humourous and witty as Swift or Voltaire, must invariably produce a soporiferous effect on their readers, even though they be composed exclusively of licensed victuallers and public-house habitués;-and we may assert, without fear of being discredited, that the "writer about nothing" in the Era is by no manner of means as witty as either Swift or Voltaire. Let the following cogent paragraph speak for itself :—

"Till the burthens of the country are reduced, the people never can get cheap bread; but if they cannot get it cheap, they should at least get it as cheap as they can."

Which is equal to saying-until bread be cheap the people cannot get cheap bread; yet though they cannot get it cheap, they should get it as cheap as they can: id est, they must get it cheap whether they can or not!

There is a great deal of respectable matter in the Era, but altogether it is too prolix, and smells infinitely too strongly of the XX peculiarities of the literature of malt and hops. The dramatic writer might peruse Lindley Murray's Grammar with advantage, and the gentleman who supplies pretty tales of " young sempstresses" being driven about the country in cabriolets, smacks rather too mnch of the Crebillon and Louvet de Couvray species, (clean shorn of their wit) for a moral Sunday paper, intended for the peculiar amusement and instruction of mesdemoiselles "licensed victuallers," pretty limonadières, and bare-bosomed attendants au comptoir des guinguettes. The heavy-wet-inspired papas should look to this-for though in the words of the writer alluded

to,

"We had interest enough the next morning to saunter by the shop at an early hour, when the cheerful unclouded countenance with which we perceived our interesting beauty dressing the window; interspersing her labours with an occasional remark to her companions, or with a snatch of a song, and one of those laughs which came from the heart, proved the driver had done her no harm."

Yet we feel justified in saying, that the harm (whatever may be implied thereby) should not have been hinted at, and the tale might have passed with the solitary offence of acting as a strong narcotic. The fact is, that gentlemen possessed of cabriolets do no not drive "pretty young sempstresses" about, for nothing; and though one day may pass without any harm being done, who can say what shall happen on the next?-We are rather inclined to imagine that Mr. S. the sublime author of this joli conte morale, (Qy. conte gras) must have been sauntering about the shop window on his own account" when the cavalier au tilbury— snatched away the object of his desires by the superior argument of " a pair of wheels."

As to Mr. Democraticus-he is by far the " the dullest fellow" who has to our knowledge, in these times of dullness, put pen to paper; his letters are miserable imitations of the uncaged lunatic

EE

VOL. I.

who deals forth his hebdomadal slander and blasphemy in the Weekly Dispatch, under the cognomen of Publicola. The style of one of these wretched brochures, humourously denominated "the shoy-hoys (!) and working men" is variegated by such ingenious expedients as the substitution of "don't" for "do not" in one sentence, and of " do not" for " don't" in the next ;-this is what the metaphysical poet Harrison would term "a kind of nothing which does not lack"-what,-it would be difficult to say ;-it lacks every thing desirable of which we are cognizant.—But we must hasten to conclude.

There are some "Facetia" by no means overpoweringly facetious-take a specimen :"Tea-Totallers. Which of the regiments of her Majesty's service is it that has turned tea-totallers, and taken to water?' (!) inquired one who had a thirst for information. Oh, it must be the Coldstream Guards of course,' replied a wag!"

Oh most jocular of wags-pry'thee refrain from thine excruciating humour, or we shall die with excess of cachinnatory convulsions—in cachinnos soluti-this is "a wag," and no mistakeverily, "a wag" par excellence!

By what we have extracted it may be surmised that the Editor of "the Era" is by no means A MAGICIAN, and were we under the depression of low spirits, he is certainly not the Leech we should fly to for relief-yet, nevertheless, we imagine that as a Sunday" tap tub" it may answer the purpose aimed at, and become a tolerably amusing companion to a pint of ale and a pipe -provided the ale be not too strong, or addicted to producing "drowsiness"-in which case, "fore gad," the ale and "the Era" together would be rather too powerful an opiate even for the senses of the "great unwashed.'

The Conservative Journal.-A gross and vulgar publication, almost below criticism. Let us recommend to the notice of the concocter of the pot pourri of hot-headed bigotry, and concealed blasphemy, the leading article of the 14th ultimo, the speech of Lord Brougham to the "most holy father in God" his grace the Bishop of Exeter, in which his lordship severely reprehended and summarily castigated that turn-coat prelate's impiety in using the name of the Almighty wherever it might add apparent strength to his argument. The writer in the Conservative Journal will there find a lesson for himself, which he will do well to peruse. We fear, however, that we address a blind zealot, so drowned in the stupid drunkenness of his insanity, that our admonition will be entirely thrown away.

"For fools are stubborn in their
As coins are harden'd by th' allay;

And obstinacy's ne'er so stiff,
As when 'tis in a wrong belief."

way,

The whole affair is a specimen of riotous and grotesque buffoon

ery, unworthy the name of literature. The attack on Lord Brougham is too ridiculous for argument. Its author is somewhat in the predicament of Sir Herbert Taylor himself, and can neither write common sense nor grammar; his attempted defence of George the Third, one of the most silly, obstinate, and heartless bigots that ever disgraced the British throne, is absolutely ludic

rous.

Blackwood's Magazine.-" Maga" is incomparably dull this month-as lugubrious as a bundle of sermons-" as tedious as a king.' The sublime and infallible " North" must be in his dotage. Poor Byron's reputation was extinguished in the last numberScott is the sufferer in the present. In a long prosy paper, chiefly made up of extracts from the poet Warton, Mr. North gives us a delicious specimen of his critical acumen. A celebrated passage in "the Lay" meets with his disapproval :"If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins grey.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white."

"The second couplet," quoth Christie, "has no business there -omit these two lines, and you will at once feel how the effect is deepened."-Let us try :

"If you would view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon light,

When the broken arches are black in night,
And the shafted oriel glimmers white ”! ! !

Bravo Christie !-right-light-night-white!!-this is deepening the effect with a vengeance !-this is euphony and the devil to pay! Christie is not as of yore he would reduce a Scott to the level of a Wilson or a Rogers-" this is most tolerable and not to be endured."-But, alas?" old men will be talking" "when the age is in, the wit is out; God help us! it is a world to see!"-We must take Christie for what he was-not what he is.

"Multa senem circumveniunt incommoda."

The Metropolitan Magazine.-Very odd-very dull-very ignorantand very presuming. We can find nothing good enough to extract for the edification of our readers.

FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE.

Hotel de Nantes, Paris, 25 Sept. 1838.

Mr. EDITOR-May I aspire to the honour of appearing in your pages? If the following remarks be not unworthy of insertion, I shall occasionally give you brief notices of the "doings in art" on this side of the water, which I trust may prove acceptable to your English readers.

THE long talked of opera, from the pen of M. Hector Berlioz, entitled Benvenuto Cellini, has at last been produced. The drama is the joint production of M. M. Léon de Wailly and Auguste Barbier. The life of Benvenuto Cellini is crowded with episodes full of interest; giving to the dramatist only the embarrassment of choice. Benvenuto was born at Florence in the year 1500; he was a sculptor of the rarest genius, and laboured also as a goldsmith with such success that his works in that line are now sought for with the greatest avidity. Endowed with extreme courage and bravery, Čellini had more than once occasion to give astounding proofs thereof. His susceptibility relating to every thing that might throw a stain upon his honour, or his merit as a nartist, was excessive; and the greatest number of those who permitted themselves to throw a doubt on the one or the other, paid for it with their lives. This procured him numerous enemies, and he passed a great part of his life wandering from one country to another, to elude their vengeance, or confined in prisons, from which he almost invariably escaped by his energy or address.

Cellini has left us one of the most perfect autobiographies extant-almost equal to a romance in its startling adventures, and considered by his countrymen a model of language and style. In this work he tells us that he was present at the siege of Rome, where he personally encountered and killed the famous Constable of Bourbon, and after the capture of the city, retired with the papal troops to the fort St. Ange, where he manoeuvred and discharged a battery of five pieces of cannon, unaided, during an attack which was repulsed, and terminated the war.

This brave conduct was rewarded by an abominable calumnyhe was charged with having embezzled some of the precious stones from the state jewels, and was imprisoned. He succeeded in substantiating his innocence, but nothing less than the intercession of Francis the First could have snatched him from the hands of enemies ravenous for his destruction. He came to France, and completed some admirable works during his sojourn at Fontainbleau; but his noble independence of character, and his artist's pride, did not permit him to crouch before the all-powerful Duchesse d'Etampes, and, finding himself exposed to the intrigues of the

courtiers, he formed the resolution of returning to his country, where, under the protection of the Conte di Medici, he was enabled to devote himself to those labours, which, at this day, are the objects of general admiration.

We may judge from this short notice, what species of hero was the choice of M. M. Léon Wailly and Auguste Barbier. Certes, nothing could have been more favorable for the stage than this noble character. How comes it, then, "that the authors have made him but a bravo, a drunkard and a debauchee?"

The task would be painful to animadvert upon every thing trivial that this drama contains; suffice it, that with the exception of the scene in which Cellini, not possessing sufficient metal to achieve the casting of his magnificent statue of Perseus, which now adorns the market-place at Florence, sacrifices all the masterpieces of his study:-with the exception of this scene, the opera, from beginning to end, is nothing but a vaudeville, a carnival adventure, without its intrigues or its jokes.

The public reception of this opera would supersede any criticism of its music, if a grave question of art-a system peculiar to M. Berlioz, were not mixed up with it. To defend his system, M. Berlioz has often employed the columns of the Journal des Debats and the Gazette Musicale, attacking the highest and most beautiful artistical inspirations, and taxing them with insipidity, because they had obtained popular success. M. Berlioz, in this opera, has enterprised a great reform in the musical art, under the triple relation of melody, harmony, and rhythm. "A grand revolution threatens the musical world," was his announcement in the Debats some weeks ago; "musical rhythm is on the point of being changed from top to bottom." And behold—the greatest musical stage in Europe has been yielded to M. Berlioz to accomplish this great event. Alas! for the speculator, his effort has not been crowned with success. Art is based upon principles, it has laws; and neither the one nor the other must be infringed upon with impunity.

M. Berlioz's Requiem, performed at the Invalides some time since, procured him the opportunity of correcting in himself what he regarded as a defect in our present school; and the culpable indulgence shewn him on that occasion seems to have hurried both the heresy and the heretic to ruin.

In the Requiem, several things were within reach of intelligence and agreeable to the ear, which is the supreme judge in music; Benvenuto is, however, totally deprived of these qualities, and only boasts of beginnings of melodies, for no where a complete melody occurs; an achieved design, appealing to the thought and to the heart. Whatever imagination has created, calculation has destroyed; the harmonic modulations are neither rich, nor new, nor even always just. The ear is frequently very disagreeably affected by most hazardous combinations, licenses