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phical students. It is called Platon's Philosophie im Abriss ihrer genetischen Enwicklung. (Plato's Philosophy in its genetic Development.) It is a dry, prosaic, formal book, on a theme which, above all others, merits a genial and glowing treatment.

- Dr. JOHN USCHOLD has published, at Ambery, a Compendium of Psychology (Grundriss der Psychologie), in which the evangelical theory of the soul, the primitive purity and blessedness of man and his fall from grace, are taught in a very succinct and lucid manner for the use of students.

- Betrachtungen über den Physischen Weltall (Considerations on the Physical Structure of the Universe), is a philosophical disquisition by Prof. EsCHENMAYER, a disciple of Schelling, in which we are taught that the entire, boundless complex of worlds, stars, comets, &c., depends upon and is governed by a great universal body (Allgestirn), the productive source of all forces and laws, in the centre of the entire concern, wherever that may be. It is fanciful and vague, and will suit those who like to take their science bathed in the mists of imagination, rather than in the clear and distinct light of exact knowledge.

- LIEBIG's famous Chemical Letters have received a reply in a book by JACOB MOLESCHOTT, called Der Kreislauf des Lebens (The Circle of Life). The author is a physiologist, but no chemist.

He

writes well and popularly, but Liebig's theories are not much injured by his disquisitions.

-Land und See Bilder aus der Gegenwart (Land and Sea Pictures of the Present Time), is a volume of translations from the Household Words, embracing articles on America and Australia.

-OTTO SCHMIDT is the author of a History of the Thirty Years' War, written for the benefit of the universal German nation, to warn the same against the evils of dissension, and the necessity of patience and tolerance. Mr. Schmidt might have preached his sermon on a shorter theme than one thirty years long.

-The readers of Goethe's Autobiography must preserve a sort of affection for the old German province of Elsass, now the French department of Alsace, whose great glory is the Strasburg Cathedral, and whose people are a happy mixture of the Teutonic and Gallic elements of character. Goethe loved to be among them, and would have been delighted with AuGUST STÖBER's Sagen des Elsass (Traditions of Alsace), just published at St. Gallen. These traditions are gathered

with infinite industry from the mouths of the people, from old chronicles and other reliable sources, and are very pleasant reading even to those who have no local interest in the beautiful country to which they belong.

-Those who wish to study the rise and progress of Secret Societies, and especially of Masonry, will find a most authentic and satisfactory work in the Geschicte der Frei-Maurerei in Frankolich (History of Free Masonry in France), by Prof. KLoss of Darmstadt. It is based on authentic documents of every kind, and casts great light upon the formation and development of the order in every country of Europe, as well as in France.

-A volume which musicians ought to read is F. CHRYSANDER'S Ueber die Molltonart in der Volksgesängen und über das Oratorium (On the minor mode in music of popular origin, and on the Oratorio). It is a learned and instructive work, though it does not demonstrate all its propositions, as for instance, that the minor mode in popular songs, is derived from the music of the early Christian church, while the fact is that barbarous nations which never heard of Christianity, delight in the use of the minor key.

-The booksellers' advertisements announce the publication of Des Negers Ira Aldridge Leben und Künstler-Laufbahn (Life and Artistic Career of the Negro Ira Aldridge), with his portrait and fac-simile. Mr. Aldridge is a tragic actor, whose playing of Shakspeare's characters, such as Othello and Macbeth, has been astonishing to the Germans. They hold him to be one of the first tragedians of the age. This book is designed to make the public acquainted with the facts of his personal professional history.

-A volume more charming and welcome to poetic readers could not be named than the Lieder des Mirza Schaffy (Songs of Mirza Schaffy), of which a second edition has just made its appearance at Berlin, with several poems not given in the first. Mirza Schaffy is a poet of the Caucasus, a man of very delicate fancy and genial wisdom, whose songs - fit to be named with those of Hafiz -are rendered into elegant German by BODENSTEDT, the historian and traveller, and printed in a neat and convenient little volume.

-A characteristic publication is the Deutsche Hauschronik (German HouseChronicles), issued monthly at Munich, and now in its second year. It is a sort of historical and ethnographic popular miscellany, consisting of memorable scenes from history, descriptions of life in an

cient times, among the Germans especially, sketches of eminent characters, pictures of society in foreign countries, and particularly in those which are remote and strange, written often in the shape of stories, and all illustrated with an abundance of excellent wood-cuts. In fact it would be difficult to find a publication, which, in an artistic point of view, is superior to the Haus Chronik, and its literary merits are scarcely less remarkable. Some of the best writers of Southern Germany contribute to its pages.

-In FREDERIC GERSTACKER's two volumes of American travel, just published at Stuttgart, a great deal of valuable information upon the political and natural mysteries of South America, is given in a very pleasant way. The traveller landed at Rio Janeiro, and after having explored the vicinity of the Brazilian capital, went to Buenos Ayres. His pictures of life on the pampas, are as fresh and vivid as pen could make them. Next he crossed the continent to Chili, and from there I went to California. His adventures in Brazil, the Argentine Confederation, and Chili, are narrated with as much spirit as he carried into the acting of them; while his observations on men and manners are marked by shrewdness, tolerance, and good sense. The second volume relates to California exclusively, as it was two years ago, and can, therefore, have but little present interest for American readers. His further travels among the islands of the South Sea, in Australia, and in Java, will afford the material for several future volumes, which we shall look for with interest.

BELGIUM.-The novelty we have here to notice is Belgian in origin only by accident, and we are not aware that Belgium itself ever produced any thing half so original. But inasmuch as the pamphlet now before us bears the imprint of Brussels on its titlepage, we will not refuse to the dominions of King Leopold the honor of having produced it. It is written in French, and entitled, Reply to certain Journals relative to the affairs of Turkey; the authors are RUSTEM EFFENDI, and SEID BEY, two Turkish officers temporarily on a Government mission at Liege; and we can truly say that if there are many as clever writers in the Ottoman Empire, its literature should at once be made an object of general study. The present pamphlet is not unworthy to be placed with Montesquieu's Persian Letters, which indeed, it somewhat resembles in style and spirit. Turkey could hardly have abler or more earnest defenders against the imputations of religious intolerance and op

pression of her Christian subjects, lately cast upon her with bitterness by Austrian and other writers. The idea of intolerance as attributed to the Mussulmans is shown to be a mere prejudice from the beginning. Jerusalem and Constantinople were conquered by them, without any constraint being put on the faith or worship of the Christian inhabitants. "A Belgian traveller told us," say our Turkish pamphleteers, "that he had seen in Constantinople what he could not have seen in Paris, a Catholic procession passing through the streets, and the crowd reverently making place for it. So much is every form of religion respected among the Turks, and so universal is the tolerance of the nation." "As, on our journey hither, we came through Smyrna, a great festival was being celebrated there by the Catholics, and the Turkish Pacha, on the invitation of the Ladies of the Order of Providence, was present at the examination of the young girls, pupils in their seminary, and listened with interest, and even crowned those who gained prizes. On our ships of war we have often seen, at one end the Greek sailors with their pope going through with their prayers, while at the other end, the Mussulman sailors were worshipping God after the manner of their faith. In contrast to this, the poor Irish who die for England's fame and power on the burning sands of India, are to this day denied the consolations of their church. If you would see intolerance, go to the countries of Christian Europe, or to the Greek Christians in Turkey, especially to the robber-horde of Montenegro. It is they who invented for Catholic Christians the epithet of 'Frank-dog,' which, like every thing else that is bad, has been attributed to the Turks. But the worst of all intolerance is at Jerusalem, where Greeks and Latins fight and squabble about the Holy Sepulchre, and the Turkish authorities, with, the greatest impartiality and imperturbable patience, endeavor only to keep the peace between them."

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MUSIC.

When Ole Bull was at the height of his success in this country, M. Vieuxtemps arrived. "Now," said the wise men, we shall see what good playing is." M. Vieuxtemps did play, with all his well-earned European fame behind him; but unhappily, very few listeners before him. At the Park Theatre he played to half-empty benches, while Ole Bull was nightly filling the Tabernacle with an enthusiastic crowd. It was impossible to deny the excellence of M. Vieuxtemps. If at dinner the conversation

fell upon that gentleman, all the musical connoisseurs said that it was fortunate we had, at last, a really fine performer. His position in Paris and among foreign critics was ably discussed and justified. The musical connoisseurs were enchanted with his bowing, and with many other excellencies for which they knew the proper technical terms; and after dinner they repaired in a body to-Ole Bull's concert. M. Vieuxtemps never kindled any popular enthusiasm. He was irreproachably good, -true, delicate, classical, finished, and, as a few asserted with acrimony, free from clap-trap. Yet M. Vieuxtemps failed, while Ole Bull's first visit to the country is an era in our musical annals.

This

We are strongly reminded of these facts of nine years since, by the relative positions of Alboni and Sontag; except that every thing is reversed with them. time it is the Vieuxtemps style that bears the palm;-it is the elegant cultivation, the classical purity, the elaborate finish to which we are all paying homage, and for which we thronged Niblo's for the thirty opera-nights of Lent. While we write (very early in Alboni's season), Sontag is the success, and Alboni the failure. With that rare voice, and cultivation none the less exquisite because it does not challenge attention before the voice itself; with a fresh bonhommie of manner quite as attractive as the elaborate artificiality of Madame Sontag, and certainly with no less, if very different, dramatic power; with Salvi, the best tenor we have had, and Marini, on the whole the best basso, and Rovere, a genuine, extravagant Italian buffo, and the brave Beneventano, with exuberant voice, and exhaustless good-humor and accuracy; with all this imperial front to conquer success, Alboni has failed. ""Tis sad," cried Paul Pry.

We have recently heard it stated that she never "drew." The audience might be delighted, and single songs produce great enthusiasm, but it was spasmodic, not continuous. Neither in London, nor Paris, nor Madrid, did Alboni "draw," said "our intelligent informant." It is not quite true, as we remember in Paris. There Alboni was a sure card. The houses were always full, if not crowded: but none of her impersonations made a mark,—as personations. Alboni never "created" parts. The engravers and designers never issued prints of M'lle Alboni as this or that; or if they did so, it was a very limited circle that knew of those pictures and felt any special propriety in them. Grisi's Norma was a subject universally recognized like Rachel's Phedre, or Mrs. Siddons' Lady Macbeth.

So

with Madame Garcia as Fides in Le Prophète. These singers and actresses were identified with those rôles. But the delicious contralto was equally at home every where. She took all parts, and sang the songs in them delightfully, transposing the music if it lay out of her range, and not caring to raise an eyelid in the way of dramatic action. And the voice was so satisfactory, that the acting was suffered to pass. The general conclusion was that if large masses of animate matter could sing in this way, it was the height of ingratitude to expect them to move, also. As we said in a former article, several of the best critics longed to see Alboni break out of this apathy, and assert her full power. Hector Berlioz, especially, believed that she was an actress, if only she would choose to discover the fact. But she never did choose. She went from London to Madrid,-indolent, tropical, luxuriant,-refreshing England, France and Spain with ample libations of that cool, fresh, musical voice.

Alboni made a mistake in her first concerts in New-York, and it seems as if she were not to recover from that unfortunate prestige. When she sang at the Broadway Theatre, we certainly thought she had done so; but it was temporary only. It was the novelty of hearing a great voice in its prime at one of our theatres. There had been no such opportunity since Malibran, who sang at the Park Theatre before the days of this generation of theatregoers. The Broadway was thronged every opera-night for a fortnight or more. Then the Prima Donna went to Boston, where she had good success-for the same reason, perhaps; then to Philadelphia, where, we are told, she failed, possibly on account of miserable support. Meanwhile Sontag was serenely triumphant at Niblo's. It was fortunately Lent, and society, as usual during that period of mortification, was stagnant. The opera, therefore, took the place of all other dissipations. Every body went to the opera, because they were sure of pleasant companions, of pleasant singing, of Sontag, Badiali, and Eckert's orchestra. Moreover, the Prima Donna was a countess. It was "a nice thing" to assist at an entertainment where a "real lady" performed. Had we not met her at dinner? Was not her fate romantic? Was she not the most perfect singer, actress, countess, that ever was known? Beside, we had had no opera all winter, and were ready, during the husks of Lent, for any kind of succulence. In fact the operaseason of Madame Sontag was managed as well as all the rest of her career (excepting the ridiculous quarrel with the Albion),

and, as we heartily hope, was eminently successful. Somehow the house was always full excepting two or three very stormy evenings, there were no seats to spare. It is not our province to inquire by what means this array of auditors was uniformly secured; whether it was anxiety to pay two dollars, and one dollar, to hear her, or willingness to accept tickets for that purpose, that filled the house. The house was nightly full. If some of the tickets were given away, it was a good investment. The public is gregarious. If the head sheep jumps over a stick, we all piously follow on, and jump over in good order and regular succession. Madame Sontag herself did not falter. Once only, we believe, was the course of the opera interrupted, although during much of the time the Prima Donna was a serious sufferer. We have in previous articles sufficiently described the mitigated raptures we all experienced. But she closed her season with La Sonnambula, before "an overflowing house; "-and was lost amid the shower of bouquets at the close. After the second act she was recalled four times, by the unmistakable unanimity of the house. Sontag's last night was an ovation.

Upon all this brilliant success came the "Grand Combination Italian Opera,"uniting Alboni and her tenor and basso, to Max Maretzek, with Steffanone, Salvi, and Marini. It was a fine promise, and the eyes of those who were skeptical of Sontag's success, until she succeeded, began to twinkle and enlarge again. Now, said they-unconsciously repeating the Vicuxtemps-iana of nine years sincenow we shall see what good singing is. Our preferences have been already expressed. In the very glowing crisis of Sontag's triumph, we had declared that one rich song of Alboni's would please us more than a whole opera by the countess; and, in our weakness and eager assurance. judging from Alboni's success at the Broadway, in January, with so miserable a setting, we dreamed of a triumph at Niblo's, in April, with an unequalled troupe, so resplendent, that even jaded Parisian feuilletonists might lay down their pens before it, crying, "pyramidale."

Unhappily, we omitted several facts from our programme of probabilities. Lent was over. We had done eating fish, and might fall upon the patés again. That was an immense distraction to opera going. Then we had enjoyed thirty nights of opera, and were a little bit cloved. Then it was a Countess's opera,—which was much. Then we had all heard Alboni in her rôles at the Broadway. Then Salvi

was very uncertain, and evidently passé. Marini was no favorite, although a valuable basso; Rovere was a true Buffo; but we were too serious to appreciate the caricature.-Benjaminventano was not Badiali,-San Giovanni labored under a want of voice,-Signor Arditi and his orchestra were not so well drilled as Herr Eckert and his,-all these facts were recklessly left out of our consideration. We abandoned ourselves to unbridled anticipations. The trumpets were blown, the evening arrived, the curtain rose, and Don Pasquale commenced.

Don Pasquale was mistake No. 1. It was necessary to make a very great hit the first evening. If the triumph did not extinguish the prestige of Sontag's career upon the same boards, the battle was half lost. To secure that triumph, an opera should have been selected in which Alboni had a great deal to do,-a great many positive scenas to sing, arias in which she could have displayed her voice and her cultivation in the most brilliant manner, -some opera whose melodies were familiar to the audience, that they might have hung upon the notes in happy comparison with all who had sung them before.-an opera of interest and action also, and elaborated in orchestra and chorus to the last degree of care,-that first stroke was infinitely more important than the management seems to have been aware. It is sadly true that Alboni lost the trick. The house was full, but not as crowded as upon many of Sontag's nights. Perhaps it was a "paying" house. We trust it was. But it should have been an immense throng. The opera itself is one of Donizetti's buffo trifles. There is pretty music in it, but as it is sung without costume or scenic effect, and as there is not the slightest interest in the story, every thing depends upon the singing and the humorous acting.

At the best, when we have seen Grisi, Lablache and Ronconi in Don Pasquale, it was pleasant enough, and pretty enough, but no more. On this occasion " enough" was much too little. Alboni sang as well as ever she sang; but the old languid nonchalance had returned. The impression she gave of Norina is the true impression of the character as we conceive it, an impudent, simple baggage; not a fine lady, for fine ladies never consent to that kind of intrigue. But this was not fully developed. It seemed. as usual, as if she were too lazy to complete the per

sonation.

Marini, upon whom, as Don Pasquale, falls so much of the weight of the piece, is the most serious buffo, the most solenn basso, we remember to have seen. He is

dry and hard. There is no geniality in his expression, no humor in his action. He seemed to be trying to be funny against his will; and the only laughable point in his performance was his coming forward with that rueful countenance, the head slightly bent, and the thumb and forefinger of the right hand raised, to take part in the trio. Don Pasquale, like Don Bartolo in the Barber of Seville, is the creation of the Italian opera buffo, and exists nowhere else. He is essentially a caricature, an extravagance, a butt, and, so it be done with fun, there is scarcely any thing he does, which can be condemned as excessive. Lablache understands this, because nature intended him to play Don Pasquale. Lablache is "a tun of a man," and he drowns all his auditors in a tun of fun. It is indescribable. It is broad, and long, if you choose. It lies in movements, in expressions, in tones, it is every where, and every where very funny. Lablache always leaves his audience in such excellent humor, that, whatever has been done, the evening seems delightful. Marini has no idea of fun. It flies before him. His Leporello is not Mozart's Leporello, as we discovered last year, and his Don Pasquale is not Donizetti's. He was even badly stuffed. His corpulence was all one way. Salvi did admirably, as usual. He sang carefully and exquisitely, and the serenade was a beautiful performance. Beneventano has too fine a voice, too great a willingness to oblige, is always too accurate in his music, to allow us to find fault with him. In fact we never wish to do so. His merits are so eminent, and his demerits so obvious, that it would be useless. Beneventano-and his opponents will not deny it -always does all that one man can do to prevent the opera from falling dead. In the Barbière how manfully he struggled, with Rovere, to bear it up against a small house, and the universal feeling of disappointment and failure.

Don Pasquale was not a brilliant success. Alboni sang superbly. That was agreed before we went. But when every man asked himself, is this, on the whole, so superior to what we have just had; the instinctive reply, despite the unquestioned superiority of Alboni to Sontag, was, no. There was something wanting. We have, perhaps, already indicated some of the reasons of this want. The fact itself was too evident. Immediately after the first evening Signor Salvi fell ill. The operas were changed, the evening also, in one instance; and one evening the house was closed.

We are hoping, while we write, that it may not be too late to repair the disas

trous fortunes of the day. Our opinion of the relative merits of the singers remains unchanged. But other things than a fine voice and exquisite singing are essential to operatic success.

And will an opera-house secure that success? We hope so, since, at last, determined that Boston shall not monopolize all the musical glory, New-York has subscribed $150,000 to build an operahouse. It is to be situated at the corner of Fourteenth street and Irving Place. Now it is comparatively easy to build a good house; but to have a good operathat gives us pause. We have always believed that if Mr. Barnum should undertake the management it would succeed. Of course we all join in the chorus of humbug; but we shall never be tired of repeating that Jenny Lind was a very agreeable humbug, and that Mr. Barnum probably found the humbug of two or three hundred thousand dollars equally agreeable; nor have we found any person who regrets the money expended at those memorable concerts. Mr. Barnum is our candidate for manager of the new opera-house. We boldly spread that banner to the breeze. He understands what our public wants, and how to gratify that want. He has no foreign antecedents. He is not bullied by the remembrance that they manage so in London, and so in Naples, and so in St. Petersburgh. He comprehends that, with us, the opera need not necessarily be the luxury of the few, but the recreation of the many. We shall watch the experiment, and record its progress with great interest. Mr. Lumley has evacuated "Her Majesty's," and stage appointments, wardrobes, &c., have just been sold at auction. The great operas in Paris, Berlin, Madrid, and St. Petersburgh, feed upon the state treasury. There is scarcely an independent, money-making opera in the world. Perhaps it is "the mission" of New York to show that some things may be done at the corner of Fourteenth-street and Irving Place which are impossible in the Haymarket, at the Académie Royale, and Unter den Linden. We certainly hope

So.

But it will require very cunning ma

nagement.

The rehearsals of the Philharmonic Society and of Eisfeld's Quartette Concerts, are pleasant occasions for studying the fine German works. The Philharmonic have been hard at work upon the great symphony of Schuman's, which they played at their last concert. It is a work more skilful and elaborate, than interesting. It has passages of great power and beauty, which quite vindicate the claim of the composer to a high rank; but they alter

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