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Low Church novel, and how poor a figure the Clapham devotee cuts in a High Church onehow easily this disputant annihilates heterodoxy, and how summarily that one deprives orthodoxy of a foot (unless cloven) to stand on; so that in the cleverest books of this type-the "Eclipse of Faith," for instance—the conclusion is one wherein nothing is concluded, so far as the purpose of the controversy is practical and proselytizing.

ticism-a prayerful spirit and a pure life. The sound heart will cure the unsound head; the shifting subjective retire before the eternal objective; the phenomenon merge in the absolute.

The Phaethon trio having said their say, Templeton and his clerical comrade renew their conference. Templeton typifies a large class of this generation. He is a cleverly selected and highly finished Representative Man, whom, indeed, we Professor Windrush has had introductions, it have previously met with, once and again, in Mr. seems, to Mr. Templeton from some Manchester Kingsley's writings, but who is too real and interfriends of his Manchester being, by Mr. Kings- esting a person to be voted stale or weary, much ley's account, a place where all such prophets are less unprofitable, for the present uses of the world. welcomed with open arms, their only credentials How many hearts will he touch in sympathy with being that, whatsoever they believe, they shall his description of his early education by an evernot believe the Bible. This professor is charac- beloved, open-hearted, yet narrow-minded mother! terized as a veteran whose fifty winters have left" She demanded of me," 66 " he says, as the only him a child in all but the childlike heart which grounds on which I was to consider myself safe alone can enter the kingdom of heaven-auda- from hell, certain fears and hopes which I did not ciously contemptuous of all centuries but the nine- feel, and experiences which I did not experience; teenth-propounding phrenology and mesmerism and it was my fault, and a sign of my being in a as the great organs of human regeneration- wrong state-to use no harder term-that I did showing the most credulous craving after what- not feel them; and yet it was only God's grace ever is unaccredited or condemned by regularly which could make me feel them; and so I grew educated men of science-careless about induction up with a dark secret notion that I was a very bad from the normal phenomena, and hankering after boy, but that it was God's fault and not mine that theories built upon exceptional ones-retailing I was so." As he grew older, and watched his second-hand German eclecticisms, now exploded in their native country-having no definite, formal, lucid notions on any topic whatsoever, but seemingly imbued with this one principle of faith, that it is the spiritual world which is governed by physical laws, and the physical by spiritual ones; that while men and women are merely the puppets of cerebrations and mentations, and attractions and repulsions, it is the trees, and stones, and gases, who have the wills and the energies, and the faiths, and the virtues, and the personalities. Templeton has been slightly infected-being predisposed thereto by sceptical tendencies-by the eloquence of his American guest. "I am disturbed and saddened," he confesses, over his morning's fishing, "by last night's talk" and the said talkative evening has also affected "Parson Lot" sufficiently to send him to his desk instead of his bed, and impel him to draw up a smashing" article against the professor, in the shape of Socrates redivivus.

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mother, and the men around her-some of them as really pious, and earnest, and charitable, as human beings could be he began to suspect that religion and effeminacy had a good deal to do with each other; since the women, whatever their temperaments or tastes, took to this perplexing religion naturally and instinctively, while the very few men in their clique were not men at all

not well read, or well bred, or gallant, or clearheaded, or liberal-minded, or, in short, anything (generally speaking) but "silky, smooth-tongued hunt-the-slippers."

"I recollect well asking my mother once, whether there would not be five times more women than men in heaven; and her answering me sadly and seriously that she feared there would be. And in the mean time she brought me up to pray and hope that I might some day be converted, and become a child of God. And," adds poor Templeton, with mingled irony and naïveté, and one could not help wishing to enjoy oneself This neo-Christian Socrates is commissioned to as much as possible before that event happened." pull to pieces the tenet of Protagoras the sophist, And thus he has come to regard religion as somethat "truth is what each man troweth, or believeth thing which definitely cuts a man off from all the to be true." And he sets to work with as much interests of this life, and to stifle the best yearnrelish as Father Newman does with modern lati-ings of his soul, and to stagnate into poco-curanttudinarianism. Poor Alcibiades has espoused the ism, becoming more and more of an animalsophist's theory of the objective and the sub- fragmentary, inconsistent, seeing to the root of jective, of truth absolute and individual opinion; and he is sadly mauled in the passage-at-arms. His assumption of the right of private judgment to publish abroad its creed or no-creed, is the object of assault; and the upshot of the argument, so cosily conducted to a triumph by Socrates, is, that if a man believes things derogatory to the character of the gods, not having seen them do wrong himself, and assured of his error by competent inquirers, he is bound to restrain an inclination to speak such things, even if he does believe them; otherwise, he commits an insolent and conceited action, and, moreover, a cruel and shameless one-by making miserable (if he is believed) the hearts of many virtuous persons who have never harmed him, for no immediate or demonstrable purpose except that of pleasing his own self-will. Socrates adds a panacea for scep

nothing. His sympathy for a man so unlike himself as Professor Windrush is caused by the fact, that the professor too has broken loose in desperation from the established order of things, and can give him a peep into the unseen world, without requiring as an entrance-fee any religious emotions and experiences-an irresistible bait to one who had been for years shut out, told that he had no business with anything pure, and noble, and good, and that to all intents and purposes he was nothing better than a very cunning animal who could be damned; because he was still " carnal," and had not been through his teacher's mysterious sorrows and joys.

Mr. Kingsley's method of curing this patient by a stringent course of dialectics is not very promising, in the book itself, or out of it. There is something significant in the finale of the dialogue:

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"Here comes Lewis and the luncheon." Temple-up his unstable banners for tokens. Against the ton is fast settling down upon his lees. Long has hybrid produce of mysticism and materialism, he been getting fonder and fonder of a good dinner" Phaethon comes with power. Mr. Emerson and a second bottle of claret-for about their is not responsible for all the vagaries of his fellowmeaning, says he, there is no mistake; he has prophets. Not unfrequently, it may be supposed, taken the hounds, in order to have something to do in the winter which requires no thought, and to have an excuse for falling asleep after dinner, instead of arguing with Mrs. T. about the Record newspaper. "Have a cigar," he proposes to the parson, when the dialectics are getting deep have a cigar, and let us say no more about it." Yes, he is right in protesting, "There is more here, old fellow, than you will cure by doses of Socratic dialectics," though the "old fellow" is more sanguine. Can they administer to a mind

thus diseased? Meantime it is fain to seek relief in the advent of Lewis and the luncheon.

In the strictures on Emersonianism with which

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there are laid to his charge things that he knows not. But his great authority over the minds of many thinking persons, suggests a keener jealousy of whatever may be directly or indirectly per nicious in his method. To many he bears the aspect of an inspired and oracular seer-and if surrounded by clouds and thick darkness, it is but from excessive bright, and the silver lining is patent to all faithful souls and so they paint him Gazing o'er the furthest Future deep into the stormy Leaning on the Present, standing on the Past,

Last;

Gazing where on the remotest verge the nether mists are riven

A giant with an oak-tree staff, looking from sea-sands to

heaven.

"Phaethon" abounds, Mr. Kingsley does not omit the acknowledgment that the Windrush school have said a great many clever and noble He has his band, too, of" splendid " writers, who things about man, and society, and art, and na- illuminate the periodical press with their effulgent ture. "And, moreover," says Templeton, "they critiques on his greatness-for example, weigh seem to connect all they say with-with-I sup- the golden sentences of the following delicious pose you will laugh at me-with God, and spir- balderdash from the Boston Post (U. S.) :—" He itual truths, and eternal divine laws; in short, to [Mr. Emerson] comes and goes like a spirit of consecrate common matters in that very way whom one just hears the rustle of his wings. He which I could not find in my poor mother's teach-is a vitalized speculation-a talking essence-a bit ing. To this also his " guide, philosopher, and of transparency broken from the spheres-a spirfriend" in black, assents-confessing that therein itual prism through which we see all beautiful is one real value of them as protests in behalf of rays of immaterial existence. His leaping fancy something nobler and more unselfish than the mounts upward like an india-rubber ball, and mere dollar-getting spirit of their country. But, drifts and falls like a snow-flake or a feather. He on the other hand, he sees in Emerson's teaching moves in the regions of similitudes. He comes as a whole, nothing better than a cosy and tol- through the air like a cherubim with a golden erant epicurism," which, hearing men cry for trumpet in his mouth, out of which he blows deliverance from their natures, as knowing that tropes, and figures, and gossamer transparencies of they are not that which they were intended to be, suggestive fancies. He takes high flights and sus because they follow their natures, answers that tains himself without ruffling a feather. He incry, and ignores that misgiving by the dictum, verts the rainbow and uses it for a swing-now Follow your natures, and be that which you sweeping the earth, and now clapping his hands were intended to be." He sees a fearful analogy among the stars." Would old Mr. Disraeli have between the tendencies of this school and those inserted such a quotation among the "Curiosiof the Alexandrian Platonists-a downward lapse ties" or among the "Amenities of Literature?" from a spiritualism of notions and emotions, un-Probably in the chapter devoted to the "Calamimistakably materialistic, to the appalling discov- ties of Authors"-for that an author should be ery that consciousness does not reveal God, not liable to critical inflictions of this kind, is surely even matter, but only its own existence; and then a tragical fate. Remembering all the extravaonward, in desperate search after something gances of Boston spiritualism, one might almost external wherein to trust, towards theurgic fêtish ask, Can anything good come out of that school worship, and the secret virtues of gems, and of the prophets? But that were a stupid sceptical flowers, and stars; and, last of all, to the lowest query-if only convicted as such by the welldepth of bowing statues and winking pictures;" known criticism on Emerson, in quite another -the probability, moreover, being, that in our style, as

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who converts a select few to hearty faith in a nescio quid, and subjects life, and love, and nature, and God, and things of that sort, to a post mortem examination, and idealizes the wide universal Cosmos, with all its details,

nineteenth century reenactment of Neo-Platon- A Plotinus-Montaigne, where th' Egyptian's gold mist ism and nature-worship, "the superstitions will And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek by jowl coexistbe more clumsy and, foolish, in proportion as our Saxon brain is less acute and discursive, and our education less severely scientific, than those of the old Greeks." Whether this Saxon inferiority in dialectical equipments threatens to deepen the calamity, admits of doubt in this particular case. The general protest, however, against the morbid developments of Emersonianism, whether in matter or manner, doctrine or form, system (?) or style, has a special value as coming from an apostle of Christian Socialism, a Church messenger to working men, an inditer of politics for the people, tells us how singular a giddiness Emerson, one of and a biographer of Chartist martyrs. Among its denizens, wrought in the brains of his neighthe toiling classes, there is a large and thickening bors, by his strange revelations" new truth being host of reeds shaken with the wind, too ready to as heady as new wine"-and how Emersonians bow before any Professor Windrush who may set sprang up and multiplied, queer and affected mor

As parts of himself, just a little projected. Hawthorne's graphic sketch of the "Old Manse," to which we owe pleasant

Mosses many O!

tals, who took upon themselves to be important | One evening, just after she had completed her agents of the world's destiny, yet were simply fourth year, as Schmähling was returning, weary bores of a very intense water. "Such, I imag- and heavy of heart, to his humble abode, his step ine," appropriately adds the Blithedale Romancer was arrested on the stairs by the sound of a scale and Scarlet Letter-writer, "such is the invariable in music, distinctly and perfectly played, procharacter of persons who crowd so closely about ceeding from the prison-room of his little ailing an original thinker, as to draw in his unuttered daughter! breath, and thus become imbued with a false He listened again. Yes! he was not mistaken originality. This triteness of novelty is enough he had the key of the door-no one could be to make any man of common sense, blaspheme at there but the sickly child, whose existence he had all ideas of less than a century's standing; and felt to be so sore a burden. A new happiness, that pray that the world may be petrified and rendered of a father's pride and joy, visited the desolate heart immovable, in precisely the worst moral and phys- of the poor old man, and, entering softly, he found ical state that it ever yet arrived at, rather than that the little Elizabeth had managed to reach an be benefited by such schemes of such philoso- old violin, whence she drew the sounds which had phers." The Professor Windrush clan are unques- so unexpectedly greeted her father's ears. tionably de trop, whatever we may think of their Now began a new life for these two human chef. He, perchance, is a lion, whose genius-beings-a life of happy companionship. It would shaggy and forest-like as it is-can command the have been a fine study for a painter to watch the summons, "Let him roar again, let him roar young musician, still almost an infant, propped up again.' But they, his self-constituted satellites, on her high chair; her features, to which even are but jackals to his majesty, and, as such, fair game to clerical Nimrods like Mr. Kingsley, albeit his present heat in the chase is not accounted by some of them, "wondrous kind" in one who was supposed, with or without reason, to have a "fellow feeling" with their pack.

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From Sharpe's Magazine. PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A GERMAN

SINGER OF THE LAST CENTURY.

the common beauty of childhood had been denied, lighted up with the spirit of harmony, as the violin obeyed the little trembling fingers, and sent forth its sweetest sounds; close by, on the only other seat the room could boast, sat the now happy father, urging on and encouraging the little one; at a very difficult passage producing from his capacious pocket a rosy-cheeked apple, a rare dainty for Elizabeth, with which her exertions were to be rewarded.

After a short time, under the high patronage of the child's godfather, a rich tailor, and the WHILE listening to the magic strains of the sacristan, Schmahling and his daughter gave little Swedish nightingale, we could but reflect that she concerts at the houses of their neighbors, an emand those dowered with the like gifts in the same ployment at once pleasant and profitable. They high degree, most frequently mourn over their were enabled to make two additions to their houseevanescence. The warrior's laurel and the poet's hold-a servant and a large dog-both accompanied bay are immortal; while the wreaths which fall them on their musical expeditions. The little proat the foot of a far-famed singer scarcely perish cession always delighted Elizabeth; as her weak Booner than her renown. The faded beauty can limbs would not support her weight, she was point out to her friends, and bequeath to her carried by her father; then came the maid-sergrandchildren her fair, fresh charms on the "un- vant, carrying the violin, and lastly, the dog, who dying canvas;" but what echo remains of voices was entrusted with a little basket filled with violin which have thrilled the hearts of half the world? strings, &c. Sometimes their auditors required Surely it is a charity to consecrate one poor half-ballads, or country songs, and then the servant hour to the memory of a German singer, whose joined her rustic voice; but this always displeased name, now utterly forgotten, was, at the close of the old man, who was nevertheless compelled to the last century, familiar as a household word to obey the wishes of his audience. the lips of all the beauty and fashion of Christen- Gradually, however, Elizabeth's fame spread dom while, in private life, her virtues, her un-among the richer citizens, the houses of the selfishness, and sweetness of disposition, bore a wealthy tradesmen were opened to the child-musistrong resemblance to our favorite Jenny Lind, cian, and at length a rich merchant, who was who was, however, born under a more fortunate going to the great fair at Frankfort, offered to constar, and we rejoice to think that the gentle heart vey Schmähling and his daughter there. The poor of Madame Goldschmidt will never be wrung as child, then hardly eight years old, could scarcely was that of the no less gifted, but less happy, bear the jolting of the carrier's wagon in which Madame Mara. she travelled, but she rested her aching head on her father's shoulder, and although her limbs were nearly frozen with the cold, he kept her hands warm, by placing them under his coat, upon his heart. But her cold and weariness were forgotten completely when her father, at length, showed Elizabeth the city of Frankfort-then full of the life and bustle of the great fair-and told her that there she would play before the rich and great, and earn not only money, but fame.

In 1749, that year so signalized by the birth of Goethe, Elizabeth Schmähling, the wife of a poor music teacher, in Cassel, died in childbirth, leaving her husband a sickly infant, the child of his old age. Contrary to all expectations, the little creature struggled through its early infancy, almost to the disappointment of her remaining parent, whose paternal feelings were deadened by poverty, and the reflection that this little worthless life had been purchased by that of his beloved companion. As her father was too poor to command attendance of any kind, the neglected child passed the long hours of his absence in perfect solitude, locked in an almost unfurnished apartment, and her poor little feet fastened to a great chair.

Schmähling and his daughter lived for two years at Frankfort, succeeding so well as to be in comfortable circumstances, while every day seemed to develop the wonderful powers of the child; her health, too, improved, and she could walk, though with difficulty. The old man, whom poverty had

bound for so many years to Cassel, loved a wander- [director a violent blow on the nose, which made ing life, and went from Frankfort to Vienna, where it bleed. You must not carry your sceptre so,' his success prompted him to take what was then said her Serene Highness, with an involuntary an arduous journey, and the little German child smile; it should always be held before you; but appeared in London in 1760. But here she was I would advise you to lay it down-a queen does not well received; her extreme plainness, the not always carry her sceptre.' After this little awkwardness of her movements, and the frightful lecture, I had permission to leave, which, you grimaces she made while playing, gave a most un- may be sure, I did very speedily. As soon as I favorable impression. The disappointed father reached the stage, the instruments struck up, and prepared to leave England as quickly as possible, I had to commence my recitative immediately; but one of the first singers of the day had made so that, fortunately for me, I could think of nothan important discovery, that nature had given ing but the music. I forgot my false hair, my Elizabeth a most magnificent voice. She urged crown, my purple mantle, and crimson velvet train, Schmähling no longer to waste the powers of the that I was Queen Semiramis, and only remembered child on violin playing, but to return to Germany that I was a singer.' with all speed, and place her under the care of the best masters; and this counsel, backed as it was by funds for the purpose, was followed.

*

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A few months after this adventure, Frederick the Great was told of the young German singer, and commanded that she should be brought before The old Capellmeister, at Leipsic, Father Hiller him. She was conducted into that famous little as he was always called, heard Elizabeth Schmäh-concert-room, at Sans-Souci, where Frederick was ling sing, and, struck with her wonderful but ill-lying, in ill-health, and out of humor, on a sofa. cultivated powers, adopted the young singer rather He asked her, roughly, They tell me you can as his daughter than his pupil. Hiller was one sing; is it true?" of the first musicians of his age, and eminently qualified to fulfil the charge he had undertaken. Elizabeth now entered with heart and soul upon her musical education, which proceeded as an education seldom does; the master unwearied in his teaching, the scholar never satisfied with learning.

He told her that she had not the beauty nor grace so necessary for the theatre, but that her education must prepare her for the envied post of private singer to the king.

Hiller had the satisfaction of watching his pupil's dawning fame. The first token of princely favor she received was a summons from the director of the royal private theatre, at Dresden; for the Electress Dowager, Marie Antonie had heard of the rising star, and wished to judge of her merits herself. Hasse's fine opera of "Semiramis" was chosen, and the principal part assigned to Elizabeth.

Father Hiller was almost in an agony of fear. "My child!" he exclaimed, "it will never do; you cannot-you must not be a queen; every one will laugh at us both."

If it please your majesty, I can try." "Very well then, sing."

When Elizabeth had finished the piece assigner her, the king, without any token either of satis faction or displeasure, took up a music-sheet, con taining a very difficult bravoura of Graun, which he knew she could never have seen. "Sing this if you can," again commanded the imperiour monarch. The young singer obeyed, and then withdrew, the king only remarking, "Yes, you can sing.' But this interview decided Elizabeth's fate. A proposal was made to her to become the king's private singer, with an annuity of three thousand dollars secured to her for life.

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In 1772, Elizabeth's evil fate brought her into contact with one of the most fascinating and most unprincipled men of his time-Mara, the violoncellist to Prince Henry of Prussia. In vain did her friends warn her; in vain were anonymous letters sent from every part to expose the true character of her pretended lover; she listened only to the protestations of her handsome fiancé. On her twenty-fourth birth-day, Elizabeth laid a petition for the royal assent to her marriage before Elizabeth herself gives a full account of the Frederick. The answer, which she found written affair. She says:-"I suffered patiently all that in pencil upon the margin, was more characteristie they liked to do with me. They painted my face than courteous; it was-" You are a fool, and red and white, and put a great patch on my chin. must be more reasonable. You shall not make As this operation was being performed, in came that fellow your husband." After repeated enthe director, who, I saw, could hardly help laugh- treaties, and the delay of half a year, Frederick ing at my appearance. He said he was commis- was brought to give a most unwilling permissioned to conduct me to her Highness, who wished sion. The marriage was solemnized, and now, to see me before I went upon the stage. I hastily in the midst of her success and honor, began the threw my purple mantle round me, and followed secret sorrows and shame of the unhappy Elizabeth the director through some dark passages, to a little Mara. cabinet hung with crimson velvet. Here stood the electress, and behind her some young ladies, who looked anxiously at me, as I stood in my splendor, like a doll under a Christmas tree. I held my sceptre behind me, to hide my red, coarse arms. What have you there at your back?' asked the royal lady. At this question, I produced my sceptre, and in doing so, unfortunately hit the

The portrait of Father Hiller is given at full length in his pupil's life, and it is a somewhat grotesque picture. A real old German face, full of kindliness and wrinkles, a red cap drawn down over his ears, and a large pair of spectacles in pinch-beck frames, on which almost every student in Leipsic, including Goethe himself, had written an epigram.

She soon discovered how fatal a step she had taken; her husband lavished her earnings on the lowest, both of his sex and her own; he was almost always in a disgraceful state of intoxication; and, not content with heaping every neglect on his patient wife, he openly reproached her with her want of beauty.

Now, too, she began to experience that her position at court was only a gilded slavery; for the king, who hated the worthless husband, made the innocent wife feel his anger. A request she made, to be allowed, on account of her health, to visit the Bohemian baths, was refused; and on the edge of a petition her husband compelled her to present for leave to accompany him on a tour,

she found written in pencil by the king :-"Let poured out the whole sorrow and oppression of my him go, but you shall remain."

Mara was furious against the king, and behaved most brutally to his wife, who persuaded him in vain to keep a prudent silence; he complained loudly of Frederick's tyranny, and even wrote ridiculous pamphlets upon his wrongs.

heart. I glanced at the king, and my looks and tones said, Tyrant, I am here to obey your will, but you shall listen only to the voice of my agony.' As the last piteous tones died on my lips, I looked round; all was still as death. Not a sound escaped the audience; they seemed as if they were witnessing some execution. I saw my power, even in my weakness; this gave me strength; I felt my illness yield for the time to the power of melody within me. Vanity, too, came to my assistance; she whispered that it would be an eternal disgrace if I allowed the grand duke, who had heard of my fame in a foreign land, to suppose that I was not equal to my renown. Then came that magnificent duet, in which I had to address Rinaldo, Dove corri, O Rinaldo?' and then I raised my voice, but did not put forth all my power, until I had to sing those burning words, Vivi felice? Indegno, perfido, traditore!' My audience seemed overpowered; the grand duke leaned over his box, and testified his delight in the most evident manner. For some moments after I had finished, there was a breathless silence, and then came the full thunder of applause. I was sent for to appear again, and receive the plaudits; but no sooner had I got behind the scenes, than I fell into a fainting fit. I was carried home, and for many days my life was despaired of."

This was, perhaps, the most miserable period of Madame Mara's unhappy married life. The king showed his displeasure openly against her, and she shared the odium with which her husband was universally regarded; anxiety, grief, and distress, threw her into a dangerous fever. Just at this juncture, the Grand Duke Paul of Russia, a great admirer, almost a worshipper, of the "Colossus of the century," as he styled Frederick, arrived at Berlin. Among the festivities arranged for the occasion was a great opera, by Tomelli, in which Madame Mara was to sing the principal part. On the morning of the day on which it was to be performed, it was announced that Mara was very ill. The king sent her a message, to the effect that she could be well if she pleased, and it was his pleasure that she should be. She returned a respectful answer, saying, that she was really very ill. All Berlin was in commotion, and eagerly watched the result of a battle between Frederick the Great and his first singer. No other entertainment was arranged for the evening; the king commanded the preparations to be completed. Evening approached; the director, in Such was Madame Mara's account of this sindespair, hastily donned his court dress, and gular act of despotism-one worthy of Nero himrepaired to the king, to whom he represented that self. "The Colossus of the age" certainly behaved he had seen Mara; that she was really ill, and could not be induced to leave her bed. Frederick, who either really thought, or affected to believe, the indisposition feigned, merely said, "Do not disturb yourself, she will be present;" and, half an hour afterwards, one of the royal carriages, accompanied by eight dragoons, stopped before Madame Mara's door, and the officer announced to the terrified servants, that he had orders to bring their sick mistress by force to the theatre. We will detail the story in Madame Mara's own words to Goethe. She says:

"I rose from my sick-bed, and dressed, with the soldiers standing at the door of my apartment. Ill as I was, only thoughts of the direst revenge filled my soul. As I placed the dagger of Armida in my girdle, I wished with all my heart that I could slay my pitiless tyrant with it. Yes,' I said to myself, as the heavy diadem was pressed on my poor aching head, yes, I will obey the tyrant; I will sing, but in such accents as he has never heard before; he shall listen to the terrible reproaches I dare not utter in words.' In this mood I went to the opera; the common people showed their sympathy, when they saw my guard of dragoons, my face wet with tears, and wan with sickness. Some even rushed forward to rescue me, but they were driven back by the soldiers. The officer had orders to accompany me to the sidescene, and stand there until I was called upon the stage to sing my part. I felt sick unto death as I stood waiting, and my physician, who accompanied me, has since said that he feared the worst. I looked on the stage once, as the ballet-dancers swept past; it seemed to me as if they were dancing on my grave. Now, I had to appear; I sang the bravoura in a weak, trembling voice; but I felt very much vexed that I could only sing so feebly, for ambition awoke in me. When, in the second act, I had to sing the Mi serame,' I

like a petty tyrant to his principal singer. In vain she pleaded ill-health, and begged to be allowed to resign her honorable post; the answer was always the same-"You are to remain here." At length, urged by her husband, and heart-sick of her slavery, she attempted to fly with him; but the fugitives were discovered, and brought back as state prisoners.

Frederick, who desired nothing more than praise from the French press, had been rather mortified at the view taken by the Parisian journals of his barbarous violation of Mara's sickroom; they expressed, in the strongest terms, the deepest indignation at his conduct, and the most heartfelt pity for the sufferer. The voice of public opinion, added to a secret consciousness that he had gone too far, determined the king to inflict no punishment on Madame Mara herself; but he indemnified himself for this forbearance, by making her husband feel the whole weight of his anger. The luxurious, pampered, royal musician was forthwith ordered to repair to Kustrin, in the capacity of drummer to a fusilier regiment! Forgetful of her many wrongs, the faithful wife wished to throw herself at the king's feet, and beg that the sentence might be revoked. He would not see her; and sent her a large portfolio of music, with the following note:-"Study these, and forget your good-for-nothing husband; that is the best thing you can do."

The unhappy drummer wrote the most piteous letters to his wife; touching her heart by complaints of absence from her, which he professed to find unspeakably bitter; and vowing that he had never felt his love for her till now, that absence taught him how dear she was. Poor Mara, unaccustomed to words of affection, and willing to be deceived, made the most urgent efforts to obtain his recall, and succeeded at last, when all appeals to Frederick's generosity, honor, and clemency had

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