Der Freischutz.-A Sketch.

BY EDWIN F. ROBERTS.

GRIM grandeur, demoniac splendour, horrible fascination, weird witchery, dark and awful story, what language, beyond its own, can fitly embody "Der Freischutz?"

Among the marvels of the creative world it ought, most certainly, to be classed. If the libretto be not quite coherent (is it?), what signifies that in a thing full of incantation and diablerie? It is, in fact, an Orphic superstition-an embodiment of potential dread; and the story, in itself, combines the true Teutonic elements of fancy and imagination. Monkish legend, Gothic tradition, and popular belief, all converge into the fiction where man, half a devil, towers even above Zamiel, and is more dreadful than he who is all devil, and by no means so terrible. Here romance is grafted upon what would else have been merely horrible. What an overture! I have heard it in sleep-sobbing, moaning, wailing, exulting. I have mourned with that poor forlorn Max, whose woodcraft has been spoiled, only to be righted by the wretch who has sold himself to the demon. I look with something like awe on that bold, bullying Caspar, who is alto gether given over to the wicked one, and whose breast is rent asunder by a tornado of passion; who sings wine lieds, and capers frantically to his own grim music-the mad, doomed wretch--and to the shriek of the nightowl! Look into the story as told by the music rather than by the words, and does it not make you shudder? When that tumult of melody, awful and thrilling as it is, is over; when that unapproachable overture has been played twice, as is always the case; when the listener, rapt in that raging torrent of sounds, has been borne through andantes of the cottage and the forest, he is led into the middle of that fearful crescendo, which indicate babblings rising up as out of nether deeps; while Zamiel, on the dim "Brocken," is leading off the infernal chorusses ;-then-lever le rideau— up goes the curtain, and the ghostly work begins.

Poor, honest, handsome Max has failed in his last shot, and gets snubbed by the peasants-men and maidens-which nobody would like! Old Cuno is disgusted; and as for Agatha, what will she say? The devil (Caspar & Co.) alone knows as yet. However, disappointment is followed by mirk, tenebrous shadows; and if waning stage-lights, and shifting phantom-shapes, did not tell you, that crepuscular music would. It growls, it moans, it makes its dreadful plaint, and speaks of something wicked that is at hand. What can so fitly usher in that goblin, clad in hues of brimstone and of fire, with his sinister gestures, and his "eldritch" laughter? If stringed instruments --if brass, and wailing wood, and sonorous trumpet-blast-can speak, they are speaking now, as Caspar, just about to tumble into the "limbo" of lost souls, touches Max on the electric nerves of love and wounded pride, and whispers the temptation in his ear. Max, shuddering at the impious hint, declines and accepts-will and will not. How Caspar, in deadly fear, gnashes his teeth! How Zamiel, at the mention of heaven, sneaks off in colapse, like some poor dupe whose hat has been knocked over his eyes by a gang of sharpers; and soon we are introduced to the second act, the foreground of which is chiefly occupied by the affectionate Agatha, and the lively, chirping, cheerful Anne, whose pretty songs, "Grillen sind mir böse

Gäste," &c., and "Kommt ein schlanker Bursch gegangen," &c., are fadeless favourites with any and every audience. These are followed by that delicious aria-half-hymn, half-prayer—(Leisse leisse frome Weisse), breathing affection, speaking awe, praying for help and aid; and in which the ineffable tenderness of a woman's loving nature is infused, if words, and a melody not to be surpassed in the range of music, can convey the sentiment.

It is, as it well deserves to be, one of those things which have escaped what I may term the profanation of trills, shakes, and ornament of every kind, being in itself perfection, and the simpler rendered-but with any additional amount of feeling the singer can deliver it-the better. It should be chanted, too, rather than sung,-chanted with a grand, fervid simplicity, and a depth of solemn passion approaching to a religious rite. I well remember an old friend-a composer, too-whose genius was of a high but eccentric order, he is now very far away. I remember him to have sat by my side on one occasion when this was being delivered, mutely listening to it-inhaling it, drinking it in, so to speak, note by note,-and when it was over, rousing up as from a sweet reverie, after a short pause, he said, half whispering, with the slightest touch of brogue,-" Great God! it's miraculous! Bate that if you can!" Which I couldn't, and of course didn't try.

I am not much of a musician myself, in the executive department. I could -"once upon a time"-play upon a "Jew's Harp,"-on two of them, even, at a spell. That was a miraculous performance also. But the difference between the subjects, the style, the orchestration, and the like, must be so sufficiently obvious to every reader, that he can, without difficulty, draw his own inference on the matter, in which case I have said enough.

I remember one night being at that jovial, dissipated, decadent old "Wrekin,”—Ach Gott! what cannikins have we heard clink there, whenbut no matter-I remember that a priggish petit maitre (just come from Covent Garden, where "Massaniello" had been performed) rushed rashly into instant criticism, and informed us generally that there was such a "bit" by the violins in one part, so "crisp and sparkling," (and cool, too, very likely); and that this was scherzo, and that grado, or maybe di salto; and while arpeggios distinguished one, the cadenza of the other was "bu-tiful, bu-tiful!" and that the aria di cantabile was to be especially remarked; to all of which L— P— (a distinguished violincellist, who makes a "lunch" of an opera or so, daily, and whom he chiefly addressed), with a sarcastic grin under his spectacles, said, "so there was;" and my young gentleman was, strange to say, "shut up" all at once-his hopes of affording fuller illustration being totally knocked on the head by so candid an admission, and I saw that his proficiency in the "Dictionary of musical terms" was in a state of peril, from which I also take a hint ; so that whoever expects to find a technical exposition in this paper of mine, may surrender that expectation in despair, and "cudgel his brains no more about it."

Instead of which, therefore, I prepare myself for that immortal incantation scene, with its moon-distilled blights,-for the awful "Uhui" of owls and goblins, and other "birds of night,"-for that scene which, like a nightmare or remorse, eats into a man, and will not quit him by any persuasion short of force, lunar caustic, or a dissecting knife.

I heard an acquaintance (at the same old "glory-hole"-and, bye the bye, what does that mean?) observe, that in the part of Caspar, Herr Formes, who is so much at home in it, has a mannerism about him of an obtrusive order. He strips off his coat, and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He goes to work like a plumber," quoth he. " Of course," replied I, "he's going to melt down some lead, and cast bullets!" "He fans and blows the

fire," objected my friend. "It might go out," I argued, "and plumbers do fan and puff their fires, I've seen them." Quoth he, "I've seen Paul Bedford do it; " but I could not follow his sequiter here, and therefore the matter dropped; but-holy Moses!-what a comparison was suggested! Look out now, however, for the blue fire and the "quack-salver."

I confess to not liking pyrotechnics in a theatre; nor very much care about them out of one. When they occur in the former case, the propriety of having the parish engines at hand, and the "plugs" out, comes immedi-i ately to my mind. You see the reckless wretch going on with his unholy work, but when the catalogue of horrors in the Wolf's-Glen is crowned, as it were, with cataracts of fire and water mingling wrathfully together, with a hissing and lurid glory, I felt, with the fool in the forest, that "when I was at home I was in a better place," and anxiously watched the sparks extinguishing one by one. It requires some nerve to "stand" the whole -devilment, sky-rockets, catherne-wheels, crackers, gongs, clanging chains, and the like; but, setting aside a slight tremoloso, I confess to enjoying it, for the music of that appalling scene-oceanic-surging, rife with doom and devils-is not to be resisted by the senses. Whatever may equal it, there is nothing created by the genius of man that can go beyond it. "Dizi!" and there's an end of the matter.

I like to watch Caspar going to work with his deliberate detail of manner, for is there not a terrible task to be performed, and one that may make him sweat drops of blood? I lose the individual in the earnestness and transcendent interest which in a manner transforms the spectator into Max himself. With him we walk the meadow and thread the forest paths. We go with him over the hill, moist in the moonshine; and plunge into the ravine that is at its foot. All this time the muttering of the witch-hag follows us. The horn of the Hartz-hunter echoes dismally in the woods. The rush of a ghostly crew in full pursuit darkens the moon on the top of the hill a moment, and then is past, and there is a hoarse bellowing in the wild rock above. Presently the trees scream as if in torture-they writhe and toss their leafy arms about as if in agony. The storm sobs, and pale phantoms wail and gibber piteously at us; and there arises from the midst of the infernal orgie, over which Zamiel presides, harrowing echoes of the misery and the mad mirth of lost and doomed souls. The mother's spirit-characterizing a superstition which invests it with home sentiments and maternal instincts belonging to our common human life-appears to wave back, and warn, the infatuated youth. The simulacra of Agatha plunges into the raging cataract. Despair, rendered desperate, brings Max, with an impetus, into the charmed circle. The unholy regions ring with exulting laughter, and-consummatum est-he has the bullets; but alas, what a price he pays for them, and how much a hundred weight that lead has gone up in the "spirit-market."

We go but little farther now, not having recovered breath and nerve enough from the last inferno galvanic shock. We know that a snowy dove plays a part in the story, which is fatal for Caspar, and cuts the poor beaten bully up considerably. He has cast dice with Satan for his soul and has lost! Poor devil! I can almost pity him. Indeed, if Burns had the magnanimity to be sorry for "Auld Nickie Ben," one may spare a sigh for Caspar, if only for singing his part so finely, and being defiant, and true to his role to the last. And I am happy to know that full "poetical" justice is done to all by the medium of "chorusses" and "concerted pieces," and that the curtain descends to what may be synonymous with the sounds of

"lutes and soft recorders."

And after all, one hopes that Caspar may not some night be damn'd in real earnest. If so, how is "Der Freischutz” to be got up again?

A Summer's Day in the loods.

BY RICHARD CARTMEL,

P.G. OF THE ST. OLAVE'S BRANCH LODGE, SOUTH LONDON DISTRICT.

Ar the dawn of a summer's day, some twenty years gone by, a small band of entomological brethren emerged from Cumberland's ancient capital, and bent their way to one of those gorgeous old forests that terrace the northern part of our beloved country with a profusion of grandeur. The attire of our friends was somewhat grotesque. Jackets of coarse materials descended to the knees, the contents of whose capacious pockets evidenced the nature of their journey. Leathern cases, containing small boxes, gave proof of their earnest hope that those fragile denizens of the forest, moths and butterflies, would be captured before the decline of day; various-sized tin cases, receptacles for foliage feeding larva, a small net, and provender to cheer their way, also made part of their luggage. Umbrellas, in the hands of the party, added to the character of their costume. A four hours' inspiriting walk found our travellers verging that magnificent old wood which adorns the vicinity of the noble river Eden, a little south of the antique mill near to the sequestered village of Armthwaite. Wide-spreading oaks, abounding with silent life, margined the forest, the favourite haunt of the purple hair-streak butterfly, the hue of whose glancing wings gleams in the sunshine, as in joyous hilarity it flits in and out of the lofty branches. To capture this pretty highflyer the most agile of the party ventures, net in hand, into the elevated boughs. Some incautious sluggards reward the risk, and gaily harbinger the pleasures of the day. Entering the paths of the forest, the current of thought momentarily changes, for,

The warblers of spring have ceased to sing,
And their wild wood notes to call,

In the silence around we hear no sound
Save that of our own footfall.

Soon the solitude is disturbed, and the staves of the butterfly hunters glance amongst the leaves, and their umbrellas are covered with myriads of the insects which find sustenance in the umbrageous foliage. How deeply interesting to mark the diversity of forms and colours of the caterpillars forced from their abiding places. Here are some with hair ranging from the slightly perceptible to the dense coat, while others again are entirely destitute of hirsute covering; again, there are scores of different species varying in their colours and markings, from the bright reds and yellows to the subdued greens, and the sombre greys and browns, with their interminable shadings. Their manners and habits, too, equally excite surprise. Here is one so indolent that only hunger can prompt him to action; there, another so restless that he cannot be restrained, and so vicious withal, that if an unfortunate relative cross his path he will fatally bite him for his temerity. That dusky dead-looking twig is a ten-legged caterpillar erected on his hind legs. And now, as he progresses, his hind and fore legs meet, and his back is arched like a bow. Touch that tiny sixteen-legged green and white lined larva on his black head, and he wriggles backward with an alacrity equal to his forward movement. Thus the silent life of the

forest is replete with delight and instruction. Leaving the majestic oaks towering high over all their compeers of the wood, new beauties startle the eye, and nature claims the heart's deep homage. Bordering the oaks are light, feathery, tapering birches gracefully waving in the flush of youth to the genial breeze. Their aged parents, denuded of their lower limbs, and with their dusky silvered, pencilled stems, rear their noble heads aloft in solemn stateliness, stern monitors of time. Their vernate leaves, year after year, afford home and shelter to hosts of insect life. Now all is sunshine, and beauteous moths flit by alternately with pretty butterflies in coats of green and kirtles of brown; contrasting with this prodigality of nature's growth, gently sloping rocks bare their rugged breasts in sterile patches. Here the grayling butterflies, whose colours harmonize with the rocks, love to resort and royster in their freedom. Lower down the slope, where moss and ferns abound, the little Duke of Burgundy butterfly, in his dark brown and tawny suit, sports his contented hour; and in this locality, but at an earlier period, the cardamines, in his flaming gold-coloured tip, peers into dingle and bush for his fair wood lady, robed in her rich under-vesture of green; while those pretty congeners, the handsome prince and the lovely silverspot, live in peace, scarcely ever roaming from their natal place. Close by, nestling on some fragrant flower, is a frolicksome little gentleman, displaying his fiery copper coat to the astonished eye, flitting from blossom to blossom, and tasting of their sweets. The sprightly and active little skippers in their dingy habiliments are hopping and jerking around and about, more quickly than the eye can follow; while, gliding overhead, exhibiting her sulphureous white undersides, is a great cabbage butterfly, having lost her way, and in sad perplexity that no garden is near. As we gaze enraptured at this glorious outpourings of insect life, a pair of lovely blue butterflies sweep up and down the wide expanse, battling in the air. One swoop of the net and their riot ends, like that of many a roysterer before and since, in a prison, where they doubtless bewail the folly of strife.

Among the lowlands of this extensive forest numerous families of meadow browns and ringlets dwell in unobtrusive privacy. Threading our way through the long grass, we observe broods of them springing up in succession, evincing their strong dislike at our unprovoked intrusion by showing their swarthy features in low and slow flights, and then quickly hiding amongst the rampant vegetation. In the glades and along the hedge-rows, the wall-browns, in more pleasing colours than their namesakes of the meadows, skim along the surface of the shrubs in a humble and lowly way. Having no ambition, they rarely take a lofty flight. Not so, however, the elegant and restless tortoise-shell. There he lays basking on that sunny bank; now he bounds over hedge and wood path, and soars along to pay his compliments to some nettles clustering in an obscure corner, where those inconstant wanderers, the showy peacock and the gay painted lady, preceding him in their morning call, have just hied away to the uplands to cheer the little creamy heath, skipping o'er the heather, chasing lurking loneliness. Thus, in the course of a summer, twenty-two different species of British butterflies are to be found within the precincts of a single wood. Nor have we exhausted the number, for we catch a glimpse of another, heavily winging his way in the distance. As he approaches, we discover him to be a large, handsome orange-tawny and black-spotted frittalary, his undersides shining with silver spots. A strong desire to possess this splendid butterfly pervades the company, and an exciting chase ensues. Danger threatens ; he exerts his power, and away he dashes, leaving his pursuers far behind. Quite tired and hot, we seek repose on the grassy rim of a gently flowing rill. The lightsome breeze softly laves our heated brow; the merry field cricket chirrups his cheering note, and the lustrous hues