered the room, "you are come in good time. We "It is lucky for me that I wear pockets," replied I" if 1 were a young woman I should not carry such a proof of my innocence about me." And I spread their contents on the table. "At your command I will empty mine," said Millichamp; but I have turned them all inside out twice already." He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and to his own amazement and our diversion, instantly produced the key. The solu tion of the enigma was easy; he had only changed his waistcoat before he sought for the key, and again before he found it. "What have you there, Charles?" said 1, seeing a roll of paper in his hand. “ A beautiful landscape of Margaret Freeman's," replied he, " which I have run away with to shew you.” My brother unrolled it. "These are the ruins of Fountain's Abbey," said he; "Margaret has drawn them very correctly." "I should like very much to see them," said Millichamp, after he had attentively examined the drawing. "I should like it of all things," said Barbara. "Now do, my dear Mrs. Oakwood, let us go?" "I have long wished to see Fountain's Abbey," replied I; "but I will not leave Mr. Oakwood again, at present." "I am sure," said Barbara, "Mr. Oakwood will go with us." "Try if you can persuade him," said I. "Now, my dear, dear Sir," said she, "I know you are so good-natured, you cannot refuse to make us sil happy." "You know very little of me," replied my brother; "or you would know I am very ill. natured." "I positively cannot believe it," cried she. "Look at that haudsome face, Mill.champ, and tell me if you can discover one trait of illnature in it. You are not old enough to be ill-natured. I declare I should not take you to be forty." "If I were under forty," said my brother, "your flattery and your handsome face might gain their point; but I am on the wrong side of fifty, and proof against all you can say.” "If handsome faces have lost their power over you, brother," said I, "let me try mine. "I should be very glad to see Fountain's Abbey." "You try your power so seldom," replied my brother," that it is uncontroulable when you do. You cannot exert your influence in vain; and I will go whenever you please." "Excellent!" cried Barbira. “ I have one consolation, however; though nobody minds me now, I may be uncontroulable when I am fifty." "Well, sister," said my brother, "you are mistress of the revels; when, and how shall we go?" " and "To-morrow, if you please," said I: suppose you and I go in the chariot, and give Margaret a place with the coachman: we can take her on if it rains. Charles may take Barbara in his curricle, and Millichamp may go on horseback." "I'll take Margaret in my curricle," said Charles. "And, Millichamp," said Barbara, “I kuow you can drive a gig to admiration: we will have the gig, and you shall drive me. I will give you a lesson on good manners, and you shall give me one on driving, as we go along" "If you want a lesson on driving," said Millichamp, "you might go in the curricle and take one from Mr. Charles, who is much better qualified to instruct you than I am; and I will drive Margaret." "No; I never learn any thing, except I have my own way," said Barbara ; besides, you want the lesson on good manners." "Barbara," said her brother, "if you wish to learn to drive, you make a very bad choice in a master. Millichamp may drive a gig, but give him a tandem, give him four-in-hand, or give him a pair of my chesnuts, any how, and you will see what a figure he'll mak. I would' bet six to four he dashes his carriage to pieces. If you want to drive in style, you should learn of me. Nobody can manage my chesnuts but myself." "I think," replied my brother, "nature intended thee for a chesnut, and made a mis. take when she gave thee a pair of arms, instead of two additional legs." "I hope she intended me for nothing less than a coachman," returned Charles. "I once drove a pair of fine blood-horses through Wales. I shall never forget what a pleasant party we were; myself and three more young fellows. You have no soul, Millichamps, or you would have been delighted with our excursion." "I have a soul highly susceptible of the " and beauties of nature," said Millichamp, should have been as much delighted with the Welsh mountains as any of you." "We did not pay our devotions to the Welsh mountains," said Charles; "our business was to knock down the grouse; but the gratification 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 diauer, 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 out 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 lids 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 or. dered our bill.-Now, I think, that was a flight beyond the ancients." "Beyond any thing I ever read of, ancient or modern," replied Millichamp. "You not only soared above history," said my brother "but above reason and common sense." 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 charming drawings from them." "I should wonder more if I did," replied my brother." I have often been 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 acquainted, 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. 1 lent them. At the end of three months I ventured to send for them. She returned them; but was so of fended, 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 lending 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. "But the best of it was," resumed Charles, "bat, though we bid the people make their own charge, they could not be recompenced; for we smashed almost all their stock of glassing it." and earthenware, and the poor devils must send to Shrewsbury, above threescore miles, to replace it." "I am afraid, Charles," said I, "you will find the present party very insipid; you will "Though that man might not pick your pocket," said my brother, "he would bor row your money, if he wanted, and never ṛe, 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 foud 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 foun der 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; His singing in these two cantatas was neither French nor Italian, it was a manner entirely by itself; he had, in a superior degree, what the Italians call il portamento di voce, or the art of conducting the voice, and length wind instruments resemble it in a small degree,ening out the cadences, a merit which he made known to the French singers of that time. In the memoirs of Marmontel, Geliote occupies a place worthy of envy, that of the 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, Ma-happiest among mortals! Such is he there demoiselle Colbroon. I never heard any woman in Italy superior to her; I prefer her infinitely to Mesdames Todi, Mara, aud 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 1 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 Felidor and Pygmalion. 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 gencration 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 described; while so many others, happy in appearance only, are little so in reality. Dur name 1 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 converse. 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 manner, but not played, by an excellent Soprano or a 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 |