A NEW ENGLISH PRIMA DONNA.-A young English lady, who lately appeared on the continent under the name of Madlle. Normani, promises to be one of the greatest celebrities of the day. From accounts which we have received from Stockholm, where she now is, we learn that she is creating an extraordinary sensation in the character of Fides, in the Prophète of Meyerbeer, which she had performed to excessively crowded houses ten nights successively, and without any diminution of its attraction. She has enabled herself to act and sing in Swedish, having acquired a perfect command of the language. Her first opera sung in Swedish was Mercadante's Giuramento; and she has also appeared in Flotow's opera, Di grosse Furstinn, and in Verdi's Macbeth, in all which (as well as in the Prophète), she has had the most brilliant success. Madlle. Normani is described as possessing a voice of great power and beauty, a pure Italian style, and all the qualities, mental and physical, of an accomplished actress.-Daily

News.

MISS JANETTE AYLWARD, whom we mentioned last week as being one of the successful candidates for the scholarship at the Royal Academy of Music, at the late trial, is a sister of Mr. Aylward, the clever young violoncellist who gained the scholarship two years ago, and is, we believe, the only instance of two of the same family being so elected.

MRS HENRY REED. -This lady has engaged M. Jullien for two of her concerts at Plymouth, in the month of February.

M. JULLIEN has been giving farewell concerts during the week at Manchester, York, Hull, Leeds, and Newcastle. Next week M. Jullien proceeds to Edinburgh and Glasgow, for the same purpose.

MR. GEORGE E. HAY, the intelligent composer and talented pianist of Shrewsbury, has been in town during the week.

MADAME PLEYEL, the Queen Pianiste, is expected in London next week, to fulfil an engagement with the enterprising firm of Cramer, Beale, and Co., who we hope will not fail to give the metropolitan admirers of that great artiste an opportunity of admiring her genius, previous to her departure for the provinces. Should Messrs. Cramer, Beale and Co., argue that it is out of the season, we, in reply, say that in London good things are always in

season.

HERR OBERTHUR is engaged to perform at the concert of Mdlle. Clauss (the pianiste), and Signor Sivori, to take place shortly, in Paris. Owing to the want of encouragement and the absence of professors of eminence for the harp, it seems to be in a dormant state; but we trust by Herr Oberthur's finished playing and the generally admired compositions, a revival of taste may also take place in Paris, as it has already, through his instrumentality, done in London. He has our best wishes towards this attainment.

MR. SIMMS, the fashionable music-seller in Bath, has made arrangements with Messrs. Cramer, Beale, and Co., to obtain the assistance of Madame Pleyel at a concert he purposes giving early next month. Madame Fiorentini is also engaged for the

occasion.

MRS. BROWNING.-My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about fifteen years ago. She was certainly one of the most interesting persons that I had ever seen. Everybody who then saw her said the same; so that it is not merely the impression of my partiality, or my enthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness, that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend, in whose carriage we went together to Chiswick, that the translatress of the "Prometheus of Eschylus, the authoress of the "Essay on Mind," was old enough to be introduced into company, in technical language was "out." Through the kindness of another invaluable friend, to whom I owe many obligations, but none so great as this, I saw much of her duringt my stay in town. We met so constantly and so fam liarly hat in spite of the difference of age, intimacy ripened into friendship, and after my return into the country, we corres ponded freely and frequently, her letters being just what letters ought to be her own talk put upon paper. The next year was a painful one to herself and to all who loved her. She broke a bloodvessel upon the lungs, which did not heal. If there had been

consumption in the family that disease would have intervened. There were no seeds of the fatal English malady in her constitu tion, and she escaped. Still, however, the vessel did not heal, and after attending her for above a twelvemonth at her father's house, in Wimpole Street, Dr. Chambers, on the approach of winter, ordered her to a milder climate. Her eldest brother, a brother in heart and in talent worthy of such a sister, together with other devoted relatives, accompanied her to Torquay, and there occurred the fatal event which saddened her bloom of youth, and gave a deeper hue of thought and feeling, especially of devotional feeling, to her poetry. I have so often been asked what could be the shadow that had passed over that young heart, that now that time has softened the first agony it seems to me right that the world should hear the story of an accident in which there was much sorrow, but no blame. Nearly a twelvemonth had passed, and the invalid, still attended by her affectionate companions, had derived much benefit from the mild sea-breezes of Devonshire. One fine summer morning her favourite brother, together with two other fine young men, his friends, embarked on board a small sailing vessel for a trip of a few hours. Excellent sailors, and familiar with the coast, they sent back the boatmen, and undertook themselves the management of the little craft. Danger was not dreamt of by any one; after the catastrophe no one could divine the cause, but in a few minutes after their embarkation, and in sight of their very windows, just as they were crossing the bar, the boat went down, and all who were in her perished. Even the bodies were never found. I was told by a party who were travelling that year in Devonshire and Cornwall, that it was most affecting to see on the corner houses of every village street, on every church door, and almost on every cliff for miles and miles along the coast, handbills, offering large rewards for linen cast ashore marked with the initials of the beloved dead; for it so chanced that all the three were of the dearest and the best; one, I believe, an only son, the other the son of a widow. This tragedy nearly killed Elizabeth Barrett. She was utterly prostrated by the horror and the grief, and by a natural but a most unjust feeling that she had been in some sort the cause of this great misery. It was not until the following year that she could be removed in an invalid carriage, and by journeys of twenty miles a day, to her afflicted family and her London home. The house that she occupied at Torquay had been chosen as one of the most sheltered in the place. It stood at the bottom of the cliffs, almost close to the sea; and she told me berself that during that whole winter the sound of the waves rang in her ears like the moans of one dying. Still she clung to literature and to Greek; in all probability she would have died without that wholesome diversion to her thoughts. Her medical attendant did not always understand this. To prevent the remonstrances of her friendly physician, Dr. Barry, she caused a small edition of Plato to be so bound as to resemble a novel. He did not know, skilful and kind though he were, that to her such books were not an arduous and painful study, but a consolation and a delight. Returned to London, she began the life which she continued for so many years, confined to one large and commodious but darkened chamber, admitting only her own affectionate family and a few devoted friends (I, myself, have often joyfully travelled five-andforty miles to see her, and returned the same evening without entering another house); reading almost every book worth reading in almost every language, and giving herself heart and soul to that poetry of which she seemed born to be the priestess. Gradually her health improved. About four years ago she married Mr. Browning, and immediately accompanied him to Pisa. They then settled at Florence; aud this summer I have had the exquisite pleasure of seeing her once more in London with a lovely boy at her knee, almost as well as ever, and telling tales of Italian rambles, of losing herself in chestnut forests, and scrambling on mule-back up the sources of extinct volcanoes. May heaven continue to her such health and such happiness!-Miss Mittord's Recollections of a Literary Life.

SUBSCRIPTIONS RECEIVED.

C. M., Norwich; S. W., Manchester; Dr. E., Windsor; W. W S., Dover; T. B., Edinburgh; Miss F., Dublin; F. B., Woodford.

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

THE whole of the Music as Performed at the Funeral of the
Duke of Wellington, in St. Paul's Cathedral. Edited by JOHN GOSS, Organist

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It is also intended, in conjunction with this Society, to form an ACADEMY for
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CONTENTS1, Almanack; 2, Royal Academy of Music

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No. 3.-VOL. XXXI.

TEN DAYS IN PARIS.

I write to you, on the occasion of my first visit, from the queen metropolis of the universe; from the city of pleasures; from the city of revolutions, of gens d'armes, and cafés. My impressions, more especially as they touch upon matters musical and dramatic, may not prove uninteresting to your readers. I have been here ten days. I have seen most places worth seeing. I have visited the best cafés and best theatres, and have gone to the Masked Ball, I have walked the streets with a prying and a curious eye. I have heard mass at the Madeleine, and purchased trinkets in booths on the Boulevards-and paid for them. I have sauntered through the Rue Rivoli, and endeavoured to elbow my way along the whole length-and breadth of the Rue St. Denis, a task I trust I may never have to undergo again. I have stood in mute amazement in the Place de la Concorde, and sought for a blade of grass in vain in the Champs Elysées. I have run through the galleries of the Louvre, wondering how many painters there were yclept Rubens, and have crossed the Seine several times to no purpose. I have stood beside Notre Dame and was not seduced to pay a visit to the Morgue. I have breakfasted at the Café Cardinal; dined at Phillippe's; and supped at the Maison Doré.

Paris is the very antipodes of London. The first difference which strikes the visitor is the greater height of the houses and their superiority in point of architectural beauty. The average height of houses in Paris-in the best localities-is, I should think, six stories. Being built of stone, they also present a more solid and agreeable aspect than the London houses, constructed of doubtful bricks, left naked or covered with mildewed plaster, by-named Paris-lucus a non lucendo. The streets, however, are much narrower, and, with the exception of the Boulevards-which are wider than Portland Place-the Rue de la Paix and the Rue Royale, there is no street I have seen nearly as wide as Bond Street. Another great difference between the two cities consists in the fact, that nowhere in Paris can you find quarters specially assigned to the aristocracy. You will vainly seek for a Belgravia, a Park Lane, a Westbourne Terrace, or a Hyde Park Gardens. You will meet with no Nobility Squares, no Gentry Crescents or Places. All Paris appears devoted to shops and cafes, and although you will see some magnificent mansions in the Rue St. Germains and its vicinity, they are so mixed up with restaurants, estaminets and bureaux, as to constitute no exception to the rule. From what I have

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seen of Paris I should be led to pronounce it emphatically the city of shopkeepers. However this may be, I am certain there is no such place in the wide world as Paris. It seems in a perpetual state of Carnival. Of Parisian life-not to speak it paradoxically--it may be said that Pleasure is the Necessity, and Business the Relaxation. Gaiety is not only the atmosphere in which a Frenchman lives, but from which he seeks to draw life. Mirth and enjoyment are the end and the aim of his existence. Nor does this proceed from any temporary or casual excitement. With him hilarity is chronic. A Frenchman requires no stimulants to elevate his spirits. On the contrary stimulants have an enervating effect on him. I have seen men in the streets of Paris in all stages of drunkenness and every individual appeared more or less depressed. In no single instance did one seem excited. How different the effect of liquor on an Englishman.

I was delighted with the theatres. I visited the Grand Opera twice, the Opera Comique twice, the Italiens once, and one or two of the minor theatres. The Grand Opera is a magnificent house, decorated with great splendour and taste, and admirably constructed with a view to general convenience. The pit-decidedly the most comfortable I ever sat in-is divided into three compartments-the orchestra stalls, the parterre, and the amphitheatre stalls. The last named place is the best part of the house for seeing and hearing. There are but few private boxes-at least enclosed. boxes-and this certainly subtracts from the aristocratic appearance of the theatre. The same thing is remarked at the Italiens and the Opera Comique. In fact Paris in its theatres is like Paris in its streets. All is splendour and show. The privacy and exclusiveness of fashion is wanting. The band of the Grand Opera is very fine; more perfect, perhaps, than that of the Royal Italian Opera, but neither so powerful nor possessed of such soloists. In the obtaining of pianos, and in accompanying singers pianissimo, it is capable, of reading our orchestras a lesson. The chorus of the Grand Opera, too, is excellent, and far surpasses that of either of our Italian houses. On the other hand, we surpass the French theatres in our scene paintings and decorations. I had a good opportunity of judging on this point in the new ballet Orfa, and the Roberto il Diavolo. The ballet was splendidly got up, and its groupings especially could not be excelled; but in the scenery I saw nothing that could be brought into competition with