the wheel, holding steadily on to the protecting
rail of wire, which no eyes are expected to
recognise, and relieved apparently when the terra
firma of the stage was once more under her feet.
Amina was no more possible for her to conquer
than the Sylph who distracted her lover by her
aërial exits up the chimney, or her gambols from
flower to flower, would have been.—What spell
is there that will defend singing women
and playing men against the disappointment
of such mistakes?—When will the Listons
cease from wearying to be Orlandos and
Romeos?

And now—at this time present, though it
might have been fancied that all the changes
conceivable had been rung on Bellini's peasant
opera—when half a dozen musical dramas,
fifteen years more recent, prodigious and
terrifying, have become stale, past the power
of the most wondrous genius to revive them
—has come the youngest Amina of all,
though assuredly not the most gifted—and at
once, and without a single note of prelude or
preliminary trumpet, has stirred up the tired
town to an enthusiasm recalling the days when
Malibran tottered across the stage in haste and
frantic grief, and when Lind (with an Ophelia
touch in the thought) breathed out her whole
soul of sadness over the flowers, as, leaf by leaf,
they mournfully dropped on the stage. Born
in Madrid, Italian by parentage, trained
exclusively in America, Mademoiselle Adelina
Patti, on her first evening's appearance at our
Italian Opera—nay, in her first song—possessed
herself of her audience with a sudden victory
which has scarcely a parallel, the circumstances
considered. Old and young are even now
treating as conspiracy and treason any lookings-
back to past Aminas—any comparisons.—This
new singer, in her early girlhood, is (for
them) already a perfect artist—one who is
to set Europe on fire during the many
years to which it may be hoped her career will
extend.—Nor is their delight altogether baseless.
—Mademoiselle Patti's voice has been
carefully and completely trained. Those who
fail to find it as fresh in tone as a voice aged
nineteen should be, must be struck by its
compass, by the certainty in its delivery, by some
quality in it (not to be reasoned out or defined)
which has more of the artist than the
automaton.—She has a rare amount of brilliancy and
flexibility. She has some "notions" (as the
Americans have it) of ornament and fancy which
are her own; if they be not unimpeachable, say
the Dryasdusts, in paint of taste.—If not
beautiful, she is pleasing to see;—if not a Pasta, a
Malibran, or a Lind in action, she is possessed
with her story. Their is nothing to displease,
if not much to move, in her version of the sorrow
so mysteriously caused—of the joy which poetical
justice has laid out so incomparably for a
felicity-rondo to close a sentimental opera. For
the moment, the newest Amina has the ear of
London;—in the future, Mademoiselle Patti may
become worthy of having her name written in
the Golden Book of great singers. Meanwhile,
what a tale is here told, not merely of her great
and welcome promise, not merely of her possessing
that talent for success—charm—which is born
into few persons, and which cannot be bought
or taught—but of the lasting truth and attraction
of the music to which Bellini set the story
of the innocent girl who walked across the mill-
wheel in her sleep!—The moral should not be
lost on composers of music to come, nor on those
who dream of stories for stage-musicians to
compose.

        THE SPIRIT'S VISIT.

THERE is a Spirit come to me to-night,
And with the murmur of his pinions strong
He stirs the deep recesses of my soul
With passionate pain and longing, and a vague
Vast hint of power, craving to be free,
And clothe itself with action.

                                             Now my heart
Is like Bethesda's pool: the angel comes,
And at his presence all the waters heave
With an internal trouble. O my God,
This Spirit Thou hast sent me: will he give
My heart the power of healing those I take
Into its living waters?

                                   Ah, but first
Finds he no sickness in this heart itself?

The midnight wraps us, Spirit; face to face;
Alone in the tremendous solitude
Made by the silence of a world asleep
We sit and commune. Spirit, shall I speak,
And wilt thou listen, calmly with grave eyes
Of pity and of knowledge while I strive
To ease my soul with speaking? Listen then.

  I would be strong to aid the weak, to lift
The fallen; to advise, to guide, to guard
The infirm of purpose, whose great need I see
Of such assistance. Spirit, do I so?
Alas! I do not so. Still creepeth in
Some failing of my own, some selfishness,
Some haunting memory, some inconstancy,
Some passion or some weakness that still mars
The good I aim to do, and like a mist
Obscures my vision, leads me from the path
I meant to follow, stabs me with the sense
Of mine ungoverned intirmity,

    I cannot stand alone; yet like a child
Who sees a brother drown, I fling myself
Into the stream: a little space I float,
But when I reach him and he clings to me
I feel I, too, am sinking, and I cry
And grasp the sedges, and the waters close
O'er both our heads.

                                  The lesson of the Past,
The desolate Past, I fancied I had learn'd,
Learn'd to good purpose. I had surely deem'd
The agony of pain I underwent
Had taught me strength and wisdom, made me free
Thenceforth of selfish suffering, firm and wise,
To help and understand all other suffering.

'Tis not so. Slowly, slowly, dies the night,
And with it sinks my soul down from the point
Where late it stood a-tiptoe.

                                             Slowly now,
Unfurling his vast pens, the Spirit rises—
But ere he goes, he leaves upon my brow
The kiss of peace.

                              "Good night," he says, "poor child,
Thou'rt stronger now, knowing how weak thou art,
Than when I came to thee.