of an extreme difficulty, as to be denied anything
like that freedom of action and emphasis
which has so large a share in the charm of
operatic personation. In the raging song ol
Pizarro, the vigour of the movement lies in the
whirling fermenting phase given to the orchestra.
In the closing part of the prison scene of
Florestan there is a breathless yearning
attempted, which cannot be fully expressed
without placing the singer in eminent peril of
exaggeration. There is no reason, save in the
perversity of intention, why in these monologues
the declaimer should have been so hampered and
sacrificed. It will be seen, as we go on, to
what convenient uses, as concealing want of
study, and want of invention, these nave been
turned as a precedent by the German opera
writers;—who, to use the jargon of the day, have
taken Beethoven as "point of departure,"—and
have fancied themselves inheritors of his genius,
while in reality they have been merely adopting
some of his practices, which are, to say the
least of them, open to question by sound
judgment.

Taken, however, for better for worse, with
the most clear recognition of its peculiarities,
not to say defects, "Fidelio" remains, and will
remain so long as the stage lasts, as the type of
German opera, the first and the most complete
work of its school. It is impossible to hear it
fairly executed, by singers having requisite
physical energy, and by an orchestra competent
to do justice to the score, without being carried
away;—and only on afterthought will it suggest
itself that the effect lies on the story, and on
the symphonic combinations of the instruments,
rather than on such might to move by the setting
of sounds to words as Gluck put into the mouth
of his Orpheus, his Armida, his Clytemnestra,
his Alcestis, his Iphigenia, and his Orestes.

     A ROMANTIC EXISTENCE.

      In a boyish rage to roam,
      Recklessly I fled from home,
      But whither should my footsteps bend,
      What might chance to be the end
      Of the vagrant outbreak, ne'er
      Heart or mind had wish or care.
      Heedless rambler I became,
      But, to wound a noble name,
      That I would not:—so the page
      Rich in a lofty lineage
      Stainless is, whate'er my shame,
      For the Rover changed his name.

    Was the Rover happy?—Yes,
     In that sort of happiness
     Licence and hot blood engender,
     Till the reason makes surrender,
     And the tyrant will commands
     Soul and body—heart and hands.

     Lustily I joined the cheer
     Of the eager Buccaneer,
     When, from topmast first descried,
     "Land!" exultingly was cried:
     For around the tropic isles
     Fortune on the Rover smiles,
     Where Gallèon, deep in freight
     Of merchandise and " piece of eight"
     To the Buccaneer must strike
     In conflict close of boarding-pike.

     Lovely were the Tropic isles—
     We had more than Fortune's smiles,
     For the ill-got gold to spill
     In profusion, vicious still,
     Was our wont—and golden show'rs
     Harvests bring of gleesome hours:—
     Gleesome hours that cost us years
     Of after shame, remorse, and tears.

     'Twas in one remoter place
     Where the wild untutor'd grace
     Of nature and of woman reign'd,
     That a milder mood we feign'd,
     Laid our ship down to careen,
     Safe within the leafy screen
     Of a richly wooded creek:—
     There, in safety, might we seek
     Brief repose, until again
     The bark repaired should cleave the main.

     A lovely and unwarlike race
     Dwelt in that sequester'd place,
     Whose forests deep of solemn quiet
     Repressed the very thought of riot.
     How the sultry solitude
     While it yielded joy, subdued!
     All that fruits of tropic splendour
     To the parchèd throat could render,
     All that fragrant shade could yield
     From the torrid heat to shield,
     Gave a sort of drowsy pleasure
     We indulged in without measure.
     Gorgeous shrubs of various dye
     In wild profusion charm'd the eye,
     Bright birds flitted thro' their stems,
     Like a flight of wingèd gems,
     But voiceless all—as tho' they chose
     Not to break the sweet repose.

     Such a reign of beauty round us,
     In a soft enchantment bound us,
     And the magic of that spot
     Tempted me to leave it not;
     But the soft temptation pass'd:—
     'Twas my fate!—my lot I cast
     With the vicious and the vile—
     Could I ever hope to smile?
     Laugh I might—the empty laugh
     Of ribald revellers while they quaff,
     But the smile that sweetly tells
     The joy that in the bosom dwells,
     Never, never, may appear
     On the lip of Buccaneer!

     Off and on we came to seek
     Shelter in our favourite creek,
     With some dashing cruise between
     The visits to our leafy screen.
     Tho' I never chose to brag
     Of our dreaded Sable Flag,
     Still, that terror of the main
     Never brought my bosom pain;
     Never in the heady fight
     Did my torpid conscience smite;
     Hand to hand, and shot for shot,
     Good as that we gave, we got;
     That I flinch'd not from;—but when
     The councils fierce of murd'rous men
     In dev'lish mood, brought torture dark
     Within their hellish code, the spark