unbending. They frequently quarrelled, even on trivial subjects; and when, as often occurred, he gave way to bitter reproaches, she punished him by withholding for many hours the pardon for which he humbly sued. It is related that on one occasion, some person observed that Madame du Châtelet could not write poetry. To disperse this assertion she addressed the following verses to Madame de Luxembourg, on her Fête-day :— "Pour vous chanter, aimable Madelon, When Voltaire entered the room the party in it were at table, and Madame du Châtelet showed him the lines. "They are not by you," said he hastily, which remark so offended her that she angrily retorted, until Voltaire, losing all selfcommand, seized a knife from the table, and menacing her with it, exclaimed, "Ne me regard donc pas avec tes yeux hagards, et louches." What a scene to be enacted by two persons considered among the most remarkable of their time, and supposed to be tenderly attached to each other! The rupture between Madame de Grafigny and Madame du Châtelet was soon followed by one that inflicted much more pain on the former. Desmarets, to whom she was so tenderly attached, revealed to Madame de Grafigny with more frankness than pity, that he no longer entertained for her those sentiments which he formerly felt. This was a cruel blow to her, and she relates its effect on her in a letter full of poignant regret to their mutual friend, M. Devaux. The esteem and kindness long entertained for Madame de Grafigny by the Emperor* SEEN and Empress of Austria continued unabated during her life. As a proof of their good opinion they commanded her to write two little dramas, to be acted at Vienna by the royal children, and rewarded the task by a life pension of 1,500 livres. The first of these dramas was entitled "Ziman se Genise," and was in one act; the second was "Phaga," also in one act; and both gave great satisfaction, the subjects being simple, the moral excellent, and suited to the comprehension of the youthful performers, who gained great applause by the talent with which they enacted their parts. Madame de Grafigny was treated with great distinction by their royal highnesses Prince Charles and the Princess Charlotte of Lorraine, with whom she corresponded for many years. The last production of Madame de Grafigny was "La Fille d'Aristide," a comedy in prose, which failed to meet with the same indulgence from the audience present at its representation that marked the reception of her " Cénie." It is asserted that the mortification inflicted on her by the failure of this piece occasioned the malady of which she died, a statement not devoid of probability, when the peculiar sensibility of the writer is taken into consideration, for she had been frequently heard to acknowledge that an epigram, or a harsh criticism, occasioned her the utmost chagrin. Her anxiety to improve this work is manifested by the fact asserted, that she corrected the last of the printer's proofs the day of her death. She expired at Paris on the 12th of December, 1758, in the sixty-fourth year of her age, greatly beloved and regretted by her friends, whose attachment was the sole mitigation to the cares and misfortunes which, from her ill-assorted marriage, embittered her days. Her works passed through several editions, and some of them, "des Lettres Peruviennes" and "Cenie," were translated into Italian by Deodati. AND UNSEEN. (A Fragment.) BY MRS. OCTAVIUS FREIRE OWEN, Reader, have you ever seen a tree felled? Have you ever watched the noble thing till, after a hundred resonant blows of the axe, making the forest tremble again, it falls prone with a mighty crash, never to be replaced more? Is it not like the death of a loved one? After the tree has fallen-and perhaps never until then-when there is a dull void where formerly its stately outline towered against the skies, we learn how completely its leaves have shaded us from the sun; how amply its giant branches have protected us from the storm; how powerfully it has resisted the force of the wind, the hurricane which unopposed by its * Francis I, of Austria. sheltering trunk, had otherwise scattered our hopes, like thistle-down, upon the ground. And perhaps you feel that its leaves falling, year by year-its dead and withered leaves-have enriched the soil for you; that it has been shorn of its vernal promise, stripped of its autumnal prime, left bare and scathed, a ruin meet only for the fate which comes at last, by the same lightning-flash which has spared you, nestled at its foot, or in the hollow of its heart (a fair type of weakness, by the way), lying unconscious of the danger till its force was spent and your protector's death-stroke given! But what shall we say when the picture is reversed? When the slender sapling which we have planted with quick heart-throbs of hope, watered with the daily dews of affection, the tears of tremulous aspiration-graceful head-stone, surmounted by a light and watched expand into fresh and verdant foliage, tapering crucifix, recorded the name and tender seen put forth the buds of early undimmed years of the widow's sole and latest hope. beauty, laugh to the lustrous welcome of the mid-day sun-what shall we say when this bright creature is suddenly withered, stricken by the tempest, or, worse, laid low by some concealed canker at its core, whose scarcely perceptible but insidious progress slowly and surely destroys the vital spark, and with it not unfrequently the subtle thread of electric sympathy in the parent-heart which this sweet human link alone connected with the past and present! The fair young face, so spiritual in its wrapt and holy expression, nestled closely into the bosom which pillowed its soft tresses; the eyes sought those familiar objects indicated by the already failing utterance; but through the ruined temple came a halo, the halo of the soul's recovered glory; and the mother knew that the ark which held her hope was rapidly passing through time-the tiny brooklet-into the deep waters of eternity. "There are voices in the breeze to-night, and they have been whispering to me of beautiful things far up above the clouds yonder; and music-O so sweet!-has been sounding, first a long way off, and then coming nearer and nearer. Mother, I know you cannot hear it, neither do I, with my ear, but I feel its sound within; the time shall come when we shall hear it together-and-————” There was a pause. Holding fast the hand so tremulously pressed around her, the child suddenly raised herself slightly from her mother's convulsive embrace, and the glance of her eyes was as stars fresh lit from the fire of Heaven! Look! they are come for me. Papa's voicethe voice I heard when I was a very little child— is calling me to hasten to him. I cannot see him, mother; but I see lovely white figures all radiant in the moonlight, and they have crowns of the sweet blue harebells from the valley around their heads. Yes, yes, I am cominganother kiss-O why may Í not take her with me?" She had stood beside the grave, and marked it swallow up her all of life, with a tearless gaze. Tongues were not wanting to marvel, at the apathy and resignation of her demeanour; but it was the apathy of despair; and for resignation, hard thoughts of the hand which had been stretched forth to take her lost one from the keeping she falsely reasoned paramount, came borne on the wings of each successive instant, to instil their poisonous breath into her soul. Every night, at the hour when the little life had faded so peacefully into the shadow-land whither her deep gaze, even the piercing gaze of late figure of the mourner, draped in sable, and maternal love, could no longer follow, the desomight have been watched, silently approaching dragging itself by slow and weary steps along, the spot which held the still idolized relics; and extended upon the scarcely sprung turf, the first grey beams of morning found her still repining, could not resign herself to the will of God. still complaining. She was but human, and It is a bleak autumnal night-the winds sigh heavily, and there is the rushing sound of a coming tempest in the breeze. The cold sunset has no sympathy with us; the departing luminary seems to look with too superior an eye upon a world he is very plainly quitting with delight, to suggest aught but an uncomfortable feeling of desolation, together with a regretful pang, that we cannot follow to the brighter regions, whither we know he is bound. While we are thinking of his path, he sinks, and there is a sort of weeping of nature at his departure it is twilight. How stealthily the darkness has come onlike the insensible incursions of the wave-tide, it has stolen upon us unperceived, until we stand in shadowy isolation-surrounded by a chaos of illimitable obscurity; nothing real, nothing tangible, but our own identity. Stop! look yonder: there is a light, brilliant as the torch of the glowworm, or rather, the spectral radiance of the ignis fatuus. It glides here and there; now aloft, now below (it comes from the large old house with the gables, opposite), anon it is lost. Who cannot easily picture the scene into which it has gone? Cheerful, cozy, alike careless of the storm, and uninfluenced by the darkness without, the happy family party, circle the social board, or cluster around the hearth, each occupied by his separate vocation. How like to the gleam of that bright, yet slender lamp, is human love! It has penetrated here and there, visiting first one chamber, then another-wherever appearing, illuminating all, and diffusing a cheering influence around the They laid the child in her narrow resting- darkest spot. None but those who rejoice in a place, a bunch of the blue harebells she had so more extended lustre are insensible to its aploved in life, in her hand. The tomb was pre-proach. An angel in its visits, it has lit up the pared on the shelving bank of the beautiful little path of duty, and cast a warmer glow on pleagrave-yard which looked upon the river; and a sure's rapid steps. And at last, when sleep de The clock of the old church tolled twelve. It was over!--the hope, the struggle past! The captive exile had passed the mortal barrier to join its first associates, to re-enter its primary glory, and in the dim and silent chamber, the mother was alone. Gone! the scene is gone again! The mother's heart beats quick; a struggling and gasping ejaculation bursts from her overcharged breast. Her heart is whispering, "All this, and more, I might have seen;" but hark! there is a stifled scream: what sees she, which pales her cheek paler than grief had seared it? What makes her clasp her hands wildly before her eyes, and call upon the heavens to blot the picture from her sight? What horror could have struck her vision in the scene? for she herself was among the actors in it; her own resemblance stood there, to protect and watch over her lovely and grateful child! Grateful, did we say? One more look still is the odious vision stamped mands the tired energies, it takes its place | in his grasp; her tears are falling upon his beside the bed, and watches the slumberer-uplifted facesometimes the slumberer in death, pointing with its lambent flame like hope-upwards with never-failing care and brilliance, until it is lost in the morning of the spirit's resurrection! There is human love here too. Look at that wild tear-stained face-those pale and livid lips -the fierce despair of the haggard eyes-the hands wrung with convulsive energy; see the frame precipitated with insane violence upon the heaving sod, which covers the little coffin from her gaze. But what a love! Oh, heart! look inward upon thyself; let the scales fall from thine obscured eyelids; see the adoration thou hast set up, like an idol of fair and glorious proportions, of heavenly mien, fade into a gross and clay-formed image of earthly selfishness-upon the watery mirror. She has no power to thy shame,-thy pride no longer. Hush the widow starts; the storm has lulled, and the moon-rays calm and spiritual shine placidly upon the bosom of the waters. She raises her head, and looks fixedly upon the stream. What sees she there? Lo! she beholds her lost child! Lovely, with golden falling curls, and fairy feet, she ranges a garden filled with every flower of earthly lustre, intent upon the pursuit of a beautiful white moth, whose downy wings, when secured, she presses rapturously to her lips. Fondling it with childish fervour, her whole attitude expressive of freedom from care or unrest, repose falls gradually upon her eyelids, and still pressing the snowy moth against her bosom, she falls asleep among the flowers which extend their variegated hues around a fitting couch! Suddenly she wakes; the moth has changed: its hues, so pure and heavenly, are replaced by brilliant colours-a brightly painted butterfly, with the tints of the peacock; it seems to have imbibed the dragon-fly's celerity of flight, and escaping from her encircling fingers, she wakes to start upon another chase-whether successful or not we know not, for a mist comes over the bosom of the stream; and when it clears, other figures are discernible imprinted on its surface. There is the girl again, older, but yet still childish in her loveliness. She is surrounded by others of her own age, and all seem to bend glances of admiration and love upon her graceful form. But her eyes wear no longer the innocent and placid expression so familiar to the mother's heart. A quick, uneasy, restless lustre shines in their glance; she seems to miss something, to seek another triumph. It may be she waits a coming form, and that comes not. Has the woman's lot commenced? Again the vision sweeps past. This time two figures only are visible. The same features, invested with a regal beauty, appear: she stands erect, in self-confiding excellence; yet is there a tender melancholy in her eyes, a tremulous blush upon her cheek; for at her feet kneels one, who looks up to her, with the adoration of youth's first passion; and her hand is gaze upon, or shut it from her sense. Silently fied and ransomed essence! COMFORTABLE PEOPLE.-Comfortable people are persons who are at peace with themselves and with each other, and disposed to make the best of everything and everybody; and that, not by the dangerous sophism of "calling evil good," but by the power of separating good from evil, and a disposition to dwell on and multiply whatever is becomfortable people which has an affinity to goodness neficial near them. There is a something about and which repels evil; and thus, without any ostensible exertion on their part, or forced behaviour on yours, you actually feel not only happier but better in their presence, than in that of others, though more highly distinguished or more zealous in your behalf. That which is true in you comes forth to meet their truth; and that which is kind in you flows on with their indulgence; that which is unselfish in you, answers to their unaffected consider ation; and you would as soon think of presenting yourself at the Queen's drawing-room with galoshes, waterproofs, and umbrellas, as of bringing before comfortable people the harshness or suspicion with which you think it necessary to encounter the world in general; you know you will not want them.Home Truths for Home Peace. LETTERS TO A FRIEND ON TEACHING THE PIANO.* BY JOHANNA KINKEL. The following remarks are particularly intended for mothers, who, possessing some knowledge of music, and living either in the country or in small towns, are induced, from the want of a clever pianoforte teacher, themselves to instruct or to superintend this branch of their children's education. The observations which I have made during the many years of my musical experience may perhaps also be useful to young teachers. LETTER I. MY DEAR FRIEND, You require my advice about the musical instruction of your daughters. It is with pleasure that I yield to this inducement to note down many an experience which I have made in my profession, that it might be useful besides to yourself to a more extended circle. I would not pretend to advise professional musicians; but those talented and highly accomplished amateurs, amongst whom I esteem you, who, though very clever performers, would scarcely be able, unassisted, to instruct their children, will perhaps thank me for some hints whereby they may obtain the same method as that from which I have gained many happy results. It is true that, aided by so many excellent pianoforte instruction books and exercises, published within the last twenty years by the most celebrated composers, every musical individual with a little patience and understanding may become a tolerable instructor; but it may always be desirable to have their way a little shortened. It is also a fatal thing for the pupil to get an impression of his teacher's uncertainty by the latter's trying different modes, which he afterwards forsakes as he improves his views. There is no need to tell you in what order one must impart to the pupils the notes and the signatures of the time or the general rules of execution. You need only lay a foundation with any of the generally acknowledged instructionbooks, and you will have a guide for all the course of teaching; whichever of them you chose then, you must go through with. You may allow occasionally, to encourage the pupil when he is tired, some more amusing piece; but after this you must constantly return to the instruction-book. Should the one of which you make use not contain a sufficient number of five-finger exercises, I would remind you that a complete series of them has appeared, entitled "Exercises preparatoires," by Aloys Schmidt, and is to be had, I suppose, in every music shop. I will confine my remarks concerning the first steps of instruction to rendering prominent only those points, which, though of the greatest importance, are most often neglected. These points are in particular-Exactitude in lifting up the fingers, and—Attention to the grammatical accent. Both are rules so plain and self-evident that one is nearly ashamed to use so many words about them. But as so many performers have lost years of time with useless learning, and have been obliged to retrace all their steps, because from want of patience they omitted these first principles, it is not superfluous to remind every young teacher of them. With pupils already spoiled, it is often better to attempt to conquer but one bad habit at a time, for constant interruptions and blaming only confuse and irritate. Concentrate therefore your attention upon that mechanism of the fingers which the easiest five-finger exercises require, and mind that, the more strictly you oblige the beginner to practise them, the more quickly will you forward him to more pleasing tasks. I know that most of those, who for the first time give instruction in music, lose all enjoyment in it. The teacher has either to eradicate the habit in those pupils, who have been neglected by their former teachers, of letting their fingers stick to the keys; or he has incessantly to warn beginners against holding their wrists too low, or their fingers too straight. He asks himself, full of impatience, if in all the world there is a more tedious and worthless occupation. Perhaps he has gazed deep into the soul of music, and now he must desecrate his beloved art by imparting to his pupils the mere ability to play something upon some instrument, instead of teaching them to feel and to think music. He would rather be the magnet which excites all the musical capacity of those around him; he would prepare a foundation for the understanding of those immortal master-pieces which are a closed book to every one who only practises music as a thoughtless trifle. This dissatisfaction of the teacher, whose first zeal being chilled by the slow conception and the stiff fingers of a beginner, imparts itself to the latter. The fingers, particularly those of children, are wanting in the strength of muscle, which is necessary to spring up elastic after each note. The constant warning, "Raise your fingers!" is tiresome to the pupil, and finally, if the aversion of the teacher for the prosaic part of his profession becomes permanent, and discharges itself in a gloomy impatience towards his pupils, he will destroy the very germs of future excellence. *We have great pleasure in drawing attention to the following letters, by Madame Kinkel, whose talents and experience entitle her to be heard with The task of the teacher in the first instance, more than ordinary respect and consideration.-in teaching the mechanical part of playing, is merely a business like any other, and he must ED. not let his thoughts wander from this labour. He should watch the increasing lightness of touch with the same interest as the turner or the metal worker would attend to the polishing of his material. He who has neither patience nor enjoyment in the most insignificant result of his labour, has no vocation for teaching. Try to give yourself up with full attention to the smallest possible task, as, for instance, that of teaching a child to play the scale perfectly smoothly. The vivacity of the interest, and the pleasure with which you notice that "There were still two unequal notes; now there is but one; and now it is performed perfectly! &c., &c." will be imparted to the child. He will become the more attentive to his touch, and will be quite happy when he becomes aware of an improve ment. In the same degree as you conquer indolence and ennui in yourself you carry the pupil along with you. It is decidedly injurious to hurry from one piece to the next, before the former is quite perfect. The pupils must be accustomed to feel that perfect exactness in playing is a thing from which they may not excuse themselves. When you remember that one improper habit in the | manner of holding the fingers, appearing quite insignificant at first, renders afterwards free and spirited execution quite impossible, you will not consider, like other amateurs, that mechanical execution is opposed to the more expressive style of playing. The former must be acquired as a means to the latter before one can expect of the pupil the power of expressing feeling. How can a performer bring out the beauty of music, even if he is gifted with the most clear insight, when his fingers are rebellious? Whoever then undertakes the duty of teaching a beginner must do it conscientiously; he may not hurry over the prosaic part of his office, in order to amuse himself to the neglect of the pupil. LETTER II. Indeed it is quite too much to demand that one pianoforte teacher should lead his pupil from the lowest steps to the summit. For nearly all other studies there are various grades of teachers, of which each one prepares the way for the next. In our case, indeed, it is true that the most learned man would make the worst schoolmaster. We scarcely possess fit teachers for the preparatory steps in music. There are all kinds of clever and stupid teachers, of conscientious and unconscientious ones, but scarcely one who would consent to raise his pupil up to a certain point, and then leave him to a teacher of higher rank. A composer, given up for a while to his poetical dreams, cannot possibly bring himself down into the external world, when the clock strikes the hour of the lesson. Perhaps he is pursuing a beautiful melody, which has risen in his thoughts at this very moment, and, before he can note it down, the pupil enters the room with the book of exercises under his arm; the first impulse of the composer certainly would be, to beat him soundly and throw him down stairs. The composer has a natural hatred for the bungler who comes to disturb his ideas; and all teaching without the impulse of love proves ineffectual. An extraordinary musical talent is not at all necessary in those who superintend children when they practise their little exercises; only patience and conscientiousness. Many persons who embrace the office of a pianoforte-teacher as they would any other kind of trade, for their mere subsistence, without feeling the need of being more deeply imbued with the spirit of music, would be very useful members of the artrepublic, if they fulfilled their duty strictly within certain bounds. Instead of throwing away Beethoven's compositions as soon as possible upon their unripe pupils, they should devote the first years entirely to educating the ear, the feeling for time, and the fingers. Out of their elementary school would then proceed pupils, finished up to a certain point, who could be led on by a teacher of a higher rank to more poetical regions. To content himself with his modest task is the duty of the teacher in the first instance, and he is only a good teacher so long as he does not overleap these first steps. If a temple of art must be built, architects and sculptors must not be forced themselves to drag and to hew their stones: this is common labourers' work. But, however, matters are quite differently adjusted; and it often happens that the most highly gifted musical natures are forced by circumstances to an unproductive activity in the empire of art; we will accordingly return to our subject. It is a very common error to measure ability by the degree of quickness of the fingers; but this is not so important as that the fingers be able to execute every degree of strength or softness with the touch to a hair's breadth. The third finger is naturally the most ungovernable one. If it happens that a very expressive note falls to it, this note will not get its proper emphasis, if the finger has not been educated betimes to a like strength with the other ones. That little well-known exercise, in which the third finger alone strikes quavers, the other fingers holding down chords without moving, is quite as necessary to the pianoforteplayer as the practice of a weak register note to the vocalist. Tasks of this kind one cannot get done once for all, but we must continue them during the whole time of learning. If one exercises the third finger in this manner for one minute only every day, it will soon be equal to the others. The fourth finger is, from its shortness, usually only a little space above the keys, when the other ones are sufficiently bent to press them down. In the right hand one perceives this less, but a great inconvenience arises from this habit in the |