reverie of the golden age, Antonio's song was to the following waking dream; for the knight was so singular in his character that he lived rather in his own thoughts than by outward observation, and, by a strange deceptio visus, saw everything as he wished everything to be. The rough tones of Antonio's voice were softened by the bell-like tinkle of the rebeck: what he wanted in knowledge he made up by the plaintiveness of his manner. The knight composes himself to listen; he places his broken helmet on the grass; his long, scanty, and slightly-grizzled hair, parted in the middle, falls on each side his high intellectual brow. The upper part of his face bespeaks a character of almost feminine benevolence, but the slight curl of his moustachioed lip shews an heroical contempt of danger. His features are lighted by his imaginations of knights and ladies fair, of joust and tournament, of all the bright heraldry of honour. The knight attends-Antonio sings of love: the good knight thinks of his ladie-he wanders in the green arcades of Toboso-he hears every note, but Antonio and his rebeck are forgotten-the goatherds are forgotten-Sancho is dead: Don Quixote sees only the peerless Dulcinea. He at once grows young and handsome as Chilates-he springs from the back of Rozinante, a more noble animal than Cyd's Babieca-he kneels at the feet of the peerless Dulcinea-she smiles upon him-she binds his arm with a bracelet of her own golden hair-he gazes on her with the fascination of a lover, the devotion of a worshipper, and the purity of a knight-heavenly emanation, "the high heavens that with your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars ;" but ere he could proceed he is struck to the ground by an invisible power-Urganda, the sorcerer, seizes on the peerless Dulcinea and bears her away-her cries die away like the breath of the evening breeze-in vain he laments her loss, in vain he calls on the delight of his soul. He springs upon his steed-the last beams of the sun glitter on his armour as he passes into the inextricable mazes of a wood. He wanders on, with no other support than what his own thoughts afford him, and is saved from despair only by the sight of the bracelet of his Dulcinea.

The knight revives as if touched by a charm; he braves the desert, and defies the storm that beats around him. Thus he pursues his devious and uncertain course, and, after overcoming innumerable dangers, approaches the castle of the dreadful sorceress Pintiquiniestra. The Don kisses his bracelet: as he passes the black towers of the castle not a sound is heard, not an object appears. At length he meets with a little old woman, whose hobbling legs

can scarce save her from the tread of his beast, Rozinante. She turns and looks upon him: Sir Knight, be good, Sir Knight; I am old, Sir Knight; the storm comes on, Sir Knight; help me, good Sir Knight! She would have fallen had he not have reached forth his hand and aided her to rise; she springs into the saddle with a shriek, Rozinante bounds forwards, the barbican drops, the portcullis flies up, and they enter the castle of the enchantress Pintiquiniestra.

Welcome, my love, to the festal halls of Pintiquiniestra! laughs the old hag. Welcome! Welcome! reverberate a thousand echoing laughs. Upheld by a hidden spell, the knight follows the hag through gloomy passages and arcades whose leaves are seered and dry; as the thick wind moves them they rattle like dead men's bones. They now stand before a door that seems studded with a thousand lurid stars; in an instant it flies open, and the knight enters a saloon where a thousand black marble columns support the ceiling, on which shine the same kind of stars, but so distant that more than the general outline of the hall cannot be seen; grim shades of giants seem to wander through the mighty space: the knight's spurs clank (and echoing clank) across the marble tiles. They stand before a door wherein a thousand brilliant gems sparkle -music floats around and fills the air-the giant shades are seen no longer, but light and voluptuous forms bewilder the knight's senses. Suddenly a thousand silver notes harmonious blend in one burst of ravishing melody. The knight nearly sinks overpowered on the marble-based couches on which beauteous damsels recline in all the voluptuousness of sense, their charms covered but not concealed. He gazes on the bracelet, and revives.

The old hag has disappeared, and in her place a Nubian slave beckons him on. At doors of sapphire the slave pauses-they fly open-the Nubian is gone, but on each side of the saloon are a row of black slaves motionless as statues on their pedestals; their eyes glare on the knight, who still advances. Welcome! Welcome! mutter a thousand tongues. The dauntless knight advances boldly towards a light that seems far off; he reaches the door, narrow and small, with only one burning gem in the centre. It grows brighter and brighter, until almost insupportable; it seems consumed by its own fires. He passes on-he is joined by a lovely form, who floats noiselessly before him. They stand before a row of silver pillars; as the fairy throws her hand from right to left, a streak of blue light glitters on the columns-it grows brighter and brighter-suddenly they divide, half sinking into the earth-the

knight shades his eyes with his hand, for the flood of light was, at first, blinding-he enters, and the columns close-he stands alone. On a throne of crystal and ever-varying gems sat the fatal enchantress Pintiquiniestra; the light of her face darkens the eye of the knight, but he shrinks not; a row of fairy forms stand on each side of the throne, and with golden harps tune the loves of Pintiquiniestra; while the dull sound of falling waters adds to the charm, and fills the knight with delicious sensations. There are no lamps in the saloon, but from every side shine gems radiant as the stars, that glance their lights into one vast lucid mirror, wherein myriads of rays ever burning, concentrated, are reflected in one burst of light upon the throne of the enchantress, who gazes on it: Confused, but not dismayed, the knight advances. As he stands at the foot of the throne, a fairy transparent sylph, more beautiful than mortal creation, presents him with a crystal goblet of wine; he touches it with the cross-hilt of his good sword, and it flies into a thousand stars. Pintiquiniestra frowns and the hall grows dark. She stands up and beckons him to advance; he gazes for a moment on the bracelet of his Dulcinea, and ascending the steps of the throne is seated by her side. Her hand that touches him is white as the marble roof of the hall, but as cold as the coffin's lead. She gazes upon the knight, but her glance burns with other fire than that of love. The fairies sing the delights of love, but the strain is wild as the blast. Pintiquiniestra, rising, beckons the knight; they pass through a crystal door into a garden-an Eden of pleasure surrounds him-flowers of every hue and fruit of every clime, but the odour was that of dead and decaying leaves. Pintiquiniestra leads him to a bower; she smiles in the full effulgence of her charms. Sir Knight, all that thou see'st is thine, wilt thou but wed me. The Don starts, and, making the sign of the Cross, cries "Sorceress, avaunt! I dread not thee, but, by this good sword, will deliver the peerless Dulcinea from thy power." An earthquake shakes the garden into one wild wilderness of wood and rocks -the palace of Pintiquiniestra dissolves like the fabric of a dream. As the knight rubs his eyes the roar of a dragon startles him from his reverie, and, turning round, he lays his hand on the huge, rough head of Sancho, who lies snoring on his shoulder. "Master of mine," quoth Sancho, "think you that a man goes to sleep for the pleasure of waking?" "No, Sancho," replies his master, "but that I took thy head for that of the dragon of the giant Freston, and truly thy noise was almost as horrible."

Antonio had finished his song, and, with the goatherds, had de

parted. The last beams of the western sun lights the pallid brow of the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure as he seizes his helmet, and, mounting Rozinante, leaves the place of wine-skins and flesh-pots, love-song and reveries.

66

Sancho," said Don Quixote, checking the eagerness of Rozinante that he might the better discourse with his squire" Sancho, dost thou believe in dreams-waking dreams?" "I know not," replied Sancho, "what your worship means by waking dreams, but if I do not believe in dreams I am no knight's squire; and would you, sir, but give me your ear— ""Give thee my ear, Sancho! that were an ungenerous gift, since that uncourtly knight whom I defeated has already deprived me of one." "I mean, sir,” quoth Sancho, "your attention; I would tell you, sir, a dream of mine when I was by the side of Mary Gautierez, my wife, that was as true as she herself can testify, and swear to. I went to bed—” "Never mind that, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "the dream." "Well, then, your goodness, I dreamed Mary Gautierez, my wife, was beating me, and, waking in a fright, found it was but too true, for she was thrashing me for a fault no thrashing could cure me of." "Enough, Sancho," said the knight-" It was enough, indeed, sir, and I wish every dream of mine may prove as true, and I shall soon light upon another company of goatherds, flesh-pots, and wine-skins, all of which I dreamed of when your worship woke me for sleeping on your worship's shoulder." Sancho," said Don Quixote, rather sorrowfully, "I have been in the enchanted castle of Pintiquiniestra, and have saved the peerless Dulcinea from the power of her enemies." Sancho opened his mouth as if about to laugh, but seeing the melancholy face of his master, he restrained himself, and asked where the beauteous Dulcinea had been left. "That's a thing," replied the knight, "I cannot well inform thee of, inasmuch as I do not know myself." "Master of mine," said Sancho, if this is not a waking dream I don't know what is; for nobody in their senses could have so mad a sleeping dream." "I am inclined to suspect so myself, Sancho, but I do not the less believe that it is a prophetic vision which is allowed to prepare me for the dangers which lie before us." 66 Say, rather, before you, sir," quoth Sancho, "for if dreams of sorcerers and dead men's bones are to come to pass, I would rather be drubbed by my crooked rib,' Mary Gautierez, all my life through; but if dreams with your worship are ever to come true, I beseech you, Sir, to dream of nothing but flesh-pots and wine-skins." 66 Sancho, thou art an incorrigible feeder." "Any thing, as it may be," muttered Sancho, "but meat for magicians,” and so they rode on.

39

ON THE PRESENT STATE OF THE OPERA

IN LONDON.

THE opera season in London is to me ever attended with feelings of humiliation, inasmuch as it exhibits the weak part of a great nation. All that money unaccompanied by knowledge can procure is, at this establishment, to be found in abundance. To obtain the first singers of Europe sums are lavished which no other nation would dream of expending; yet compare the performances with those of Vienna, Berlin, and Frankfort! A musician will at once perceive that the arrangements in these cities are dictated by a perfect acquaintance and familiarity with every part of the art; whereas in London, provided the manager can secure a Pasta or a Grisi, he is completely satisfied, and remains indifferent respecting the (to him) unimportant points-the character of the music, the precision of the orchestra, and the efficiency of the chorus. But the fault cannot justly be said to rest entirely with him while the public continue in a state of musical ignorance which renders them incapable of discovering the most glaring faults and obvious deficiencies in these important particulars.

The tickets are ten shillings and sixpence, and the performance takes place three days in the week during the season, and yet only three or four trashy operas are to be heard, and these, with the exception of the first-rate singers, indifferently performed; whereas in the greater number of the German capitals a seat in the boxes may be obtained for two shillings and sixpence; such singers as Fischer, Achter, Schmezer, and Dobler, and occasionally Schræder Devrient, Wild, and Haitzinger, are either permanently engaged or fill the gast-rolle;* the best operas, ancient and modern, are given during the whole of the year. The orchestra, likewise, not only contains the best performers to be procured in the town, but is always under the direction of a man of superior talent, as Spontini at Berlin, and Juhr at Frankfort, while the choruses, half as numerous again as our own, are well trained and effective.

Reasoning from these facts, what other conclusion can we arrive at, but that this striking difference originates, on the one hand, from a complete acquaintance with the principles and objects of the art, while on the other there exists an absence of knowledge and a

Literally, guest part, or part taken by one who is unattached to the establishment of the place. The guest usually sustains the principal character.