has been performed in a theatrical way. The part of Acis by Mr. Mountier, being the first time of his appearing in character on any stage; Galatea by Miss Arne (afterwards Mrs. Cibber).' In answer to this, Handel put forth the subjoined announcement: June 10, will be performed "Acis and Galatea," a serenata, revised with several additions, at the Opera House, by a great number of the best voices and instruments. There will be no action on the stage: but the scene will represent, in a picturesque manner, a rural prospect, with rocks, groves, fountains, and grottoes, among which will be disposed a chorus of nymphs and shepherds; the habits and decorations suited to the subject.'

This was by far the finest musical work that had yet been given to the English public; but its execution by indifferent and ill-trained singers could scarcely have been satisfactory. It has been said that it took the choristers a twelvemonth to learn the choruses! About this time there sprang up several imitations of 'The Beggar's Opera.' Henry Carey, the author of 'Sally in our Alley,' wrote some excellent music to Fielding's burlesque of 'Tom Thumb.' In conjunction with a composer, popular in his day, named Lampe, he wrote "The Dragon of Wantley,' founded upon the old story of 'Moore of Morehall.' In this the absurdities of the best known Italian operas were most felicitously burlesqued, and the music, both vocal and instrumental, was excellent. It took the town by storm, and rivalled, if it did not surpass, the popularity of Gay's 'Pastoral.' 'This opera,' says a musical critic, 'is one of the things which cause regret that so many fine productions of the old time have fallen into oblivion. Were it once more brought upon the stage, the piece would be found very amusing, and the music exceedingly agreeable, while the principal parts would display to advantage the powers of our best vocal performers.' This might serve as a hint for some of our worn-out burlesque writers, who might there recruit their exhausted wit by a little transfusion, and find melodies that would save them begging 'permission' to introduce the vapid trash of the concert-hall into their productions.

In the year after the production of 'The Dragon of Wantley' (1738), Arne wrote his beautiful music to Milton's Comus.' Beard, a famous singer of his day, was the Comus; Kitty Clive, who in the first years of her professional career was a singer rather than an actress, the Euphrosyne; and Mrs. Arne, née Miss Cecilia Young, a very fine vocalist, the Lady. Arne, whose father was an upholsterer in Covent Garden, was intended for the bar, but his love of music was a passion too strong to be restrained. His sister, the afterwards celebrated Mrs. Cibber, had a very fine voice, which

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his example induced her to assiduously cultivate. It was for her he wrote the soprano music of his first opera, Rosamond.'1 His most ambitious work, composed in exact conformity with the Italian school of the period, was 'Artaxerxes' (1762), which retained its place as a test of ability to all our greatest English singers until within half a century ago. The famous Soldier Tired' first introduced the Italian bravura and florid style to the ordinary English public-for in those days the Opera was patronised only by the world of fashion. There appears to have been a great improvement in the vocalists about this time; formerly, as is still the case in small provincial theatres, the music was rendered by the ordinary performers, who might be gifted with some voice and some little knowledge of the art; but Arne took great pains in training the exponents of his compositions. Miss Brent, a lady who afterwards attained great celebrity as the original Mandane, was his pupil. Ere she appeared in public, Garrick desired to hear her. He admitted that she was very fine, but added: After all, Tommy, you should consider that music is at best but pickle to my roast beef.' 'By ——, Davy,' answered the composer, your beef shall be well pickled before I have done.' And he kept his word. As Polly in 'The Beggar's Opera,' Miss Brent drew all the town to Covent Garden, and Drury Lane was almost deserted. The next season, Garrick was obliged in selfdefence to engage rival singers.

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'Artaxerxes' belongs to a school against which Glück struck the first blow, and of which Mozart completed the destruction, a school of vapid melodies, poor orchestration, and florid execution. Not upon this work, but upon his Shakespearian songs, such as, 'Where the bee sucks,' 'When daisies pied,' 'Blow, blow, thou wintry wind,' and our magnificent national anthem, 'Rule Britannia,' does his fame rest. The music of Bickerstaff's charming old opera, 'Love in a Village,' is his, but it was partly selected from the Italian.

Sheridan's Duenna,' with Linley's music, made a great success, running seventy-five nights. But then, as now in England, the singers could not act, and the actors could not sing; Mrs. Mattocks and Quick had to sustain the dramatic action, while other personages, who were quite independent of the plot, were brought on to sing the music.

One of the earliest of our English singers to whom the term

This was Addison's work, produced in 1706 with music by Clayton, which Arne now reset. Originally it was a failure; and it is said that this was the cause of the bitter sarcasms which Addison flings at the Italian Opera throughout the Spectator.

prima donna might be justly applied was Miss Philips, better known by her married name of Mrs. Crouch, who first appeared, in 1780, in the old musical piece of "The Lord of the Manor.' Michael Kelly, in his 'Reminiscences,' tells us how much he was struck at first sight by her surpassing beauty: She seemed to me,' he says, 'to aggregate in herself, like the Venus of Apelles, all that was exquisite and charming.' She turned all the male heads wherever she went, and was the heroine of more than one romance. A young fellow in Dublin threatened to shoot her and himself afterwards if she persisted in refusing to marry him, and was arrested in the pit of the theatre with a pistol in his pocket on the same night. A gentleman of position in Limerick was more fortunate in winning her favour. She agreed to elope with him; but no one could be found to marry them: the priests feared the anger of his family, who were very influential in those parts. The lovers were making their way to the coast to embark for Scotland, when they were overtaken and separated never to meet again. On another occasion some officers who were half intoxicated came behind the scenes and insisted upon escorting her home; in great terror she locked herself in her dressing-room. They vowed they would burst it open. Her father usually waited to see her home, but, being ill that night, he had deputed the duty to John Kemble, who was then playing there. Kemble came up in the middle of the disturbance and requested the officers to withdraw, telling them the lady was under his protection. They refused: Very well, gentlemen,' answered Kemble, 'I shall fulfil my trust though it be at the risk of my life. You can come forth, Miss Philips, without fear. The dressing-room door opened, and the young lady, white and trembling, issued therefrom. As Kemble turned to give her his hand, one of the fellows made a cut at his head with a cutlass. Fortunately, a female dresser who stood by caught the murderous arm, or the tragedian would certainly have been killed. Quite unmoved by the imminent peril, he turned to his preserver with a quotation, Well done, Euphrasia!' Then, drawing his sword and taking the lady's hand, he led her out of the theatre without further molestation. The next morning the colonel in command, to whom the adventure had been reported, sent to Kemble to say that the delinquents should make any apology he liked to dictate for their conduct. Miss Philips afterwards married a lieutenant in the navy; but the match was an unhappy one. She died while still young and in the full possession of her powers.

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The second half of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century were particularly rich in those musical dramas and farces which continued to be so popular even to our fathers'

time. From 1765 to 1802, Arnold composed music for no fewer than forty-three operatic plays. The names of many are still familiar to us: The Battle of Hexham ;'The Castle of Andalusia,' revived a few years since at the Haymarket; Inkle and Yarico,' founded upon the well-known story in the 'Spectator;'The Mountaineers,' written by the younger Colman; The Children in the Wood.' Better known still are Charles Dibdin's Padlock,' 'Lionel and Clarissa,' The Quaker,' The Waterman,' some of the pretty melodies of which are still heard in the concert-room. Shield's Poor Soldier' and Rosina' have fallen into oblivion. Among the large number of metropolitan theatres, in the present difficulty of obtaining entertainments for them, might not a home be found for some of these old favourites ?-well done, they would still please a large portion of the public; though they would not have long runs,-and unfortunately the modern manager has come to regard those as the only desiderata; some of the shorter pieces are well adapted for a lever de rideau, and might take the place of the melancholy horrors which are now inflicted upon suffering audiences.

A perhaps finer composer than those yet named was poor Storace, whose No Song, no Supper,' must ever continue to charm all who have ears for tuneful melody; while the finale to the first act may claim approbation upon yet higher ground. Garrick's Country Girl' and this operetta formed the final performance at the old Drury Lane Theatre on June 4, 1791. The following paragraph, amusingly describing the event, is copied from a newspaper of the period, and was, I believe, written by Colman the younger :

'Died on Saturday night of a gradual decay, in the hundred and seventeenth year of her age, old Madame Drury, who lived in six reigns, and saw many generations pass in review before her. She remembered Betterton in age, lived in intimacy with Booth, Wilkes, and Cibber, and knew old Macklin when he was a stripling; her hospitality exceeded that of the English character, even in its earliest days of festivity, having almost through the whole of her life entertained from one to two thousand persons of both sexes six nights out of the seven in the week; she was an excellent poetess, could be gay and grave by turns, and sometimes, catching disorder from intrusive guests, could be dull enough in all conscience; her memory was excellent, and her singing kept in such a gradual state of improvement, that it was allowed her voice was better the three or four last years of her life than when she was in her prime. At the latter end of the last century, she had a rout of nearly two thousand people at her house the very night of her death; and the old lady felt herself in such spirits, that she said she would give

them no supper without a song; which being complied with, she fell gently back in her chair, and expired without a groan. Dr. Palmer,' one of her family physicians, attended her in her last moments and announced her dissolution to the company.'

Braham made his first recognised appearance on March 30, 1796, in Storace's 'Mahmoud.' It was a posthumous work, the composer expiring ere it was completed, at the early age of thirtythree. The great English tenor had made his début nine years previously, while yet a boy, at the old Royalty' as Master Abrahams. The fineness of his voice had then attracted the attention of a wealthy Jew, who placed him under competent tuition. He afterwards studied in Italy.

A famous operatic piece of the old time was' Blue Beard,' written by Colman the younger, the music by Michael Kelly, produced at Drury Lane in 1801. In the first scene there was a grand procession of Blue Beard's army, which is first seen in the distance winding among the mountains. To preserve the perspective, boys were employed for this part of the spectacle. He who represented Blue Beard, mounted on an elephant, was little Edmund Kean. Did he then imagine that he would one day be the great and all-dominating genius of that house? It is not at all improbable, for the boy had a soaring ambition. À propos of the elephant a good story is told. While the piece was preparing, Sheridan went into the property room one day to consult with Johnson, the property-maker, among other matters, about this very animal. Don't you think,' said the great lessee, that you had better go to Pidcock's at Exeter 'Change' (then a celebrated menagerie), and hire an elephant for a number of nights?' 'Not I, sir; if I can't make a better elephant than that at Exeter 'Change I ought to be hanged,' contemptuously replied Johnson, who evidently believed art to be superior to nature. Although the play made so decided a success, it was greatly endangered during the earlier scenes by carpenters' blunders. One of these, as told by Kelly himself, is amusing enough to quote :

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'At the end of the piece, when Blue Beard is slain by Selim, a most ludicrous scene took place. Where Blue Beard sinks under the stage, a skeleton rises, which when seen by the audience was to sink down again; but not one inch would the said skeleton move. I, who had just been killing Blue Beard, totally forgetting where I was, ran up with my drawn sabre, and pummelled the poor skeleton's head with all my might, vociferating, until he disappeared, loud enough to be heard by the whole house, “D———— you, why don't you go down?" The audience were in roars of

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John Palmer, the actor who addressed the audience at the fall of the curtain.