For through thy beautiful lips Heaven speaks to its children,
and thy voice brings us news from those realms above,
which are the asylum of all.
VII.
When thou shalt have returned to the Kingdom of Harmonies,
and no mortal coil shall restrain thy power;
then, amidst the angelic choir, thou shalt sing to the throne supreme,
and blessed! thou shalt receive the highest reward of terrestrial singer!
We have traced here but very imperfectly what we have observed ourselves, heard from travellers, or collected from the many journals and reviews of Germany. What we have recorded is but a very small portion of the sum of constant happiness, of constant triumph, which attended Madame de Rossi since she left the theatrical career. But at last came the fatal year 1848, when a political eruption, unprecedented for magnitude and extent, fell upon the whole fabric of human happiness on the Continent, as unforeseen and as destructive as the volcanic outburst which, in a past age, buried Pompeii. Madame de Rossi's fortune, when the revolution broke out at Berlin, was placed partly with bankers, partly in commercial securities; commerce ceased, public credit was shaken, and private credit lost, and with the latter the fortune of Madame de Rossi. Shortly afterwards followed the events in Sardinia, in its turn deeply affecting the fortunes of her husband, and threatening the Count Rossi with the loss of that office which he had so long and so honorably held. On the first news of the losses experienced by Madame de Rossi, knowing how perfectly she had preserved her voice, the Direction of Her Majesty's Theatre made, in the most delicate manner that could be devised, ample offers to the unfortunate lady, in case she should deem it necessary to return to the scene of her former triumphs. The Count and Countess Rossi did not contemplate then the necessity of so great a sacrifice. Later offers of unlimited temptation were made by other parties, and emissaries sent to Berlin secretly to treat with the great vocalist of the golden age of the opera. But they were at once refused. As events assumed a darker complexion, Madame de Rossi, the most affectionate of mothers, grew more and more anxious for her children, and used every endeavor to prevail on her noble husband to sacrifice the privileges and prejudices of rank, and the sweets of high office, to the future welfare of their children. An artist of European fame, who not only commands admiration by his talents, his conversational powers, his elegant and amiable manners, and his noble and elevated character—M. Thalberg, happened some months since to be in Berlin, and he is said to have seconded Madame de Rossi's efforts to persuade her husband. Communications were resumed with the Direction of Her Majesty's Theatre, although still in a problematical and conditional form, and the Count Rossi repaired to Turin to endeavor to release himself from his duties. After some delay, the Count obtained permission from his sovereign to retire for a time from his career. When it was known later at Turin what was the cause of his retirement, and that it was definitive, letters were written, by order of the sovereign, in the highest degree cordial and flattering, both to M. and Madame de Rossi. From Turin the Count returned to Berlin; there Mr. Lumley had suddenly arrived—every arrangement was made, and a week after he had left Berlin, the Count and Countess Rossi arrived in London in a manner totally unforeseen. In a week more she appeared on the stage, and although, unlike other great singers, she had not, owing to the necessity of secresy, been preceded by those announcements which habitually long beforehand herald forth a prima donna, and work upon public expectation, her reception was one never surpassed in enthusiasm.
When the circumstances in which Madame Sontag has once more appeared on the horizon with undiminished glory are considered, a feeling of something more than admiration takes possession of the observer. To behold beings, of which there are not one in so many millions, whose existence has scarcely been thought of, come in a critical hour, interpose their power, uphold a noble establishment, and at once defeat all the workings of intrigue, envy, and ingratitude, partakes of that providential character of events to which all others are secondary. This is the second time that such an interposition has occurred as regards the greatest theatrical institution of the country. If there existed in reality such a random power as chance, such events could scarcely be reckoned amongst its casualties.
If there could be any one so devoid of love for what is really good and really great, as not to be inspired by interest in the eventful life we have so very superficially sketched, they need only to repair to the theatre where our heroine appears, for them to change their disposition. Nothing ever could resist, off the stage or on it, the sterling merit either of Countess Rossi, or of Madame Sontag.