How to grow Rich. The benevolent tar and the monk were emblems of False and True; and as I looked in the face of the fair quaker, I could not but conclude that she was thinking more of the Way to get Married, than of those about her; for notwithstanding I by no means conceived her to be a Romp, yet her beautiful eyes seemed alternately to say She Would and she Would Not; and you need not be informed, Tom, that Seeing is Believing. The Poor Gentleman, who was an attentive, yet a silent, observer of all that passed, reminded me of Days of Yore, though his countenance indicated that he wanted A Cure for the Heart Ache; while the spare form and lank visage of the monk had the appearance of the Castle Spectre. I was awoke from these Trances of Nourjahad, as the coach stopped opposite the Haunted Inn, by the pressing solicitations of an interesting Country Girl, who was a Sailor's Daughter, in behalf of a Distressed Mother. The benevolent tar emptied his Purse, the monk gave her his benediction, the fair Quaker a tear or two, the citizen some sage advice she was not capable of following, which is too often The Way of the World, and the Poor Gentleman administered Sighs, those envoys of the heart, which he would fain have repressed, and which bespoke him a Man of Ten Thousand. The company here separated. I took up my abode in the First Floor of a Boarding House, resolving to adopt Cheap Living, as our theatre is not yet opened; and as I am not certain but you will set all this down as the Lie of the Day, or consider me as acting the part of Harlequin Hoax, I shall, without wasting any more time, subscribe myself, dear Tom, your's truly, Jan. 28th, 1829.

J. P.

MODERN ENGLISH OPERA.

Music shall wake her: That hath power to charm
Pale sickness, and avert the stings of pain:
But ever on the mind the sure effects
Are most conspicuous, where the varied notes
Can raise or quell our passions, and becalm
In sweet oblivion the too wakeful sense
Of grief or love; and print a dimpled smile
On the green bloodless cheek of dumb despair.
Such powerful strains bid harmony resound:
Such as good spirits are supposed to sing

O'er saints, while death dissolves the union band,

And frees them from the fretful dream of life.-FENTON.

Perhaps no department of the English drama has degenerated more than the opera, and it may therefore be interesting to many to trace the origin and progress of this species of stage performances from the beginning of the last century to the present day. The operas, though not

known by that title, represented in the time of Dryden, are now nearly forgotten; and of those which the famous Purcell composed only a few of the most celebrated songs and choruses remain. The Indian Queen, the Indian Emperor, Bonduca, and Don Quixote, with several others, once so celebrated, are nearly consigned to oblivion, and Dryden's Tempest is the only one now generally known: the beauty of its music will always ensure admiration, so long as music shall continue to charm. About a century ago, the excellence of Handell's compositions, which were a species of music imported from the Italian school, brought the Italian opera into fashion, and from its novelty and style delighted an English audience. The applause with which the operas of Rhadamistus and Agrippina were received, as recorded in Sir John Hawkins's History of Music, appears to have far exceeded the approbation bestowed on some similar productions of later times. Indeed, the rage for the Italian opera was then so great, that it called forth the censure of Addison, who endeavoured to show the folly of his countrymen, in their pretending to admire what they could not understand; and to correct, at that time, the taste of the English audiences, he endeavoured to introduce upon the stage a species of opera which should combine intellect with harmony; he produced, therefore, in 1707 his Rosamond, of which it has been justly observed," that the subject is well chosen, the fable agreeable and interesting, the imagery beautiful, and the versification easy and harmonious." It did not, however, with all its beauties, succeed, in consequence of its music, which was by Clayton, being as bad as the opera itself was excellent; but had the music been from the pen of an eminent composer, such as Arne or Shield, there is little doubt that it would have met with the greatest success. Some years afterwards the Beggars' Opera appeared. This is one of the most whimsical dramas ever produced upon the English stage, but notwithstanding possesses much to entitle it to the success it has always met with. The music was by Dr. Pepusch, and he harmonized the popular ballads to which the songs are written in a very correct and masterly manner. We are, however, indebted for some of our best English operas to the united talents of Bickerstaff and Arne; of which Love in a Village (although almost literally taken from Charles Johnson's Village Opera,) is one of the best specimens now extant; its music, composed by Dr. Arne, combines sublimity with harmony, peculiar to his own style of composition, and can never be heard by an English audience without the highest gratification. His Artaxerxes has generally been considered his chef-d'œuvre; but he has there copied too closely the Italian school of his time, and has endeavoured, by the difficulty of his bravuras, to astonish rather than delight his audience. The operas of Lionel and Clarissa, the Maid of the Mill, and the Duenna, are excellent productions, and must always hold a distinguished rank in our theatre, and continue to be admired by all real lovers of English melody.

If we examine the operas of the present day, we shall find by far the greater number of the stories contemptible and ridiculous, and the music more distinguished for its difficulty than its melody. The fable of an opera is now generally made a vehicle for songs, and it is of little consequence how frivolous or absurd it may be; and, as long as there are words capable of being arranged to music, the merit of the drama is entirely overlooked or forgotten. If any one of our modern operas was to be performed without its music, an audience would not tolerate it for a single night; but with the aid of Braham, Paton, Madame Vestris, Love, &c. it is repeated with the greatest success for a whole season. Every one, who is capable of understanding them, knows what wretched productions the Italian operas are; but, fortunately for the poet, (for it seems a poet is a regular appendage to the Opera-house) the greatest part of the polite world who frequent that theatre do not understand scarce one word they hear. But are our English authors condemned to write, and our composers to set, nonsense? why do they seem to act on the maxim of the old Italian opera writers, that "nothing is capable of being well set to music that is not nonsense?" and which has been so well satirized by Addison." The English," as that elegant writer observes, "have a genius for performances of a much higher nature, and capable of giving the mind a much nobler entertainment." It is not, however, the words only of our modern operas that deserve censure, but the music also; this yet demands much innovation to raise it to that state of excellence which may be brought in comparison with those pure specimens and excellent models of English music, the works of Purcell and Arne, and more recently the compositions of the late Mr. Shield, will ever afford us. Let any person examine the music of our modern operas, and he will find them without either the boldness and animation of Purcell, the simplicity and elegance of Arne, or the purity and melody of our late lamented composer, Mr. Shield. Their labours are specimens of the genuine English school, and will ever be heard with delight; while, in the generality of modern compositions, ornament supplies the place of feeling, and rapid execution is substituted for true genius and correct taste. It is to be hoped that we shall now be provided with an author who will write an opera with more regard to dramatic rule, or at least with some attention to sense and probability; and a composer who will be content to imitate those pure models of simplicity and harmony which at one time spoke so feelingly to the heart, and tended in no little degree to improve the passions, in the place of that vitiated taste which has so long governed the style of our composers, and been the means of bringing the English opera to its present abject state.

PROVINCIAL INTELLIGENCE.

ANECDOTES OF THE FRENCH STAGE.

According to the authority of the best writers, Luzare Baif, a gentleman of Angevin, was the first who intro