There is not a little good sense in this, viewed as a matter of political strategy; but as a promise of national weal, it is fearfully vain. Heaven help our good estate of the Union, when we must resort to such chicanery, to guard our seat of honor, and to secure the guaranty of our Freedom!
The cool air—nothing else—has quickened our pen-stroke to a side-dash at political action: we will loiter back now, in our old, gossiping way, to the pleasant current of the dinner chat.
The winter-music has its share of regard; and between Biscaccianti—whose American birth does not seem to lend any patriotic fervor to her triumphs—and the new Opera, conversation is again set off with its rounding Italian expletives, and our ladies—very many of them—show proof of their enthusiasm, by their bouquets, and their bravos. It would seem that we are becoming, with all our practical cast, almost as music-loving a people as the finest of foreign dillettanti: we defy a stranger to work his way easily and deftly into the habit of our salon talk, without meeting with such surfeit of musical critique, as he would hardly find at any soirée of the Chausée d'Antin, or of Grosvenor Place. There is bruited just now, with fresh force, the old design of music for the million; and an opera house with five thousand seats, will be—if carried into effect—a wonder to ourselves, and to the world.
As our pen runs just now to music, it may be worth while to sketch—from Parisian chronicle—an interview of the famous composer Rossini, with the great musical purveyor of the old world—Mr. Lumley.
Rossini, it is well known, has lately lived in a quiet and indolent seclusion; and however much he may enjoy his honors, has felt little disposition to renew them. The English Director, anxious to secure some crowning triumph for his winter campaign, and knowing well that a new composition of the great Italian would be a novelty sure of success, determined to try, at the cost of an Italian voyage, a personal interview.
Rossini lives at Bologna—a gloomy old town, under the thrall and shadow of the modern Gallic papacy. He inhabits an obscure house, in a dark and narrow street. Mr. Lumley rings his bell, and is informed by the padrona that the great master has just finished his siesta, and will perhaps see him. He enters his little parlor unannounced. It is comfortably furnished—as comfort is counted in the flea-swarming houses of Italy; the furniture is rich and old; the piano is covered with dust. The old master of sweet sounds is seated in a high-backed chair, with a gray cat upon his knees, and another cat dextrously poising on his lank shoulder, playing with the tassel of his velvet cap.
He rises to meet the stranger with an air of ennui, and a look of annoyance, that seems to say, "Please sir, your face is strange, and your business is unknown."
"My name is Lumley," says the imperturbable Director.