In the summer of 1825, it happened that a young man, whom we shall simply call Louis, a musician by profession, arrived in Berlin. He had long wished to visit this city; its advancement in art, its gifted men, the cultivation and taste of its citizens generally, were no slight attractions for the artist and student. It was his rule to neglect no opportunity of hearing anything good; so that he usually visited the opera every evening.

One day soon after his arrival in Berlin, passing the opera house, he saw a man fastening a fresh bill to a column of the building. He waited to read it; it announced the sudden illness of one of the singers, on which account the evening's entertainment was to be changed. Instead of the Otello of Rossini, Don Giovanni was to be performed.

While Louis stood, attentively reading the bill, he heard a soft female voice close to him say, "Ah! I am so glad of that!” He turned quickly, and saw a beautiful young girl, who had noticed the bill in passing by. When she caught the young man's look, she blushed, and turning away her head, walked hastily on. Louis stood gazing after her; the tones of her rich voice had charmed him, but much more her slender, elegant, and graceful figure, and the lovely face of which he had caught a brief glimpse. Unacquainted with the ways of young men in large cities, he did not follow her, but stood looking till she vanished

from his sight, and then went thoughtfully towards his lodgings.

Suddenly the idea struck him, she will of course be at the opera to-night! and he resolved to do what he had never done before, observe the ladies particularly.

The hour came for the opera; carriages rolled along the streets; Louis sat in the pit where he could see over the house, and looked eagerly around for his unknown fair one. In vain! she was nowhere to be seen!

The magnificent overture began; Louis was now in despair. She would not be at the opera; for who would miss the overture to Don Giovanni! He was disappointed, and felt only half roused to his wonted enthusiasm. The grief of Donna Anna, Elvira's tears, Zerlina's witchery, Don Giovanni's bold wickedness, failed to excite him as they had been used to do. In fact, he only half listened to the music.

The performance was at an end. Discontented and vexed with himself, Louis stood in the vestibule while the crowd was passing out. Just then he caught the tones of a remembered voice-" To the left, dear father, the carriage is at the other door!" He started, and pressing forward, saw what appeared to be the same dark silk scarf he had seen in the morning. It was worn by a young lady, who leaned on the arm of an elderly man ; and both were going towards the side door. Louis was about to follow them,

when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and at the same moment his arm was grasped by some one in the crowd. Good evening, friend!" cried a rough voice. "Whither, in such haste? I have been looking for you everywhere. Quick, come with me! We shall sup together!" The speaker was Heissenheimer, an old merchant; an excellent man, and a passionate admirer of music. Louis had brought a letter to him; and thus he found it impossible to decline his friendly invitation, unwelcome as it was just at this moment. Mechanically he suffered himself to be led away, wishing, however, the old gentleman and his supper at the bottom of the sea, and looking back more than once, to see if he could catch a glimpse of his beautiful unknown. Nothing could be seen but a throng of strange faces, and his companion hurried him out of the nearest side door, to escape the confusion.

While they made their way through the crowd without, Heissenheimer did not observe the abstraction of his young companion. But they soon emerged into a clear space, where the moon shone brightly on noble buildings; and the old man suddenly cried-"But have you nothing, friend, to say? I have been waiting for the expression of your delight, and hardly kept my own within bounds. What is the meaning of this? Is anything the matter?"

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"Nay, Mr. Heissenheimer," turned the young man, smiling. "I have felt the beauty of the work none the less, that I have enjoyed it in silence."

"But," cried the other petulantly, "that is not the way with young people! I like not this dullness, and grave looks, when the heart should be full of joy. You have youthful spirits, love, fire in your breast, and should give them vent! Be cheerful, I tell you; be delighted, be frolicsome, be half mad with enthusiasm; or I warn you, you have old Heissenheimer for an enemy! But stop; here we are at the place already!”

They stood under some linden trees, in front of a house whose lower story was brilliantly lighted. The light fell full upon the street through the windows. Before they entered, both turned to look at some passers-by. What was the astonishment of Louis, to recognize his fair unknown, leaning on the arm of the elderly man he had seen at the opera! The lamplight shone upon her face; it was the very same! He started forward; nothing now would have withheld him; but Heissenheimer sprang also towards them, exclaiming " Ha! Signor Ricco! Maestro! whither away! Good even to you, pretty Nina!"

Both stopped at this salutation. While Heissenheimer was speaking with them, Louis stood in some embarrassment; till his friend recollected himself, and presented him. "Ecco

Maestro-here is a young musician, who will give you something to do: he will dispute with you about Sebastian Bach and Rossini. Master Louis

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the chapel-master, Signor Ricco, and his daughter Nina!" Louis bowed, coloring deeply, and murmured some indefinite words about pleasure and honor. His companion interrupted them with" My good friends, may I beg the favor of your company with us? Will you sup in the Café Royal, fair Nina ?" Nina declined the invitation gracefully, but begged her father not to lose the pleasure. Their home was only two doors off, and she could go there without escort. will all escort you,” said the old merchant, "hurt as I am that you will not go with us. Two or three more gallant speeches passed, and the three accompanied the young lady to the chapelmaster's house. After a polite acknowledgment of their courtesy, Nina disappeared; the gentlemen went to the café where an excellent supper was prepared, with the best wines; and Heissenheimer played the merry host to his heart's content.

AFTER Signor Ricco had explained the mystery of his daughter and himself going home on foot, their carriage having disappointed them, the conver

sation turned on the opera they had just seen. The chapel-master declared, with a half comic distortion of face, that he wished he had stayed away.

"And why, maestro?" asked Heissenheimer. "I hoped to have heard Rossini's magnificent Otello; and was compelled to take instead that confounded Don Giovanni."

Ricco," said the old merchant, you are certainly skilled in the black art, and have wrought magic upon me; else I know not what prevents me from throwing this empty champagne flask at your head! Butler-some more wine! and have done, chapel-master, with your nonsense about Rossini, for whom I know you care as little as I and tell us truly, were you not enraptured with the glorious masterpiece of to-night ?"

"O Germans-where are your ears? Caro Heissenheimer, I will tell you the truth; but shall I, mio cuore, criticise as an Italian or a German ?" "What do you mean by the distinction ?" asked Louis.

"What a question! Young man, can you be so ignorant? As Italian, I complain that this opera gives me no rest; that I must be kept on the stretch from beginning to end; that I forget the singers in the orchestra; that I feel more fear and horror than delight; in short, I complain that the devil, instead of Don Giovanni, has not taken the composer, who forces me to labor, where I expected only pleasure. But I can also complain as a German. Do you think I know not what you wish Per Bacco! the misfortune is, you only half wish! An opera should be a whole; connected from beginning to end; each impression on the mind should be a stone added to the dramatic structure, strengthened by the music. Is it not so ?"

adopts the other's opinion. Do they not agree-you have not independence enough to yield to an impression of nature, and judge thereby, the thing is worthless. If a German is dying with rapture, he is to blame if not enraptured according to rule! Corpo di Bacco! I have more gall in me than wine! Fill my glass!"

"You are leaving the subject— Signor Ricco," said Louis; " you were to complain of Don Giovanni as a German. I confess, I am curious to hear you.'

"I also," added the merchant. "But it will come to nothing; for I see he is treating us to one of his accustomed jokes."

Nay-it is my ardor that leads me to digression. To return to Don Giovanni. At first-and then the Germans were reasonable, for they had in their theatres chiefly the works of Italian composers or their pupils-at first, I say the thing was not popular, and with reason.

"Stupid slanderer!" exclaimed Heissenheimer.

"There were in it a few good musical touches, and the Germans thought it a pity the work should be lost. They fitted on a skilful theory; they found that Don Giovanni stabs the commendatore, and commits other crimes, and is finally carried off by the devil: the thing is complete, and has a capital moral! Why should it not please? So its nonsense and folly are passed over. A single wise head has seen through it, who really understands more of the opera than your thirty millions of Germans besides. This was your late Hoffmann. He marked well where the thing halted: but he admired the music, and put a good face on it for his countrymen, quieting the last murmurs of their consciences. How he must have laughed over their fond delusion!"

"As well as I can gather your meaning," said the young artist, "you seem to think there is a want of unity of idea in the action and music of Don Giovanni ?”

"I should be blind and deaf if I thought otherwise."

"And thus, as a German, you would find fault with the work?" Exactly."

"I entreat you, then, to dispense with your oracular ambiguity, and

passing by a few improbabilities and other trifling defects to show us where is the vulnerable heel of this Achilles."

"Ha, maestro!" cried the merchant, "you have but shallow water for the war-ship with which you mean to manœuvre round this walled and fortified citadel of art! You will be aground presently."

"On the contrary-I will make you a breach, so that the enemy shall march in with all his forces."

"Triumph not too soon!" cried Louis-" for we shall fight to the last man in its defence."

Right, my young friend!" added Heissenheimer; and Ricco proceeded, after a digression or two, from which he was called back by his two challengers

"Is it not true, friends, that in a drama each principal person should contribute substantially to the progress of the action? You assent; well-in Don Giovanni there are five-the Commendatore, Giovanni, Octavio, Donna Anna, and Elvira. I have nothing against the old man, nor Giovanni. Your Hoffmann has cunningly rescued Donna Anna from criticism; Octavio may be considered to have a sort of right to his place. He is, so to speak, the earthly hostage for the elevated Anna, or rather the stake to which she is bound. Now for Donna Elvira. Many have felt that this fifth person is the fifth wheel to the wagon; and in many ways they have sought to justify her appearance. But it has not succeeded. Your Hoffmann does best, who says as good as nothing of her.

"I thought," observed Louis, "she was to be regarded as an avenging goddess; at least, so the great composer conceived her, even if the poet assigned her a somewhat doubtful place.

“Excellent!” cried the merchant. "What have you to say to that, Ricco ?"

"That it is not true. An avenging goddess-who whimpers rather than implores for love, and at last would snatch from_justice the object of her revenge! The kneeling in the last finale, or ante-finale (for you would have a battle also about this double close), looks like revenge!-Look you, this Elvira could be borne, or not ob

served, if she did not so lower herself in the middle of the piece. And here the composer is even more in fault than the poet. The terzetto in A major I will let pass; I will believe she can forgive her repentant betrayer, and love him again. But the sestetto! Have you borne in mind what wickedness has been committed towards her! I am an Italian, and we look over some things more easily than you. Germans. But a Chinese, or a barbarian, must revolt at this! The trusting, confiding, forgiving, loving Elvira, is exposed to the deepest disgracethe most crushing insult! Has she a spark of womanly pride or Castilian spirit in her breast, it must burst into a flame that will consume the guilty betrayer, or sweep the wretched victim to destruction. What has she suffered? The most horrible injury that can be inflicted on a woman! Why does she not snatch a dagger, to plunge it into the breast of the slave who has been employed against her-or that of the fiend Don Giovanni, the author of the outrage, or those who behold her dishonor-or, Lucretia-like, into her own? Go-you Germans, and boast of your passion for completeness! You feel not where a work of art strikes the heart. When Leporello's mask is fallen, and Elvira, who should sink back in despair, or rise in the invincible might of revenge, sings so passionately with the other five voices -as if nothing more had happened to her than Zerlina,—I feel my blood boil! Would our Rossini have done the like? In his polonaises you feel the dolor of love could you only understand the heavenly melodies as the maestro himself conceived them! The notes are not—indeed—but he dreamed of a singer such as your wooden German never thought of a singer, the charm of whose expression could enno-ble the most insignificant passages into a moving plaint of the heart! Have you never heard that the English Garrick could so repeat the alphabet as to move his audience to tears? So it is with Rossini's music. He. sacrifices himself; he wants not to shine; but that his performers should. But your German hears from paper; and thus writes tolerably. And you trouble not yourselves, if your singers misrepresent the best your master has. furnished. The performance of to-