men there assembled, whom Bussy had gathered together to defend the place, in case of attack from without-all contributed to strike terror to the heart of Madame de Miramion. She was ignorant of the names and purposes of those who had treated her with so much violence. The precaution they had taken of sepating her from her mother-in-law, and the small effect produced by her cries and tears, made them appear to her monsters of cruelty, capable of any ferocity. She would not, therefore, alight from her coach, but persisted in remain ing where she was, declaring that she would thus pass the night. A gentleman, whom she recognised as having formed part of the escort, now came to the carriage door, and, in the most respectful terms, implored her to alight and to enter the castle. Madame de Miramion, in a stern voice, asked him if it was by his orders she had been subjected to such treatment. "No, madam," was the reply, "but by the orders of the Count de Bussy Rabutin, who assured us he had your consent to the step he took." "He has told you that which is false!" cried the lady, raising her voice. Madam," he replied, we are here two hundred gentlemen, all friends of Bussy's; if he have deceived us, we will serve you against him, and restore you to liberty. Only explain your circumstances to us, and do not refuse to alight and repose from your fatigue." before her, and that Father Clement was the only person who could be blamed for this act of violence. These explanations, which informed Madame de Miramion of the black intrigue of Father Clement, a little calmed the fear which she had felt on first entering the castle. She refused to yield anything to the persuasions of these persons, and insisted on being restored to liberty. When they saw that persuasion had no influence, they attempted to conquer her by fear. They told her that Bussy, ordinarily so good, so generous, was at that moment overcome by his passion for her, and was scarcely recognisable by his friends. They argued that her own interest exacted some slight concessions; for, if she reduced Bussy to despair, the worst might be feared. Nevertheless, Madame de Miramion's firmness was unyielding. Bussy next sent to her the gentleman who had induced her to leave her coach and enter the castle. This person, a knight of Malta, told her that Bussy was prepared to set her at liberty, but that he implored an interview, if only for a moment. Bussy then appeared, with several attendants. At the threshold of the room he knelt on one knee, and clasped his hands in an attitude of supplication. At the sight of him, and without giving him time to utter a syllable, Madame de Miramion stood up, raised one of her hands towards heaven, and cried, "Sir, I swear before the living God, your Maker and mine, that I will never marry you." Then she fell back fainting. A doctor from Sens, whom Bussy had retained, in case of accident, took her wrist, and declared that her pulse was almost gone. Forty hours had passed since she had taken any nourishment. While these things were going on, the mother-in-law had not been idle. She and the old gentleman-usher had walked from the forest of Livry, where Bussy had left them, to the nearest village. There she had procured a horse for the squire, and sent him over to Paris to inform the family of what had happened. Herself and the old governess were obliged to take horses accustomed to go to plough, for no others were to be had. These animals drew them slowly to the neighbourhood of Paris. There they learned that their message had caused the assemblage of a number of horsemen, who, with Monsieur de Rubelle, Madame de Miramion's brother at their head, had already set out for Sens. The gentle and compassionate manner of this gentleman inspired the poor lady with con fidence; however, she would not consent to go upstairs to the apartments prepared for her, but alighted, and entered a low damp room close to the entrance. A fire was lighted here; and her coach cushions were brought, that she might sit down. She saw two pistols on the table; and, finding they were loaded, took possession of them, and seemed to gain confidence from their acquisition. A repast was set before her, but she pushed away the dishes untouched. In order to escape the first fury of her anger, Bussy had kept himself aside. He was surprised to find her so exasperated-so firm in her resolution. "I was told," he said to his accomplices, "that she was as gentle as a lamb; but she is like a lioness in her fury." However, he still hoped to sooth her, and sent to her a lady and several persons of his suite, all of whom assured her that Bussy's intentions were perfectly honourable, that if she would consent to marry him, he would prove a tender and in- The cavalcade of her liberators had indeed been dulgent husband. They praised Bussy's cha-half an hour in that town, when Madame de Miracter and abilities, mentioned his riches, his rank, his favour at Court, the Prince of Condé's friendship for him, and explained the error which had led to the abduction. She was assured that none of his suite would have aided him had they not believed, like him, that all was done with the consent of the lady herself, and that the resistance was only a feint to deceive her friends. They added, that Bussy, alarmed at her displeasure, dared not appear ramion's oath, and the fainting-fit that followed it, had frightened Bussy and all who were with him. He was told that all Sens was rising, and that six hundred men were preparing to besiege the Château de Launay. Bussy, who was not to be deterred by a trifle, still continued to persuade the lady, who had recovered from her fit, to remain at the château if only for one day. His prayers, however, availed nothing: she refused to eat until the horses were put to, and she had entered her carriage. Bussy was forced to yield. He made the most passionate professions of love for her, and let her go with great reluctance. Before they set out, Bussy secretly gave Gabrielle fifty gold pieces, to defray, he said, the expenses of the journey, but intended no doubt to purchase her goodwill. When Madame de Miramion saw that the preparations for her departure were really made, she ate two eggs, and then, under the escort of the Knight of Malta, the coach started. The knight, who was on horseback, kept close to the coach-door as they drove along, and perpetually spoke in Bussy's praise. He protested that his friend had been deceived, and that his intentions had been pure. However, the knight, fearing the pursuit of justice, stopped the coach when they drew near the town of Sens. The coachman and postilions unharnessed the horses; servants, horses, and knight, galloped back to Launay, leaving Madame de Miramion and Gabrielle in the carriage, attended by the faithful footman who had refused to leave his lady. The women, having no horses, walked to the town. In the hotel where she took refuge, Madame de Miramion learned that the town was arming, by the order of the Queen Regent, for the assistance of a lady who had been forcibly carried away from her friends. ́Alas! I am she,' said the young widow, and entering the town, soon found some of her family, who had come to seek her. But the alarm and long-fasting she had undergone brought on a severe fit of illness, and she sank so low that the last sacraments were administered to her. She recovered finally, but at the expense of a long and tardy convalescence, which left her more decided against marriage than before. Rubelle, who had sent a number of armed men to the Château de Launay with the design of taking Bussy, was disappointed; the Count and his accomplices had already escaped. The Prince de Condé wrote a pressing letter to the outraged family, and, at his instance, the lawproceedings were stayed. Bussy, however, was compelled to promise that he would never again molest the lady, and that, if he came into any place where she happened to be, he would directly leave it. Madame de Miramion had still a great wish to enter a religious house, but sacrificed this desire to her maternal duties. Her daughter, married afterwards to the President de Nesmond, was almost always ill, and the devoted mother her constant attendant. Madame de Miramion became as noted for her piety as she had been for beauty and riches; Louis XIV. made her his almoner; and Madame de Sévigné, who calls her the Mother of the Church, asserts that her death was a public loss. Bussy saw her once more. Thirty-six years after this strange adventure, the Count was engaged in a law-suit, the success of which depended on the decision of Madame de Miramion's son-in-law. Bussy begged an interview! in order to engage her assistance, and the lady he had so ill-treated consented to see him. She was vastly altered. Instead of a young and beautiful creature, whose look of gentle melancholy, and whose elegant figure and dress charmed all who saw her, he beheld a stout woman, in a grey cap, and clothed in a gown of grey woollen cloth. A large plain cambric collar fell on her shoulders, and on her breast hung a cross; the calm sweetness of her manners reassured Bussy; she promised her influence, and he gained his lawsuit. ESSAYS ON MINSTRELSY AND POESY, (WITH ANECDOTES OF MUSIC AND MUSICIANS.) CARL VON WEBER MOZART STORACE ARNE- DIBDIN - BRITTON. No. IV. Foremost among those who by their brilliant genius have shed lustre upon the history of the lyric drama, ranks that prince of dramatic composition, Carl Von Weber. This distinguished musician was born in Holstein, in 1786. His father, being in good circumstances, gave him an excellent education; but in his advance into life he chose as an employment lithography, which, however, from its prolixity and mechanical nature, but little agreeing with his warmth of character and activity of genius, he speedily abandoned, and applied himself to the study of that science to which he was so closely wedded during the remaining portion of his short but brilliant career. At the age of twentyseven, he was director of the opera at Prague, where he composed his "Preciosa." His next opera was the sublime "Der Frieschutz," which elevated the fame of Weber above that of all his contemporaries. His last production was "Oberon," which he composed for Covent Garden Theatre. When he arrived in England for the purpose of superintending its production, he was labouring under an affection of the lungs, which rapidly increasing after a few weeks' residence in our somewhat ungenial clime, he became deeply anxious to return to his native land, but which he was destined never again to revisit. Being left on the Sunday evening at 11, apparently in good spirits, he was, at 7 the next morning, found dead in his bed, his head resting with his hand upon his pillow, as though he had passed from life without a struggle. A wife and two children remained to shed a tear upon his grave, and deplore, in common with the world in general, his premature death, at the age of 39. Mozart, whose musical genius astonished the world, evinced at an early age extraordinary proficiency in his art. When only eight years of age, he visited Paris and London with his father, and performed such musical feats as created a deep sensation. Even between the age of four and seven, he had composed minuets and little pieces, which displayed a degree of skill and regularity of construction such as would not have disgraced a far more experienced musician. In his fourteenth year he produced his "Mithridate," a serious opera, which had a run of twenty representations, having two years previously composed one entitled "La Finta Semplice," but which, from a combination of circumstances, was never produced. Yet, with all these displays of precocious genius, his general manner and deportment were entirely those of a child. He would go about asking everybody" whether they loved him," such was the confiding tenderness of his disposition; and it is mentioned by Daines Barrington, that upon one occasion, while he was playing to him, his favourite cat came into the room; upon which he jumped up from the instrument to play with it, nor could he be brought back for some time; and shortly again quitted it, to run about the room, with a stick between his legs for a horse. When in manhood, enjoying the reputation of a great musician, a poor man in distress accosted him one day in the street, and as he had no money to give him, he bade him wait a little while he went into a coffee-house, where he composed a beautiful minuet on the spur of the moment, and sending the poor suppliant with it to a music-seller's, obtained for him several gold pieces. Thus do great musicians rise. Their sensibility is their genius! Mozart's ideas flowed so freely that he could always rely upon his own powers, which never failed him, and which led him frequently to defer a composition of importance till within a few hours of its execution. The death of this great genius happened before he reached his 36th year. Indefatigable to the last, he composed, in the concluding months of his life, his "Zauberflöte," "Clemensa di Tito," and the celebrated" Requiem." This last composition, about which more than one strange eventful tale has been related, was produced while on his death-bed. When he began this sublime piece, the illness by which he had been confined had alarmingly increased. His ideas were gloomy, and he became fully impressed with the sentiment that the music he was composing at the order of another would be completed but in time for his own funeral. His attached and devoted wife, finding it impossible to dissipate this gloomy impression, took from him the score, returning it to him on his appearing to mend. Soon afterwards, his illness greatly increasing, he on the day of his death earnestly desired to see it once again. After retouching it, and altering a few notes, he eagerly gazed upon it, heaved a deep sigh, and said, Was I not right when I declared that it was for my own obsequies I was composing this funeral anthem ?" Tears gushed from his eyeshis last adieu to the divine science to which his soul was devoted. Storace, a contemporary and kindred genius, is the composer of pieces abounding in beauty which has rarely been excelled; amongst which we name "No Song, no Supper," written by Prince Hoare, and which, with its simple plot and touch and repairing to the upper gallery of the Italian Opera-house, which was at that time appropriated solely to the servants of the nobility. At home he contrived to secrete an old spinet in his bed-chamber, upon which, after muffling the strings with a handkerchief, he used to practice during the night, when the rest of the family were asleep. Young Arne was at length, by the wish of his father, induced to serve a threeyears' clerkship to the law-a profession he never intended to follow; but contrived during this time to acquire some instruction on the violin, upon which instrument he made such rapid progress, that the father happening one evening to call at the house of a gentleman in the neighbourhood upon some business, was invited upstairs, where he found a large musical party as(to use the father's expression) in the very act of "playing the first fiddle." The young mu sician was henceforth allowed to cultivate his talent in peace; and devoting his whole attention to its pursuit, he soon rose to the greatest eminence. ing melodies, maintains its popularity to the present day; as well as "The Haunted Tower," and "The Pirates," both written by Mr. James Cobb, a gentleman who held a high situation in the India House. Like Purcell and Mozart, Storace's career was very short. His extreme exertions in bringing out Coleman's play of "The Iron Chest," the music of which he composed, cost him his life. Though labouring under severe indisposition, having been confined for several days to his bed, he insisted, notwithstanding the entreaties of his family, on being wrapped in blankets, and carried to Drury Lane Theatre to witness its last rehearsal, The consequences were fatal. He returned to his bed, from which he never rose again, but expired a few days after the successful performance of the piece, at the early age of 33. It may not be un-sembled, and among them caught his own son worthy of remark, that shortly before his death in 1796, Storace, perceiving the great vocal powers of our celebrated Braham, then a very young man, engaged him for the forthcoming season at Drury Lane-a circumstance which informs us that it is more than half a century since this veteran of English song made his first appearance on the stage. "Whom the gods love die young," seems to have a peculiar and melancholy applicability to musicians instance Weber, Mozart, and Storace, just quoted; the somewhat recent death of the gifted Mendelsohn, when he had scarcely reached his 40th year; Bellini, the inspired, who died at the age of 32-what may we not imagine had been his glorious pre-eminence, had but his bright genius been spared to reach maturity? The enchanting, the touching strains of the Sonnambula are whistled by every boy, ground on every street-organ; and this, after all, is the sure and unerring token of popularity. A gifted and very celebrated actress once told the writer of this article, that she always at rehearsal could make sure of any song being successful, and what is termed a "hit" at night, if she heard the carpenters whistling the air behind the scenes. Perhaps never was greater popularity achieved than by the little simple song of "Pray Goody," in the operetta of "Midas," in the chief character of which many of our most celebrated actresses and singers have from time to time delighted to display their charms both of voice and person, and which deserves mention, as being the production of Dr. Arne, whose early struggles and difficulties in the ardent pursuit of his favourite study-music-are of a somewhat remarkable character. He was the son of a cabinet-maker and upholsterer, born in King Street, Covent Garden, in 1710. His father sent him to Eton, intending him for the legal profession; but his love for music operated at this early age so as neither to secure him peace nor bring quiet to others; for with an old cracked flute he so tormented his schoolfellows night and day, that they voted him a nuisance-in other words, a bore. When he left Eton, he used to gratify his passion for music by borrowing the livery of a footman, Perhaps in the annals of the lyric drama, no writer has ever equalled Charles Dibdin for the multiplicity of his productions, or surpassed him for their world-wide popularity. It has been calculated that he wrote about 1,200 songs, nearly 70 dramatic pieces, and set to music about 16 that were written by others. It has been said that " a man must write little to write well;" and it was perhaps this maxim that guided Oliver Goldsmith in his writings; for if we except his two celebrated comedies of "She Stoops to Conquer" and "The Good-natured Man," his "Vicar of Wakefield," and "Citizen of the World," his literary productions are but few. His lovely and philosophic poem, "The Deserted Village," occupied him two years; whereas Dibdin wrote with such facility, that 30 of his best songs only cost him three quarters of an hour labour each; yet, despite this rapidity of composition, there exists throughout his writings an elegance of sentiment, combined with a style peculiar to himself, that will ever rank him as a poet of fertile and original genius. The learned Dr. Knox paid a well-merited tribute to the muse of Dibdin when he said he was "the only man he ever knew who could convey a sermon through the medium of a comic song!" Dibdin was educated at Winchester, and intended for the church; but music was his darling study, his only tutor being the organist of the cathedral, who taught him the gamut when he was nine years of age; we may therefore say that he was self-taught: yet such was the result of this self-tuition, that at the age of 16 he brought out at Covent Garden an opera called "The Shepherd's Artifice," which was both written and composed by himself. At this early age he became an active composer of operas, and soon after commenced actor, in the character of Damætas, in "Midas;" but his most celebrated performances were Mungo, in "The Padlock," and Ralph, in "The Maid of the Mill;" in which last he is said never to |