imagination. Mr. Pixis has selected not only the most popular airs, but he has very happily introduced the best of the other isolated passages which are remarkable in the opera, and by this means he has not only by their judicious introduction given a connected and decided character to both pieces, but has laid before those who may peruse his compositions, no very incompetent idea of the general style of the music from which he has drawn their foundation. The manner in which he has treated each air shews also that he has entered into spirit of the master, and we must say we have seldom met with lessons of this kind containing so much ingenuity, so well calculated to please generally.

Not a drum was heard; the celebrated Poem written on the Death of Gen. Moore, set to music by John Barnett. London. For the Author; by Mayhew and Co.

This little ode has become the subject of much discussion of late in consequence of its being attributed (erroneously it appears) to Lord Byron, by Captain Medwin. It needed not however such cause to attract the notice of the man of taste, for it matches with Campbell's Hohenlinden in simple majesty and beauty. It has been set before, but never in a manner sufficiently expressive to merit regard or comment. But Mr. Barnet has given the song a musical, and the music a poetical character. There is indeed in the mind of this youth, (for he is, we understand, even now a mere youth,) indications of powerful talent, of which the piece before us is one instance. Of the justice of our praise, we cannot bring a stronger proof, than that having placed it before a young lady to play, and a gentleman to sing, who had never before seen the song, they were both so affected as to be unable to go through it. We have repeated the experiment in a mixed society, and the opening symphony was pronounced to produce an effect all but overpowering.

appears to us that the composer has sought to convey general rather than particular delineations. Thus the opening symphony, to the conception of which no words can do adequate justice, is a repetition of sounds that indicate the noiseless confusion of the night march, with nothing that can be distinguished but the tramp of the soldier. This indeed is imaged by the melody, while the harmony conjures up to the fancy the darkness and the melancholy office. The passage, a repetition of two notes, alterates between the tonic and dominant, (with the seventh) through eleven measures. The effect of this iteration certainly prepares the mind, by a nervous anticipation which is aroused, and when, after four single notes, to each of which there is a lead of four descending demisemiquavers, succeeded by a pause, it becomes the accompaniment to the melody, it fills the imagination with all the subordinate parts, while the main relation continues. Thus the accompaniment presents the scene, the melody the action. What makes the charm the stronger is, that the agents are harmony and rhythm; the effect, therefore, is produced by classical

means.

What we admire in the melody is the simplicity and deep feeling of solemnity it inspires. We gather this rather from the whole than from particular passages, though the opening is finely conceived. There are, however, so few notes that do not contribute to the general result, that there can be said to be nothing to disturb the accumulating power of the song, which concludes as expressively as it begins. It is dramatic, but not theatrical; it is declamatory, yet sustained and pathetic. Should it be objected that its whole tenor is too sombre for a mixed audience, we reply if it be finely executed, it could hardly fail to leave a deep impression.

The Pleasures of Benevolence, set to Music; by Pio Cianchettini. Dublin. Willis.

La Partenza, Canzonetta, by Pio Cianchettini. London. Willis. I'll meet thee nigh the time of lovers; written by David Lyndsay; composed by Miss Figge. London. Green. For the Author.

We are so wearied out with every-day ballads, that those which rise above the common rank are objects of more than ordinary gratification to us. But it really is not so easy as may be supposed to assign the absolute degree of merit songs of this kind possess. Happy combinations of melody are become so infinitely numerous, and the structure of these compositions are so much better understood, that there is a certain tincture of elegance in almost every thing that is published. It seems that the capital distinction between that which is merely agreeable and that which affects, now lies in the art of giving the music an imaginative, a poetical character as it were. These three songs are all of this kind.

Mr. Cianchettini's English is not so graceful as his Italian canzonet. But he very seldom writes vocal music that is not superior. These are trifles, but they are elegant trifles, and composed with much feeling. In the latter especially there are some passages of sweet melody. We object however altogether to the frequent interspersion of ornaments in the English song, and more especially to the places in which they are introduced. Ornaments ought always to mean something-but why are such particles as and and to to be thus illustrated? We know Mr. Cianchettini will reply, it is the musical position and not the word that requires a grace. But we could shew, were it worth while, that this is an insufficient, though it be some extenuation. There are not less than six volate upon the last of these insignificant monosyllables.

Miss Figge's composition is quite in the manner of Haydn, and as it is both original and expressive in a high degree, this is no mean compliment. The song is beautifully delicate, both in conception and in execution.

Love is a little Runaway, a Spanish Air, arranged with Symphonies and Accompaniments; by Sir John Stevenson, Mus. Doc. the Words by Alexander Dallas, Esq. London. Power. By Cupid taught a Grecian Maid; written by M. J. Sullivan, Esq. composed by G. A. Percival. London. Power.

The Orphan Maid, a favourite Ballad; the Words by Wm. Ball, Esq. the Music by G. Lanza. London. Chappell and Co.

If the publishers of these three dear pretty little puling pledges of love and objects of pity were asked why they have undertaken the introduction of such weaklings into this world of woe-they could place all the temptation, where Juliet says there is just nothing at all-videlecet, in a name; and it is for this very reason that we notice the trash, for when men like Sir John Stevenson or Mr. Lanza, who have earned a reputation, though not an equal reputation, can send forth such trumpery, it is time to put the public on their guard. First of the words—

Love is a little runaway,

That makes each heart his home,
And when he's had his fun, away

He flies, elsewhere to roam.

The mansion where his tricks he played

Must soon to ruin fall

By love left uninhabited,

'Tis nothing worth at all.

[Which we conceive to be the precise value of Sir John Stevenson's and Mr. Dallas's precious productions. The delightful flow and correct rhymes of the second stanza, however, ought not to be passed over.]

If he should take possession,

Dolaris, of thy bosom-
Trust not each fair profession,

But chain him or you lose him.
Let prudence bar the window,
And modesty the door,
Inconstancy to hinder

"Tis but to make things sure.

We are highly tempted to add by way of coda

Alas! alas!

Poor Mr. Dallas!

There is a manner of singing ballads peculiar to great cities and towns, which from the locus in quo has been denominated the corner style. We can well believe that Mr. Lanza might be allured by the popularity, which seldom fails to attend professors who adopt this mode, to try his powers on such a strain, for "The orphan maid," like the remnant of Sir John Falstaff's company, is "for the town's end." So pitiless are we, that even if Mrs. Salmon herself had sung it, as the title sets forth, syren as she is, we should have passed on the other side. But as we will venture to say she never did nor ever will sing it, both the syren and ourselves are lighter by that crime at least.

Jesting apart-it is disgraceful to all concerned to endeavour to palm such wretched stuff upon the public.

'Tis Law! 'tis law! written and adapted to the popular French Air, C'est l'amour, and affectionately inscribed to his Learned Friends and Brethren in the Profession; by Nicholas Ferret, jun. Gent. Attorney-at-Law. London. Chappell and Co.

The worst of all subjects for mirth or music has here been chosen ; for we never knew a wight that had any thing to do with law, who had afterwards the heart to laugh or sing. This, however, is the production of an attorney, and such an one is the only man to make the most of the subject, as all clients feel. Mr. Ferret is a gentleman of singular humour, though he is by no means so singular in the practice he describes. The air is well known, and we would fain convey some idea of this song, but at the bottom of the page stands the ominous notice-"The words are property." Who knows but we may be cited by the author for citing him? We once knew a professional gentleman (of sharp practice) to bring in a bill of five pounds against a friend, who kindly took