The Bishop, and especially Piccini père, were thunderstruck. There was a roughness and poverty about the accompaniment which showed that the young performer was far from having completed his studies in harmony; but, at the same time, there was no mistaking the fire, the true emotion, which characterised his playing. The father thought of going into a violent passion, but the Bishop would not hear of such a thing.

"Music is evidently the child's true vocation," said the worthy ecclesiastic. "He must be a musician, and one day, perhaps, will be a great composer."

Nicolas Piccini had, indeed, given an unmistakeable sign of genius. As the child Pascalwithout receiving a lesson in geometry, dis, covered thirty-two of Euclid's propositions, so the child Piccini, without master or method, had learnt to play the harpsichord (in his own way, it is true), and had even acquired something of the principles of harmony.

The Bishop would now not let old Piccini rest until he consented to send his son to the Conservatory of Music directed by the celebrated Leo. The father was obliged to give in at last, and Nicolas was sent off to Naples. Here he was confided to the care of an inferior professor, who was by no means aware of the child's precocious talent. The latter was soon disgusted with the routine of the class, and conceived the daring project of composing a mass, being at the time scarcely acquainted even with the elements of composition. He was conscious of the audacity of his undertaking, and therefore confided it to no one; but somehow or other the news got abroad that little Nicolas had composed a Grand Mass, and before long Leo himself heard of it.

Then the great professor sent for his young pupil, who arrived trembling from head to foot, thinking apparently that for a boy of his age to compose a mass was a species of crime.

Leo was grave, but not so severe as the young composer had expected.

"You have written a mass ?" he commenced. "Excuse me, sir, I could not help it;" said young Piccini.

"Let me see it ?"

Nicolas went to his room for the score, and brought it back, together with the orchestral parts all carefully copied out.

After casting a rapid glance at the score, Leo took the parts, went into the concert-room, and distributed them to a certain number of executants who were now collected there.

Little Nicolas was in a state of great trepidation, for he was convinced now that the professor was laughing at him. It was impossible to run away, or he would doubtless have made his escape. Leo advanced towards him, handed him the score, and, with imperturbable gravity, requested him to take his place at the desk in front of the orchestra. Nicolas, with the courage of despair, took up his position, and gave the signal to the orchestra which the merciless professor had placed under his command. After his first emotion had passed away, Nicolas continued to beat time, fancying that after all what he had composed, though doubt

less bad, was, perhaps, not ridiculous. The mass was executed from beginning to end. As he approached the finale, all the young musician's fears returned. He looked at the professor, and saw that he did not seem to be in the slightest degree impressed by the performance. What did he, what could he think of such a production?

"I pardon you this time," said the terrible maestro, when the last chord had been struck; "but if ever you do such a thing again I will punish you in such a manner that you will remember it as long as you live. Instead of studying the principles of your art, you give yourself up to all the wildness of your imagination, and when you have tutored your ill-regulated ideas into something like shape, you produce what you call a mass, and think, no doubt, that you have composed a masterpiece."

Nicolas burst into tears, and then began to tell Leo how he had been annoyed by the dry and pedantic instruction of the sub-professor. Leo, who, with all his coldness of manner, had a heart, clasped the boy in his arms, told him not to be disheartened, but to persevere, for that he had real talent; and finally promised that from that moment he himself would superintend his studies.

Leo died, and was succeeded by Durante, who used to say of young Piccini "the others are my pupils, but this one is my son." Twelve years after his entrance into the Conservatory the most promising of its alumni left it, and set about the composition of an opera. As Piccini was introduced by Prince Vintimille, the director of the theatre then in vogue was unable to refuse him a hearing; but he represented to His Highness the certainty of the young com poser's work turning out a failure. Piccini's patron was not wanting in generosity.

"How much can you lose by his opera," he said to the manager, "supposing that it should be a complete fiasco?"

The manager named a sum equivalent to three hundred and twenty pounds.

"Here is the money, then," said the prince, handing him at the same time a purse. "If the Donne Dispetose (that was the name of Piccini's opera) should prove a failure, you may keep the money; otherwise, you can return it to me."

Logroscino was the favourite Italian composer of that day, and great was the excitement when it was heard that the next new opera to be produced was not of his writing. Evidently his friends had only one course open to them. They decided to hiss Logroscino's rival.

But the Florentine public had reckoned without Piccini's genius. They could not hiss a man whose music charmed them, and Piccini's Donne Dispetose threw them into ecstasies. Those who had come to hoot remained to applaud. Piccini's reputation had commenced, and it went on increasing until at last his was the most popular name in all musical Italy.

Five years afterwards, Piccini (who in the meanwhile had produced two other operas) gave his celebrated Cecchina at Rome. The success of this work was almost unprecedented. was played everywhere, in Italy, even at the

It

Marionette theatres; and still there was not sufficient room for the public, who were all dying to see it. This little opera filled every playhouse in the Italian peninsula-and it had taken Piccini ten days to write it! Tonelli, who, being an Italian, had naturally heard of its success, happened to pass through Rome when it was being played there. He was not by any means persuaded that the music was good because the public applauded it; but, | after hearing the melodious opera from beginning to end, he turned to his friends and said, in a tone of sincere conviction,—

"This Piccini is a true inventor."

Of course the Cecchina was heard of in France. Indeed, it was the great reputation achieved by that opera which first rendered the Parisians anxious to hear Piccini, and which inspired Madame Du Barry with the hope that in the Neapolitan composer she might find a successful rival to the great German musician patronised by Marie Antoinette.

Piccini, after accepting the invitation to dispute the prize of popularity in Paris with Gluck, resolved to commence a new opera without delay, and had no sooner reached the French capital than he asked one of the most distinguished authors of the day to furnish him with a libretto. Marmontel, to whom the request was made, gave him his Rolandwhich was the Roland of Quinault, cut down from five acts to three. Unfortunately, Piccini did not understand a word of French. Marmontel was therefore obliged to write beneath each French word its Italian equivalent, which caused it to be said that he was not only Piccini's poet, but also his dictionary.

Gluck was in Germany when Piccini arrived, and on hearing of the manoeuvres of Madame Du Barry and the Marquis Caraccioli to supplant him in the favour of the Parisian public, he fell into a violent passion, and wrote a furious letter on the subject, which was made public. Above all he was enraged at the Academy having accepted from his adversary an opera on the subject of Roland, for he had agreed to compose an Orlando for them himself. "Do you know that the chevalier is coming back to us with an Armida and an Orlando in his portfolio?" said the Abbé Arnaud, one of Gluck's most fervent admirers.

"But Piccini is also at work at an Orlando," replied one of the Piccinists.

"So much the better," returned the Abbé, "for then we shall have an Orlando and also an Orlandino."

Marmontel heard of this mot, which caused him to address some unpleasant observations to the Abbé the first time he met him in society.

But the Abbé was not to be silenced. One night when Gluck's Alcestis was being played, he happened to occupy the next seat to. Marmontel. Alcestis played by Mademoiselle Le sueur, has, at the end of the second act, to | exclaim

"He tears out my heart."

"Ah, Mademoiselle," said the Academician quite aloud, "you tear out my ears."

"What a fortunate thing for you, sir," said the Abbé, "if you could only get new ones."

Of course the two armies had their generals. Among those of the Piccinists were some of the greatest literary men of the day-Marmontel, La Harpe, D'Alembe, &c. The only writers on Gluck's side were Suard and the Abbè Arnaud; but Suard, under a pseudonym which remained for a long time impenetrable, was wonderfully ingenious and amusing, and generally contrived to raise the laugh against his adversaries. The Abbè Arnaud, as we have seen, used to defend his composer in society, and constituted himself his champion wherever there appeared to be the least necessity, or even opportunity, of doing Volumes upon volumes were written on each side; but of course no one was converted. The Gluckists persisted in saying that Piccini would never be able to compose anything better than mere concert music.

So.

The Piccinists, on the other hand, denied that Gluck had the gift of melody, though they readily admitted that he had this advantage over his adversary-he made a great deal more noise.

In the meanwhile, the rehearsals of Piccini's Orlando-or Orlandino, as the Abbè Arnaud would have it-were not going on favourably. The orchestra, which had been subdued by the energetic Gluck, rebelled against Piccini, who was quite in despair at the vast inferiority of the French to the Italian musicians.

"All goes wrong," he said to Marmontel; "there is nothing to be done with them."

Marmontel was then obliged to interfere himself. Profiting by Piccini's forbearance, directors, singers, and musicians were in the habit of treating him with the coolest indifference. Once when Marmontel went to the rehearsal, he found that none of the principal singers were present, and that the opera was to be rehearsed with "doubles." The author of the libretto was furious, and said he would never suffer the work of the greatest musician in Italy to be left to the execution of "doubles." Upon this a certain Mademoiselle Bourgeois had the audacity to tell the Academician that, after all, he was but the double of Quinault, whose Roland he had abridged. One of the chorus singers, too, explained, that for his part he was not double at all, and that it was a fortunate thing for M. Marmontel's shoulders that such was the case!

At last, when all seemed ready, and the day had been fixed for the first representation, up came Vestris, the god of dancing, with a request for some ballet music. It was for the beautiful Mademoiselle Guimard, who was not in the habit of being refused. Piccini, without delay, set about the music of her pas, and produced a gavotte, which was considered one of the most charming things in the opera.

When Piccini started to go to the theatre, the night of the first representation, he took leave of his family as if he had been going to execution. His wife and son wept abundantly, and all his friends were more or less in a state of despair.

"Come, my children," said Piccini, at last; "this is unreasonable. Remember that we are not among savages. We are living with the politest and kindest nation in Europe. If they

do not like me as a musician, they will, at all events, respect me as a man and a stranger." Piccini's success was complete. It was impossible for the Gluckists to deny it. They said that they had never disputed Piccini's grace, nor his gift of melody, though his talent was certainly spoiled by a certain softness and effeminacy, which was observable in all his productions.

Marie Antoinette, whom Madame du Barry and her clique had looked upon as the natural enemy of Piccini, because she was the avowed patroness of Gluck, astonished both of the cabals by sending for the Italian composer and appointing him her singing master. This was, doubtless, a great honour for Piccini, but it was a very unprofitable one, for he was not only not paid for his lessons, but incurred considerable expense in going to and from the palace, to say nothing of the costly binding of the operas and other music which he presented to the royal circle.

When Bertin assumed the management of the opera, a very original idea occurred to him. He determined, if possible, to make the rival masters friends. With this view, he invited them to a magnificent supper, and took care to place Gluck and Piccini side by side. Gluck drank like a man and a German, and before the supper was finished was on thoroughly confidential terms with his neighbour.

"The French are very good people," said he to Piccini, "but they make me laugh. They want to have songs written for them, and they don't know how to sing."

The reconciliation appeared to be quite sincere; but the fact was, the quarrel was not between two men, but between two parties. When the direction of the opera passed from the hands of Bertin into those of Devismes, a project of the latter, for making Piccini and Gluck compose an opera at the same time on the same subject, brought their respective admirers once more into open collision.

"Here," said Devismes to Piccini, "is a libretto on the story of Iphigenia in Tauris. M. Gluck will treat the same subject; and the French public will then, for the first time, have the pleasure of hearing two operas founded upon the same incidents, and introducing the same characters, but composed by two masters of entirely different schools."

"But," objected Piccini, "if Gluck's opera is played first, the public will think so much of it that they will not listen to mine."

"To avoid that inconvenience," replied the director, "we will play yours first."

"But Gluck will not permit it."

"I give you my word of honour," said Devismes, "that your opera shall be put into rehearsal and brought out as soon as it is finished, and before Gluck's."

Piccini went home, and at once set to work. He had just finished his two first acts, when he heard that Gluck had come back from Germany, with his Iphigenia in Tauris completed! However, he had received the director's promise that his Iphigenia should be produced first, and, relying upon Devismes's word of honour, Piccini merely resolved to finish his opera as

quickly as possible, so that the management might not be inconvenienced by having to wait for it, now that Gluck's work, which was to come second, was ready for production.

Piccini had not quite completed his Iphigenia, when, to his horror, he heard that Gluck's was already in rehearsal! He rushed to Devismes, reminded him of his promise, reproached him with want of faith, but all to no purpose. The director of the opera declared that he had received a "command" to put Gluck's work into rehearsal immediately, and that he had nothing to do but to obey. He was very sorry, was in despair, &c. &c., but it was absolutely necessary to play M. Gluck's opera first.

Piccini felt that he was lost. He went to his friends, and told them the whole affair from beginning to end.

"In the first place," said Guiguenée, the writer, "let me look at the poem ?"

The poem was not merely bad, it was ridiculous. The manager had taken advantage of Piccini's ignorance of the French language to impose upon him a libretto full of absurdities and common-places, and which no sensible schoolboy would have put his name to. One of the verses, translated literally, was as follows (Orestes is supposed to be speaking):

"Yes, I am Agamemnon's son; I am he." To which Thoas replies:

"Do you think I care whose son you chance to be ?" Guiguenée, at Piccini's request, re-wrote the whole piece; and the original author is said to have been especially annoyed by the excision of the above couplet.

Gluck's Iphigenia in Tauris is known to be his masterpiece, and it is by that wonderful work that most persons judge of his talent in the present day. Compared with the German's profound, serious, and admirably dramatic production, Piccini's Iphigenia stood but little chance. In the first place, it was inferior to it; in the second, the public were so delighted with Gluck's opera that they were not disposed to give even a fair trial to another written on the same subject. However, Piccini's work was produced, and was listened to with attention. An air sung by Pylades to Orestes was especially admired, but on the whole the public seemed to reserve their judgment until the second representation.

The next evening came; but when the curtain drew up, Piccini discovered, to his great alarm, that something had happened to Mademoiselle Laguerre, who was entrusted with the principal part. Iphigenia was unable to stand upright. She rolled first to one side, then to! the other, hesitated, stammered, repeated the words, made eyes at the pit-in short, Mdlle. Laguerre was intoxicated!

guerre not only, with considerable tact, applied a couplet expressive of remorse to her own peculiar situation, but sung divinely-" like an angel," as the French say whenever they wish| to convey an idea of good singing, or of tolerable fiddling.

Finally, the contest between Gluck and Piccini (or rather between the Gluckists and Piccinists) was brought to an end by the death of the former. It is true the Gluckists afterwards made an attempt to set up one Sacchini against Piccini, but as Sacchini had learnt everything he knew from the man to whom they wished to oppose him, this manœuvre had no sort of

success.

The French Revolution ruined Piccini, who retreated to Italy. Seven years afterwards he returned to France, and having occasion to present a petition to Napoleon, then First Consul, was graciously received by him in the Palace of the Luxembourg.

"Sit down," said Napoleon to Piccini, who was standing; "a man of your merit stands in no one's presence."

Piccini now retired to Passy; but he was an old man, his health had forsaken him, and in a few months he died, and was buried in the cemetery of the suburb he had chosen for his

retreat.

In the present day, Gluck appears to have vanquished Piccini, because at long intervals one of Gluck's grandly-constructed operas is performed, whereas the music of his former rival is never heard at all. But this by no means proves that Piccini's melodies were not charming, and that the connoissieurs of the eighteenth century were not right in applauding them. The works that endure are. not those which contain the greatest number of beauties, but those of which the form is most perfect. Gluck was a composer of larger conceptions and of more powerful genius than his Italian rival, and it may be said he built up monuments of stone while Piccini was laying out parterres of flowers. But if the flowers were beautiful while they lasted, what does it matter to the eighteenth century that they are dead now-when even the marble temples of Gluck are antiquated and moss-grown?

H. SUTHERLAND EDWARDS.

THE LAST OF THE ADEPTS. How often do we come across one, whose dress and manners clearly belong to the past, and whose appearance on the stage of life in these latter days must be deemed purely accidental-one who might have been a "buck" of the most approved fashion fifty years ago, but who is now simply an 66 anachronism." A mind of antique cut is as common as an old style of coat, or a pair of Hessians. Almost every day we find ourselves in hot debate with a man of the past, who clings tenaciously to the beliefs and theories of the century in which he ought to have been born, and who sneers at the discoveries and improvements of the age in which nature has so strangely misplaced him. In the history of our intellectual development there have been many striking examples of men

turning up at the wrong time-some too soon, and others too late. Paracelsus, the chemist of Bâle, was just as far in advance of his age as Woulfe, the alchemist of Barnard's Inn, was behind his. Could they have changed places, the world would have jogged on smoothly enough. The adept of the eighteenth century would have filled the chair of chemistry at Bâle much more decorously than the' arrogant reformer of the sixteenth century, whose daring theories might have rendered him a fit contemporary of Davy and Dalton.

The name of Bombastes Paracelsus is familiar to every ear; not so that of Peter Woulfe, which might have been quite forgotten by this time, had it not been for the industry of Professor Brande, who has preserved a few anecdotes respecting the modern alchemist in a note to his celebrated "Manual."

Peter Woulfe seems to have been a most devoted disciple of Albertus and Basil Valentine. He cared but little for the opinions of his great contemporaries. Lavoisier might produce a new nomenclature; Klaproth might lay the foundation of a perfect system of analysis; and Priestley and Cavendish might discover as many new gases as they pleased. But what could these men teach him about the Philosopher's Stone? what could they know about the properties of virgin earth? They were mere chemists; gross material fellows, not worthy of being entrusted with the long-sought Magisterium. Woulfe usually spent his summers in Paris, and while residing in London he occupied chambers in Barnard's Inn. His rooms were so filled with furnaces and apparatus that it was no easy task to reach his fireside. Dr. Babbington once put down his hat, and never found it again, such was the chaotic state of the alchemist's home. Woulfe breakfasted at four in the morning, and a few select friends were sometimes invited to share his repast; to gain entrance they had to knock a certain number of times at the inner door of his apartment. Whenever he wished to break an acquaintance, or felt himself offended, he resented the supposed injuries by sending a present to the offender, and never seeing him afterwards. These presents were singularly characteristic of the eccentric being from whom they proceeded, as they generally consisted of some expensive chemical product. He had long vainly searched for the Elixir of Life, and attributed his repeated failures to the want of due preparation by pious and charitable acts. Some of his alchemical apparatus are said to be still extant, affixed to which are supplications for success, and for the welfare of the adepts. Woulfe's remedy for illness was a heroic one. When he felt seriously indisposed, he took a place in the Edinburgh Mail, and travelled to the Northern Athens, only to come back in the returning coach to London. A cold, taken on one of these strange expeditions, terminated in an inflammation of the lungs, of which he died in the year 1805. Such are the particulars relating to the last of the adepts, gathered by Dr. Brande from two or three friends who knew him, and who were permitted to enter his secret laboratory. J. C. B.