what shall we say of the words? Dare we call the music we hear at Drury Lane a handmaid to poetry-as it ought to be-and is the music only a helping hand in giving expression to the words that the soul is pouring forth? Let those who read the libretti, as they are ignominiously called, with their cheap translations on opposite pages, judge fairly, and what that judgment must be is not difficult to surmise. The plot in most cases is repulsive, and the versification worse. The play is built up to suit the musician, and is chalked off so that soprano, alto, tenor, and bass may have each his own "air," and may each enjoy his own scene; but, if it be a point as to the meaning of the words, or the intention of the poet, both are left naked and bare, and the singer might as well chant solfeggi, and act in dumb show, for all an audience would care.

To show how far matters have long since gone in this direction, we may quote an amusing illustration of Franz Hüffers. During a scene in the "Figaro," where the page is hidden in the closet of the countess, the husband, mad with jealousy at finding the door bolted, rushes away for the necessary instruments to make his entrance by force. As soon as he is out of sight Cherubino appears, and, seeing no other way of saving his life and the honour of his lady, is about to jump out of window. There is periculum in mora, and a moment's delay may be of fatal consequence. But here there is the opportunity for an effective piece of music. Cherubino and Susanna begin their duet, and fate, in the shape of the count with his hammer and drawn sword, has to wait at the door till tonic and dominant have had their due. As another illustration, and as an argument to close the subject of operatic poetical imbecility, is it too much to ask what the "Last Rose of Summer" has to do with the plot in Flotow's "Martha," except as a means of vocal display? For this purpose it is admirable, and-at any rate in England-is safe for an encore. But we have failed to discover any other meaning for the interpellation.

It is something, then, to learn at last that an attempt is being made to give the new school a hearing, and that artists accustomed to perform Wagnerian strains have been specially engaged to try their powers in the opera house, Covent Garden. This announcement forms the chief feature in Mr. Gye's programme, who tells us that he can

no longer be deaf to the calls of amateurs, and that, after its reception at Bologna, he has no course open to him other than to produce "Lohengrin," with fitting magnificence. The resolution is a wise one, and if only viewed in a pecuniary point, will amply repay any sum that may be spent on the mise en scène. The number of opera-goers could hardly be called a limited one, and if we add to this number the still larger class who, being unable to attend regularly, are only too willing to pay when they know that something genuine and sterling is about to be represented after much thought and careful rehearsal, we collect an auditory which will fill, not Covent Garden, but La Scala many times over. Besides, "The Flying Dutchman" was by no means an equivocal success, and we have yet to learn that its production was one of loss to the director. But having said so much, it is impossible not to feel amused at the halfhearted policy that is about to be adoptedalthough, by the way, the flourish of trumpets which ushers in the manager's statement is calculated to awe the ordinary reader. We are to hear Wagner the musician, but Wagner the poet is ignored and forgotten. His opera is accepted, but not his theory; and these special German singers who have been imported to give us what has taken them years to study, will have to undergo the nice torture of unlearning, as it were, the original words, and, of course, in many cases, the original music, in order to commit to memory what must inevitably be a bald and rugged adaptation. It is true our opera is Italian opera, and we should be sorry to see it changed exclusively for any other; but with this fantastic parade about German composers and German singers, is it too much to expect a point to be strained, and that with the working material at hand we should hope to hear the very original in words and music? If the thing be worth doing at all, it is worth doing well, as the adage tells us; but, as it seems to us, Mr. Gye, after having contrived to do his utmost to secure the best that could be got, is now carefully undoing his work by the very means which will render his attempt the opposite to an echo of a careful, reflecting, critical judgment.

It is time, however, to hear what Mr. Chorley had to say on this vexed question, and how he had settled the matter in his own mind. During the summer of last year,

the present writer was in constant communication with the critic, and had means of sounding him on his most matured views. His abhorrence of Wagner was excessive, nor did he attempt to conceal it. He told a story with evident satisfaction of how Wagner, during the performance of one of his operas, went over to Mendelssohn, who happened to be in the theatre, to ask him his opinion of the play and the music.

"I wish I could congratulate you," said Mendelssohn, "but I cannot. What I hear upsets all my preconceived notions of what ought to be and what undoubtedly is."

"For my part," continued Mr. Chorley, "I believe the man to overrate himself and his work; and if this same work be the standard whereby to judge all former compositions, then everybody else is wrong, and Wagner right. But I maintain that much of what has been written will live, as it has lived, for many years to come; and this is, at least, uncertain with modern German music.

"The highest gift of the musician is the gift of melody, and when this is eliminated, the work perforce becomes ponderous and laborious. Musicians have recognized this great fact long enough ago, and have left us marvels of melody encased in the richest orchestration. But to have mainly a knowledge of orchestral effect, without attaching any acknowledged recognizable air to the words or the poem, is to bring down music to declamation and to the level of scientific analysis. He reaches at once what he wishes to avoid: attempting to reach the ideal, he idealizes the real." That this view was one not hurriedly formed and expressed, but was the outcome of thought and still more of experience, may be arrived at from Mr. Chorley's preface to his work on "Music and Manners in France and North Germany." "It has been my fortune (or misfortune, as may be) to undergo very few conversions with regard to music and its masters. I hope that I know more than I did; but I have not come to like what I disliked ten years ago, or the reverse. . . . It is impossible to know a work thoroughly on a first hearing-on a first intercourse with an artist to perceive the extent of his merits; but unless the work, from the first, produces a quick desire for better acquaintance-unless the artist, at first, displays some attribute or accomplishment that attracts-it may be only a damage done to

taste, and a loss of time on subsequent occasions, to attempt to find beauty where none suggested itself, or charm in that which failed to charm originally. Such attempts, however laudable on the score of their patience and charity, are apt to end in the listener losing his discernment of good and evil, in his confusing what is mediocre with what is great, in his accepting pretensions on the terms of those advancing them, not according to the standard of artistic perfection."

Than this nothing could be clearer; and the comparison between the written and the oral opinion indicates a tenacity to a judgment which looks as if the opinion were truth itself. On examination, however, it seems harsh and unjust. If no conversion is possible-and this is what the judgment amounts to-how can we reconcile the estimation in which Beethoven is held nowadays with the position he held years ago?

To come down still later, have we not all remarked the tone of present criticism in comparison with the tone of criticism in vogue five years ago? Schubert was tolerated as a song writer, but Schumann was rejected as a sceptic. It was the fashion to sneer at the germs of the innovation, and to believe the founders of the new-fangled school, men running mad after an idea. Now, on the contrary, all is changed; and no concert of any moment is considered satisfactory without at least one representative piece of modern German art. Musical critics are specially engaged to write a careful analysis for the convenience of listeners, which, if these notices can be relied upon, is in the majority of cases the work of able, honest, and impartial judges. The conversion has of late become so rapid, that we are instinctively reminded of Goldsmith's description, in "The Deserted Village," of the good old parson who drew many auditors, "and some who came to scoff remained to pray." There is an absence of hauteur, and a deferential regard for the leanings of a large circle who have never wavered in giving a patient hearing to what they imagined to be a reformation in the right direction. And if we still sometimes meet with adverse criticism, it is of a fair and legitimate kind, and not of the reckless, sweeping order which used raillery for argument and abused without listening. If we are not to admire what is not apparent on the surface, the large idea

of education is lost sight of, and we can only trust to our barren and untutored instincts, which, call them by what name we will, can only land us on the superficial and commonplace.

Musical taste must be educated to be refined; and we know no limit where this refining influence ceases. As we grow older, so, let us hope, we grow wiser; and if modern Germany is building on the foundations of past generations, it will serve no good purpose to enfeeble or crush her efforts. No sounder advice than Gamaliel's was ever given. If the attempt be a foolish one, it will come to nought; if not, it will grow and thrive, little heeding the obstacles clumsily thrown in its way. The more angry opponents become, the more devoted will be the adherence of friends. We have only to read of the reception given to Wagner the other day at Baireuth, on the occasion of his laying the corner-stone of a National German Theatre, to be assured of the hold he and his followers have taken of the musical sympathies of Continental Europe. If there were one cause more than another likely to militate against success, it would be the persistent and the easy confidence which has always asserted itself in his writings and conversations with regard to the supporters of former operatic doctrines. Enemies, no doubt, are to be found in thousands; but these, as time proceeds, diminish in numbers, while round the standard of heresy are flocking numbers day by day.

If the result of operatic writing be gauged by the libretti and the music of the hour, the result is disappointing, not to say unedifying. Those who witnessed "Gelmina" can now fairly understand how debased art may become; and how it may be served up, only that the singer may obtain the plaudits of the gallery. As an accomplished and finished artiste, Madame Adelina Patti will gain triumphs enough, and to spare. No good purpose can be served by exalting the singer at the expense of the music; and no dramatic reputation can be heightened by carefully selecting a plot where vice is triumphant and virtue goes to the wall. If modern musicians are eager merely to write for the shops and the singers, then Wagner, whatever he may do, must be rewarded for his manly defence of Art itself. And if those who witnessed "Gelmina" will trouble themselves to listen to the "Lohengrin," they will find, in place of a dissolute play with

voluptuously airy music, an opera worked up "into the divine" by its elegance, refinement, and spirituality.

WILLIAM TINSLEY.

THE HE subject of our cartoon this week is Mr. William Tinsley, the well-known enterprising publisher, of 18, Catherinestreet, Strand, and proprietor of "Tinsley's Magazine. We have already in our series of cartoons given the counterfeit present ments of a number of distinguished authors. We propose to include the portraits of some few gentlemen identified with literary interests; such, for instance, as Mr. W. H. Smith, M.P. for Westminster, and Mr. Mudie, the eminent librarian, This week we have selected a representative publisher. As everybody knows, an author's sine qua non is a publisher, and it seems only fair to give one or two of these gentlemen their turn. In the history of" the trade"-as from time immemorial the booksellers and publishers have been called

probably there is no instance in which integrity and intelligence have more quickly met their reward. Nay, further, Mr. Smiles's Self-Help" contains no more remarkable instance of a great and deserved rise in life than is afforded in the history of the gentleman under notice.

Mr. William Tinsley trades under the name of Tinsley Brothers; he has, however, no brother in partnership with him, nor has he had a partner for several years past. The business known as "Tinsley Brothers" was founded some twenty years ago by William and Edward Tinsley, hence the name under which the business is still carried on by the surviving partner. Mr. Edward Tinsley was, we believe, the younger brother of the two, and at his death, six or seven years ago, the business came into the sole possession of the present proprietor.

William Tinsley was born, in the year 1830, at the village of South Mims, in the county of Middlesex; and we hope we are violating no confidence when we mention that Mr. Tinsley was sent to work by his father as a farmer's boy before he was twelve years old; that the only actual schooling he ever received was at the National School at South Mims, and this only for a few months.

At the age of fourteen, young William Tinsley was offered the chance of learning

a trade. He availed himself of the opportunity that thus offered itself; and it was with the few pounds that he had saved whilst working at his trade that he, with his brother Edward, opened a small shop in the Strand for the sale of second-hand books. But the brothers were not long content with being only booksellers, they soon began to print and publish books on their

Miss Rhoda Broughton, Justin M'Carthy, B. L. Farjeon, and many other favourites with the novel-reading public.

THE PAINTED CHAMBER.

IN TWO PARTS.-PART II.

BY JOHN C. DENT.

to start with, for some private reason, bore the name of William Tinsley only on the title-pages.

The brothers remained a short time only in the Strand before they removed to the premises in Catherine - street, where the publishing business of the firm of Tinsley Brothers has ever since been carried

on.

From a farmer's boy, with two shillings or half a crown a-week for wages, to the position Mr. William Tinsley now holds as a publisher, is no ordinary leap in life, especially when it must be taken into consideration that he had only the advantage in early life of the most rudimentary education. Mr. Tinsley is now, we believe, sometimes a contributor upon dramatic and social subjects to the pages of his own magazine. The story of William Tinsley's life, if told at length, would no doubt only add one more to the thousands of proofs of what perseverance and pluck can accomplish, if put to the test; and it is worthy of some speculation as to what eminence in life men such as those of whom Mr. William Tinsley is a type would have attained if they had had the advantages of a good education to start with, instead of being obliged to educate themselves during the time they are making their way in the world.

A glance at Tinsley Brothers' list of works in this week's Athenæum will, we think, convince any one with the slightest knowledge of modern English literature, that Mr. William Tinsley's judgment is not much at fault in his selection of authors. In this list may be seen the names of Captain Burton (the celebrated African traveller), the veteran Planché, G. A. Sala, and other writers of works of standard excellence in various departments of lite

rature.

Among the works of fiction in his list may be found the names of Anthony Trollope, George Macdonald, Mrs. Oliphant, Henry Kingsley, Edmund Yates, Mrs. Henry Wood,

sister again accompanied her; but the office was apparently free from "influences," for she was perfectly quiet and collected during the interview.

When Mrs. Rennelson had brought her statement to a close, and I had given ber such advice as the nature of the case rendered proper, she informed me that her sister desired a private interview with me. I bowed, and Mrs. Rennelson took her leave.

Mrs. Davidson at once entered upon her purpose.

"Of course you don't believe in spiritualism, Mr. Rushworth?"

I didn't wish to hurt her feelings; and, for that matter, I didn't see any necessity for committing myself on the point. I didn't wish to tell her that I felt perfectly convinced that spiritualism was the hugest humbug of the age, and that its votaries and votaresses, herself included, were compounded of about equal parts of knave, fool, and swindler. I temporized.

"Really, madam," I replied, "I have never given spiritualism the careful consideration which so momentous a subject demands—”

"Enough: you don't believe in it. I do; and I have given it careful consideration. Mr. Rushworth, as sure as there is a God above us, there is some mystery associated with that horrible Painted Room where I saw you last evening."

Her tone was so sincere, so full of honest conviction, and, withal, so impressive, that I am ashamed to admit that I laughed in her face. I couldn't help it. She did not seem annoyed, but resumed—

"I had no sooner entered that room last night than I felt uncomfortable, and in less than two minutes afterwards I knew that its influences were of tremendous potency. The short time I spent there robbed me of a good deal of nerve-power; yet my object in calling upon you to-day is to persuade you