IDEAL LIKENESSES.

Ariadne.

A SWEET but happy looking face, the mouth
Scem'd a rose opening to the pleasant south,
Giving sweets, stealing sunshine; it was gay
As it could smile e'en sorrow's self away;

The curls were all thrown back as not allow'd
To shed o'er that young brow, the slightest cloud;
From the fair forehead's height, they downward roll'd
A sunny stream, floating with waves of gold;
A wreath of vine-leaves bound it, but the wind
Kiss'd the stray ringlets it had not confined.
Too beautiful for earth, the sky had given
Her eye and cheek the colouring of heaven,
Blue, the clear blue upon an April sky,
Red, the first red the morning blushes dye :
Her downcast look at times wore pensiveness,
But tender more than sorrowful, as less

She had known than dreamed woe, as her chief grief
Had been a fading flower, a falling leaf.
Her song was as the red wine sparkling up,
Gaily o'erflowing from a festal cup.
Her step was light as wont to move along
To the gay cymbal and the choral song;
Her laugh was glad as one who rather chose
To dwell upon life's pleasures, than life's woes.
And this was she whom Theseus left to pine,
And mingle with her salt tears the salt brine;
Her face was all too bright for tears, she gave
Sighs to the wind, and weeping to the wave,
And left a lesson unto after-times,
Too little dwelt upon in minstrel rhymes,
A lesson how inconstancy should be

Repaid again by like inconstancy.

Sappho.

Dark, passionate, though beautiful, the eye
Was as the lightning of the stormy sky

Flashing through darkness; light and shadow blent

Workings of the mind's troubled element:

You did not mark the features, could not trace
What hue, what outline, was upon that face;
Even while present, indistinct it seem'd,
Like that of which we have but only dream'd.
You saw a hurried hand fling back the hair
Like tempest clouds roll'd. back upon the air.
Still midnight was beneath, that haughty brow
Darken'd with thoughts to which it would not bow-
Midnight, albeit a starry one, the light

Meteor or planet still was that of night.

She had a dangerous gift, though genius be
All this earth boasts of immortality.

It is too heavenly to suit that earth,
The spirit perishes with its fatal birth;
This mingling fire and water, soul and clay,
The one must make the other one its prey.
Her heart sufficed not to itself, such mind
Will shrink such utter loneliness to find,
As it must in its range of burning thought,
Will sigh above the ruins it has wrought,
False fancies, prejudice, affections vain,
Until it seeks to wear again the chain

Itself has broken, so that it could be
Less desolate, although no longer free.
She loved! again her ardent soul was buoy'd
On hope's bright wings, above life's dreary void
Again its fond illusions were received,

Centered in one the dearest yet believed;
It ended as illusions ever must,

The shining temple prostrate dust to dust.
Look on that brow, is it not stamp d with pride?
How might it brook the grief it could not hide!
Look on that lip, it has a sad sweet smile,
How may it brook to feel alone the while!
Overhead was the storm, beneath the sea,
And Love and Genius found their destiny-
Despair and Death.

Erinna.

Fashion'd by Nature in her gentlest mood,
Almost for human brow too fair, too good;
"Twas a sweet face, a face of smiles, of tears,
Of all that soothes and softens, wins, endears;
Bearing the omen of its early fate :-

The rose upon her lip was delicate,

Her youthful cheek was pale, and all too plain
Was seen the azure wandering of the vein,
That shone in the clear temple, as if care,
Wasting to sickness, had been working there.
Erinna, she who died like her own song,
Passing away soon, yet remember'd long ;
Her heart and lip were music, albeit one

Who marvell'd at what her sweet self had done;

Who breathed for Love, and pined to find that Fame

In answer to her lute's soft summons came;

See, the eye droops in sadness, as to shun

That which it dared not gaze on, Glory's sun.

Corinna.

There is an antic gem on which her brow
Retains its graven beauty, even now:
Her hair is braided, but one curl behind
Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind;
The dress is simple, as she were too fair
To even think of beauty's own sweet care;
The lip and brow are contrasts, one so fraught
With pride, the melancholy pride of thought,
Conscious of its own power, yet forced to know
How very little way that power will go;
Regretting while too proud of the fine mind,
Which raises but to part it from its kind—
But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this-
It was a mouth the bee had learnt to kiss,
For her young sister, telling though now mute,
How soft an echo it was to the lute.
The one spoke genius in its high revealing,
The other smiled a woman's gentler feeling.
It was a lovely face, the Greek outline
Flowing yet delicate and feminine.
The glorious lightning of the kindled eye,
Raised as it communed with its native sky;
A lovely face, the spirit's fitting shrine,
The one almost, the other quite divine.

L. E. L

KELLY'S MEMOIRS.*

"Pleased let me trifle life away,

And sing of love ere I grow old."

THIS seems to have been the motto of our old theatrical acquaintance Michael Kelly, whose life has been a round of gaiety and happiness. From his boyhood upwards, he has flourished familiarly and with infinite enjoyment, not only in the society of all the illustrious men of his day, in the musical world, here and on the continent, but in the more brilliant circles of courtiers, nobles, princes, and kings, whose patronage he seems uniformly to have obtained. This is not all; for from one or two slight hints dropped in the course of his book, we suspect that fortune, as if determined to make a pet child of Michael, conferred favours on him still more precious than even the applauses of royalty, by gifting him with a knack of propitiating the kindness of some of the prettiest women in Italy and Germany. Nothing, indeed, seems to have been wanting to make Kelly's draught of life, especially the early part of it, go down in the sweetest possible way; and here we cannot refrain from remarking on the great advantages the musical profession appears to have over most others in introducing its followers to all the gay luxuries of the very highest circles of fashionable life. This is abundantly proved by the book before us, which is the fullest of adventures and anecdotes (the greater part of a joyous cast) of any we ever read without exception; and we think the next good thing to passing such a life as Kelly's, is to sit down with a bottle and a bright fire on a winter's evening, and read his very diverting volumes, out of which we purpose to lay before our readers a few quotations, as the best possible way of reviewing such a work.

Before, however, we say a word more, it is fair to apprise the reader that our passions are Italy, Music, and the Drama; and that Mr. Kelly's Memoir treats of those matters from the beginning to the end. If, therefore, our judgment should seem overstrained, we must beg the reader to make a reasonable discount for these weaknesses before he condemns our partiality. Having thus eased our consciences, we may say, that a more gay, light-hearted, unpresuming narrative we have seldom read; and though, as the author himself allows, he was not much famed for modesty as an actor or a man, yet, as an author, he lays no claim to merit which he does not amply justify: let it likewise be borne in mind that the greatest masters in literature have not always been the best writers of memoirs; and that Benvenuto Cellini, the liveliest and most entertaining of biographers, was an unlettered artist. Instruction in such a work nobody will look for. Kelly is a mere comedian, more conversant with musical operas, than with literature, or the scenes and business of real life, and more given to notes than to comments. With the exception of a little squeamish loyalty at the end of the book, very

Reminiscences of Michael Kelly, of the King's Theatre, and Theatre Royal, Drury Lane; Abroad and at Home: including a period of nearly half a century; with original Anecdotes of many distinguished persons, royal, political, literary, and musical. Dedicated, by permission, to his Majesty. 2 vols. 8vo.

excusable in such a writer, the attempts at reflection are rare, and never burthensome. In a lively, humorous and natural style, he goes on retailing his bon-mots and his anecdotes in a series of gossiping stories of himself, and of the various remarkable persons, princes and poets, ministers and musicians, boon companions, actors, wits, the emperor of Austria, and "dear Nancy Storace," with whom he came in contact in his long and various passage through life. In the calibre of the ideas, this book very closely resembles the Memoirs of Goldoni; but in spite of Goldoni's established reputation, it is infinitely more entertaining, and even "better told." The following anecdote of Pachierotti, the singer, is a good specimen of the manner.

"La Didona [Didone] drew crowded houses, but the rondo was the magnet; indeed, Pachierotti's singing it, was supposed to have raised a violent flame in the bosom of La Marchesa Santa Marca, one of the most beautiful women of the Neapolitan court. She was said to be of a very susceptible nature, and to have fallen desperately in love with the pious Eneas, which love he honestly returned; this, though very pleasant to the parties themselves, was by no means relished by a certain il Cavaliere Ruffo, who had been cavaliere servente to the Marchesa, but was fairly dismissed by the rondo. He did not choose to lose his mistress to that tune, and meeting Pachierotti one evening on the Mola, (the fashionable prome nade of the Neapolitans to taste the sea-breeze,) he overwhelmed him with abuse, and struck him! Pachierotti drew his sword, and being as good a swordsman as a singer, soon wounded and disarmed il Cavaliere. He immediately reported the affair to the minister il Marchese Sambuco, who submitted the matter to the King. His Majesty was pleased to approve of Pachierotti's conduct; and it was hinted to il Cavaliere, that if he attempted further outrage, himself and family might find cause for repentance in the loss of their places at Court. This was decisive, and the affair dropped. But Pachierotti, who lived in perpetual fear of assassination, though engaged for two seasons, gave in his resignation on the score of ill health at the end of the first, and acting Eneas for the last time, left the fair Marchesa to play Didona at her leisure!"

The following also are amusing.

"The Italian opera had for a length of time been discontinued at Vienna, and a first-rate French company of comedians substituted. The Emperor and his court were at Schoenbrunn, and the French company were performing there; apartments in the palace had been appointed for them, and a plentiful table allotted for their exclusive use. One day, while they were drinking their wine, and abusing it, the Emperor passed by the salle à manger, which opened into the royal gardens. One of the gentlemen, with the innate modesty so peculiarly belonging to his nation and profession, jumped up from table with a glass of wine in his hand, followed his Majesty, and said,- Sire, I have brought your Majesty some of the trash which is given us by your purveyor, by way of wine; we are all disgusted at his treatment, and beg to request your Majesty to order something better, for it is absolutely impossible for us to drink it:-he says it is Burgundy-do taste it, sire, I am sure you will not say it is.'

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"The King, with great composure tasted the wine: 'I think it excellent,' said his Majesty, at least, quite good enough for me, though, perhaps, not sufficiently high-flavoured for you and your campanions; in France, I dare say, you will get much better.' He then turned on his heel, and sending immediately for the Grand Chamberlain, ordered the whole corps dramatique to be discharged, and expelled Vienna forthwith. They repented their folly, but his Majesty would never hear more of them, and their audacity caused the introduction of an Italian opera at Vienna."

“Upon my return, my servant informed me that a lady and gentleman had called upon me, who said they came from England, and requested to see me at their hotel. I called the next morning, and saw the gentleman, who said his name was Botterelli, that he was the Italian poet of the King's Theatre in the Haymarket, and that his wife was an English woman, and a principal singer at Vauxhall, Ranelagh, the Pantheon, &c. Her object in visiting Vienna was to give a concert, to

be heard by the Emperor, and if she gave that satisfaction, (which she had no doubt she would,) to accept of an engagement at the Royal Theatre; and he added, that she had letters for the first nobility in Vienna.

The lady came into the room; she was a very fine woman, and seemed sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions.-She really had powerful letters of recommendation. Prince Charles Lichtenstein granted her his protection, and there was such interest made for her, that the Emperor himself signified his Royal intention of honouring her concert with his presence. Every thing was done for her; the orchestra and singers were engaged;-the concert began to a crowded house, but, I must premise, we had no rehearsal.

At the end of the first act, the beauteous Syren, led into the orchestra by her caro sposo, placed herself just under the Emperor's box, the orchestra being on the stage. She requested me to accompany her song on the piano forte.—I of course consented. Her air and manner spoke "dignity and love." The audience sat in mute and breathless expectation. The doubt was whether she would melt into their ears in a fine cantabile, or burst upon them with a brilliant bravura. I struck the chords of the symphony-silence reigned-when, to the dismay and astonishment of the brilliant audience, she bawled out, without feeling or remorse, voice or time, or indeed one note in tune, the hunting song of " Tally ho!" in all its pure originality. She continued shrieking out Tally ho! tally ho! in a manner and tone so loud and dissonant, that they were enough to blow off the roof of the house. The audience jumped up terrified; some shrieked with alarm, some hissed, others hooted, and many joined in the unknown yell, in order to propitiate her. The Emperor called me to him, and asked me in Italian (what Tally ho! meant?) -I replied I did not know; and literally, at that time, I did not.

His Majesty the Emperor, finding, that even I, a native of Great Britain, either could not, or would not, explain the purport of the mysterious words, retired with great indignation from the theatre, and the major part of the audience, convinced by his Majesty's sudden retreat that they contained some horrible meaning, followed the Royal example. The ladies hid their faces with their fans, and mothers were heard in the lobbies cautioning their daughters on the way out, never to repeat the dreadful expression of "Tally ho," nor venture to ask any of their friends for a translation of it."

The admirers of Mozart's fine music to the Marriage of Figaro, will be pleased to learn the story of its first reception in Vienna.

"There were three operas now on the tapis, one by Regini, another by Salieri (the Grotto of Trophonius), and one by Mozart, by special command of the Emperor. Mozart chose to have Beaumarchais' French comedy. "Le Mariage de Figaro," made into an Italian opera, which was done with great ability by Da Ponte. These three pieces were nearly ready for representation at the same time, and each composer claimed the right of producing his opera for the first. The contest raised much discord, and parties were formed. The characters of the three men were all very different. Mozart was as touchy as gunpowder, and swore he would put the score of his opera into the fire if it was not produced first; his claim was backed by a strong party: on the contrary, Regini was working like a mole in the dark to get precedence.

The third candidate was Maestro di Cappella to the court, a clever shrewd man, possessed of what Bacon called, crooked wisdom, and his claims were backed by three of the principal performers, who formed a cabal not easily put down. Every one of the opera company took part in the contest. I alone was a stickler for Mozart; and naturally enough, for he had a claim on my warmest wishes, from my admiration of his powerful genius, and the debt of gratitude I owed him, for many personal favours.

The mighty contest was put an end to by his Majesty issuing a mandate for Mozart's "Nozze di Figaro," to be instantly put into rehearsal; and none more than Michael O'Kelly, enjoyed the little great man's triumph over his rivals.

Of all the performers in this opera at that time, but one survives-myself. It was allowed that never was opera stronger cast. I have seen it performed at different periods in other countries, and well too, but no more to compare with its original performance than light is to darkness. All the original performers had the advantage of the instruction of the composer, who transfused into their minds his inspired meaning. I never shall forget his little animated countenance, when VOL. X. No. 59.-1825. 62