while she lives, and fortunately for her, she is not gifted in general with sufficient power of reflection to look forward and anticipate the darkness that must, in a short time, engulf her power. Should Germany ever awaken in reality from the political dream in which it has hitherto lain oppressed, and half strangled by the nightmare of monarchy, many of its cities will probably contend for the honor of having given birth to Robert Blum, though the infamy of having been the place of his martyrdom will cling everlastingly to Vienna. Up to the present time, nearly the only talent that awakens the rivalry of German cities is that of a singer or composer. The Prussians, it is said, are proud, or were formerly, that Mademoiselle Sontag was born at Coblentz, rendered notorious in other days by the assembling there of French emigrants, to plot and conspire against liberty. As a Prussian, Henrietta was invited to Berlin, and there for a time steeped in elysium the ears of those effeminate dilettanti, who seem to have mistaken music for morality, and a rage for the opera, for patriotism. This, of course, was no fault of Mademoiselle Sontag. It was not her mission to regenerate her fatherland. As she could afford delight to the idle public, she was, and ought to be satisfied, because that was her profession, that was what she aimed at, and that, it must be owned, she accomplished triumphantly. | epicurean and degraded race had been driven forever from power; for, though a second restoration should be effected to-morrow, instead of restoring them to power, it would only place them in a position to attract and concentrate upon themselves the contempt of France and all Europe. When she returned to Berlin, a scene took place in Koenigstadht, which, while it illustrates the calm courage and self-possession of Mademoiselle Sontag, shows, at the same time, to what unmanly excesses the rage for music, real or affected, could then hurry a German audience. Because, in the search after fortune and reputation, their country woman had thought proper to exercise her talents in the French capital, those silly Berliners endeavored to overwhelm her with hisses and contempt, and tried to extract from her a promise, an oath, that she would go no more among the hated foreigners. The auri sacra fames, and her self-respect, both preserved Mademoiselle Sontag from yielding to this contemptible persecution. While they yelled, bellowed, and hissed, she stood immovable on the stage, determined not to yield a jot; and when they perceived the scornful superiority with which she treated them, they shrunk into themselves, and suffered her to display her distinguished powers for their amusement. On her return to Paris, she met and became intimate with Malibran, whose But the Berliners were not destined long extraordinary style of singing afterward to retain their fascinating country woman, made so powerful an impression on the who, yielding to the solicitations of Roche- public mind in this country. The readers foucault, backed by those of Rossini, accept- of Roman history will remember how rival ed an engagement in Paris, whither she re-jockeys had vast factions to support them paired, after having reaped a golden harvest in the Rhenish provinces, and in Holland. The French capital under the Restoration is well known to have been a sort of Circean sty, in which all the vices were cultivated to perfection, and royalty reigned over hearts dead to everything but the sense of voluptuousness. Millions would then have been cheerfully given by the Court to any one who should have invented a new pleasure. Among this effeminate rabble, noble and ignoble, Mademoiselle Sontag excited for awhile the utmost enthusiasm. The madness we have seen prevail on the subject of Jenny Lind was diffused through Paris by Sontag, whose name was in every mouth, and for whose merits there were ten thousand dandies ready to fight so many harm less duels! This was just three years before the overthrow of the Bourbons-before that in the Eternal City. in the Eternal City. Such persons will experience no surprise that, among the indolent and voluptuous citizens of Paris, every eminent prima donna has her party ready to sacrifice the reputations of all other ladies at her shrine. But Malibran and Sontag, instead of studiously exciting this absurd feeling among their admirers, had the good sense to perceive how much better it would be to cultivate each other's friendship, which they did, to the no small surprise of those petty agitators who constitute so large a portion of a singer's audience, and contribute so much to the spread of her fame. No one who has heard the two singers can fail to be sensible how vast was the difference between their styles. Calm and sweet, and possessing consummate skill, Mademoiselle Šontag displays all the resources of art in 97 "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here," her impersonations of passion. Gifted with a superior understanding, she knows how to represent every shade of feeling by the intonations of the voice; but, in on the banks of the Mississippi or the Oroher most enthusiastic moments, she is act- noko! What would he not do for him? ing still. She never forgets herself in the Would not his purse be out in an instant? character she assumes; but, by observa- Would he not take the man to his inn, tion and diligent study, has acquired the and perform on some scale, small or great, power to project herself successively into the part of the good Samaritan? Madea variety of parts, with immense facility moiselle Sontag at least did this. She and effect. Malibran, on the contrary, asked the woman where she lived, gave fiery and impetuous, often forgot herself her money, and left her. The same evenentirely, and was hurried away irresistibly ing a trusty servant was sent to the poor by the illusions of the stage. She did not actress's lodging with the means for her act, but lived the part. For a moment, return to Darmstadt, namely, £120 stershe was what she seemed, and her voice-ling; and, for seven years afterward, Sonrich, warm, flexible, and full of power-tag, without making herself known, alpoured through the theatre like a flood, lowed her a pension sufficient for her supagitating every breast, and inundating it port, and the musical education of her with pleasure. daughters. This is acting in the true spirit of Christianity; this is to It is one of the characteristics of genius to be generous and compassionate; and Mademoiselle Sontag is said to have always possessed this quality in an eminent degree. Having, in her early years, known what poverty was, she has always cherished a lively sympathy for the poor, and sought, by every means in her power, to mitigate their sufferings. This is better even than professional success-to triumph is to enjoy personal delight; but to distribute largely the fruits of that triumph among the poor, to shed joy and gladness over the humble hearth, to be a protector to the widow and the orphan, and a friend to the friendless; these are the achievements of something still nobler than genius itself-they belong to virtue and religion, and raise the mind that performs them far above all conventional greatness. One cold night, when Mademoiselle Sontag was quitting the theatre, still full of the deep emotion inspired by her having performed the part of Donna Anna, in Don Giovanni," she saw, on the step of a door, three German girls, clustered around their mother, singing the songs of their fatherland. She was immediately attracted to the group, and, on drawing nearer, discovered that the mother, a woman of about thirty, had once, as she remembered, been a singer in the theatre at Darmstadt. All persons understand the love of country all know what it is to have one's patriotism awakened by distress in a foreign land. Imagine one of my readers hearing an acquaintance, however slight or casual, striking up, VOL. XIX. NO. I. "Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame." One of these three girls has since risen to During her residence in Paris, Made- We now come to Mademoiselle Sontag's appearance in London, which may be regarded as by far the most important event in her life, all she had achieved on the Con 7 tinent having been nothing but a prelude to this greater triumph. The managers of the opera-house were some time in negotiation with her before she would accept an engagement; which may be accounted for by the very natural wish on her part to enhance her own merits, and to yield only to the most pressing solicitations. In singing, as in other things, coyness and distance only augment the eagerness of desire. The more peremptory was her refusal, the higher rose the offers of the managers; till, having at length reached the desired pitch, she gracefully yielded, and quitted Paris for London. There was then among the opera-goers the same sort of rage for Sontag as we have since witnessed for Jenny Lind, though the press did not yield itself so completely to the tyranny of music. Novelty, of course, had its influence, and for a short time even Pasta herself appeared to be eclipsed by the new star from Germany. But in the minds of all true judges there never existed a moment's hesitation in deciding between the two singers. Madame Pasta, in truth, stood alone; not only without any one who could rival, but without any one who could approach her. Equal, perhaps, as an actress, to Mrs. Siddons herself, she possessed a voice which, however it may be technically characterized, was in all respects the finest in the world. They who judge by ordinary rules, may deny it the praise of this or that quality, but it had precisely the thing which constitutes the highest excellence. It was unequaled for its power of exciting emotion, and searching all the recesses of the heart. We have placed ourselves in every part of the opera-house, in order to be able to observe its effects from different distances in the stalls, in the pit, in the slips, in the boxes, in the gallery and everywhere the same absorbing flood of sound has enveloped us. To technicalities we often attach no definite idea. It signifies nothing whether her voice was a mezzo sopraIt was an instrument of unparalleled force, flexibility, and sweetness, and expressed, better than that of any woman we ever heard, the most subtle workings of the passions. Madame Pasta appeared to infuse her intellect into her voice, and listening to her was consequently a pleasure, differing in kind from listening to any other singer. In two things, especially, she seemed to us to attain something like perfection-in expressing the joy of triumph and passion, and the keenest and most poignant feelings of sorrow. Thus she embraced the poles, as it were, of human feeling, the excess of joy and the ex no or not. cess of grief; and she ranged through all the intermediate sentiments with a grace, ease, and power, unknown to other singers. Nevertheless, when Mademoiselle Sontag made her appearance, that most distinguished woman was thrown into the shade. We went, of course, to hear the new singer, and felt and admitted all her excellencies. She had a style entirely her own, some idea of which we may have succeeded in conveying to the reader, though it is so impossible to do this completely, that the celebrity, built on the exercise of the voice, must inevitably perish for that very reason. In all other arts, a complete terminology has been invented by artists. You can convey an idea of any peculiar excellence from age to age. You may describe poetry, or painting, or sculpture, so as to enable future generations to judge correctly of the productions you delineate, though they should themselves, in the interval, be utterly lost. But not so of singing. It perishes as it is born. It penetrates the soul, and creates, as it were, a thrill of pleasure in it, as when you cast a stone into the ocean, and produce an emotion on its surface. But when the emotion has subsiupon the ded, no distinct idea has been left mind-nothing but a confused recollection of delight—an impassioned memory, if we may so express ourselves-of which we can render no account to others. We may be elothe pleasure we have quent, indeed, on tasted; we may dilate upon it; we may excite the envy of our hearers or readers; we may create the impression that it was something wonderful; but of its nature and extent we can convey no conception. heard Mademoiselle Sontag in several of her favorite parts-in "The Barber of Seville," in "Otello," in "The Cenerentola," in "The Crociato in Egitto," in "Don Giovanni”—and in each and all of these her performance inspired us with extraordinary delight. She was young, moreover, and handsome; and her person, consequently, strengthened the impression made by her voice. There was something sylph-like and bounding in her form. Fair, with peculiarly fine arms and neck, she seemed the most delicate of opera queens; and the knowledge that her character was every way equal to her abilities tinged your admiration with profound respect. We Still, we never could look on her with the same eyes as we looked on Madame Pasta, whose character was equally excellent, and whose genius was greatly superior. When she appeared upon the stage, the applause was possibly less vociferous, but it was more power of every kind; and, consequently, even the Czar, hateful as he is to every man of liberal sentiments, becomes amiable toward singers, whom he patronizes and enriches with lavish munificence. No wonder, therefore, that Sontag was a favorite at St. Petersburg-that the Czar smiled upon her, that the nobles re-echoed the sentiments of the court. Fortune, of course, followed in the train of all this patronage; and the amount of property amassed by the successful use of the voice was, in Henrietta's case, great almost beyond example. heartfelt. There was a majesty in her manner which often rebuked boisterousness into silence. There would have been more demonstration had the delight felt been less. She did not seem so much a person to be applauded as to be gazed at with silent rapture. It is known that her figure was latterly deformed by corpulence-that she moved heavily, and not apparently without effort-but the instant her figure appeared from behind the scene, one deep universal thrill of pleasure passed through the whole house; and then, perhaps, followed bursts of tumultuous applause. But we have been present when the only intimations of pleasure given by an immense audience were suppressed sobs and tears-when the women all wept irresistibly, and the men hid their faces in their hands to conceal their emotion. There was no applause then-no shouting, no clap-wife to remain upon the stage. But, as she ping, no throwing of wreaths or bouquets on the stage. One universal sob was the only tribute to her genius, except that here and there women went into hysterics, while men, ashamed of their humanity, dashed out of their boxes to recover themselves in the corridor. Such were the effects of Pasta's singing, and they were such as we have never seen produced in the same degree by any other performer. On one occasion we heard Pasta, Sontag, and Velluti, in the same opera; and we have more than once heard Sontag play "Desdemona" to Pasta's "Otello." We could then compare the voices of the two singers, and estimate the effect produced on the mind by each. In Pasta art was so complete that it concealed art, and seemed to be pure nature; but in Sontag you always felt the presence of science, and the extraordinary resources of art-consummate and wonderful, indeed, but still you felt them, to the no small diminution of your pleasure. From London, Mademoiselle Sontag returned to Berlin, whence, after having sung with the usual effect, she departed, by the way of Warsaw, for St. Petersburg. Despotism, fatal to everything else, is propitious to the opera, which shows that there is nothing revolutionary in music. This, indeed, is perhaps the only art which can be said to thrive within the precincts of tyranny. The poet, the sculptor, and the painter, may so far forget their sacred missions as to contribute to adorn a despot's reign, though the influence of their genius is circumscribed by his arbitrary authority; while they themselves are degraded in becoming instruments of imperial pleasure. Music easily allies itself with At length came the period when the King of Sardinia consented to allow the Count di Rossi to make his marriage public. Up to that period, the policy of the Court of Turin had ably seconded the interests of the Count, which were greatly promoted by suffering his was thought to have accumulated sufficient, the royal assent was immediately obtained to her public recognition as Countess di Rossi. Then, of course, followed her retirement from the lyric boards, where she had won so many laurels, and enjoyed so much personal gratification. It is observed by one of her biographers that the King of Sardinia was induced, by her eminent virtues, to hasten the period of her recognition, and afterward, by the same sagacious writer, that the King of Bavaria was likewise excited to admiration by her virtues. That Mademoiselle Sontag's virtues were great and numerous, we acknowledge with pleasure; and we believe there is no person in Europe who does not yield her the tribute of praise on that score. But it is pre-eminently comic to be told that the lover of Lola Montes particularly admired Mademoiselle Sontag for her virtues; in truth, we have yet to learn that virtue is any recommendation to a king-especially that virtue of self-respect for which Mademoiselle Sontag was always remarkable. We think it far more probable that her personal beauty, and the power of her voice, were her chief recommendations; and that, if she had been less virtuous, the attraction would. have been thought to be so much the greater. However, virtuous she was, and is, in spite of kings and courts, and we entertain no doubt that when she was admitted into the diplomatic circles at the Hague, she constituted by far the most eminent and remarkable personage there. This we say through our admiration for genius of every kind, and not out of any disrespect toward diplomatists, or diplomatists' wives, who generally have as much vanity as any prima donna, though often without any of her claims to the admiration of the world. We remarked at the outset that, when Mademoiselle Sontag quitted the theatre, she made far too great a sacrifice, and one to which her inclinations by no means prompted. On the contrary, it is evident she always regretted the life she had left; and, in the midst of what is called high society, sighed for the laborious days when most of her hours were spent in study, and in preparing for the triumphs of the evening. This we learn from the tenor of her amusements, which were all, more or less, connected with music. On every fitting occasion she allowed herself to be induced to sing, not through what is properly called vanity, but through the consciousness of possessing distinguished talents, properly to exercise which is to be happy. The droning trivialities of society could not content her; and the position she occupied, respectable and influential in itself, could not permit her to enjoy the true delights of domestic life. Even these, however desirable they may be, would never have satisfied a woman accustomed to the turbulent emotions of a prima donna. Women who have never emerged from privacy know nothing of the intoxicating influence of fame, and it is well they should never know it. All cannot be public personages; all cannot figure on the stage. Their best and holiest duties lie elsewhere at the domestic hearth, beside the cradles of their children, in the society of their husbands, or at the bedside of sickness and sorrow-and the performance of these duties will suffice, when nothing more is known, to fill up their whole minds, and gratify all their aspirations. But when a woman has been a prima donnawhen the admiration of the world has raised her into something like imperial pre-eminence-when, night after night, through weeks, and months, and years, she has swayed the emotions of thousands of hearts at once, and been habituated to applause, to deference, to personal admiration, and to the eulogies of the press-it is not within the power of human nature to relinquish all these pleasures without a sigh, in order to be received in cold diplomatic circles as Countess this or that. - Accordingly, we find Mademoiselle Sontag, in whatever circle she moved, getting up concerts, and making the nearest approaches possible to the life of the stage. No doubt she derived from these mimic exhibitions a certain degree of satisfaction-faint, indeed, and vapid, when compared to the pleasures of her former life; but, being rational and good, she reconciled herself as best she might to the unenviable splendors of her new position-always sighing, however, in secret for the occurrence of some stroke of fortune, some blessed calamity, which would carry her back in triumph to the stage, and enable her to taste once more that tumultuous joy inspired by beholding pleasure in ten thousand faces piled from floor to ceiling, and by hearing innumerable voices shouting your name with grateful rapture. Nothing is more commonplace than the life of an ordinary diplomatist, who devotes his days and nights to the practice of political intrigue, which, though it keeps up an incessant effervescence in the minds of those who are plunged in it, leads in general to no great result. If this be true of the husbands, who are the principal actors, it is still truer of the wives. Of course they have their own intrigues, the management of which amuses them a little now and then; but this also, from its sameness, soon grows insipid, and they take to cards and scandal as the only infallible remedies for ennui. What attractions could Mademoiselle Sontag find in the perpetual society of such women? Persons who exercise their intellects often wish they could enjoy an immortality upon earth; because, engaged perpetually in the development of mental energy, they think that existence would never pall upon the appetite, or urge them to call upon death as their sweetest deliverer. But, to inert and insane people, the period of life is too protracted as it is. They cannot fill it up with useful exertion, cannot discover agreeable employment for their time, and have often no recourse but in the excite ment of vice. But the person, be it man or woman, who has cultivated any art, is never plunged into this lamentable vacuity, this Serbonian bog of existence, which overwhelms with despair. Mademoiselle Sontag, pregnant with active faculties, always desired to be engaged in doing something-in acts of benevolence, in acts of friendship, and, above all things, in the exercise of her art. A lady, writing from the Baltic, thus describes some days spent in the society of Mademoiselle Sontag, during a period of ruralizing at Revel: "And now let me revert more particularly to one of the fairest ornaments, both in mind and person, which our party possesses, whose never clouded name is such favorite property with the public, as to justify one in naming it-I mean the Countess Rossi. The advantages which her pe |