While listening to the magic strains of the Swedish nightingale, we could but reflect that she, and those dowered with the like gifts in the same high degree, must frequently mourn over their evanescence. The warrior's laurel and the poet's bay are immortal; while the wreaths which fall at the feet of a far-famed singer scarcely perish sooner than her renown. The faded beauty can point out to her friends, and bequeath to her grandchildren, her fair fresh charms on the "undying canvas;" but what echo remains of voices which have thrilled the hearts of half the world? Surely it is a charity to consecrate one poor half-hour to the memory of a German singer, whose name, now utterly forgotten, was, at the close of the last century, familiar as a household word to the lips of all the beauty and fashion of Christendom; while, in private life, her virtues, her unselfishness, and sweetness of disposition, bore a strong resemblance to our favourite Jenny Lind; who was, however, born under a more fortunate star, and we rejoice to think that the gentle heart of Madame Goldschmidt will never be wrung as was that of the no less gifted, but less happy, Madame Mara.

In 1749-that year so signalized by the birth of Goethe-Elizabeth Schmähling, the wife of a poor music-teacher, in Cassel, died in childbirth, leaving her husband a sickly infant, the child of his old age. Contrary to all expectations, the little creature struggled through its early infancy, almost to the disappointment of her remaining parent, whose paternal feelings were deadened by poverty, and the reflection that this little worthless life had been purchased by that of his beloved companion. As her father was too poor to command attendance of any kind, the neglected child passed the long hours of his absence in perfect solitude, locked in an almost unfurnished apartment, and her poor little feet fastened to a great chair.

One evening, just after she had completed her fourth year, as Schmähling was returning, weary and heavy of heart, to his humble abode, his step was arrested on the stairs by the sound of a scale in music distinctly and perfectly played, proceeding from the prison-room of his little ailing daughter!

He listened again. Yes: he was not mistaken! He had the key of the door. No one could be there but the sickly child, whose existence he had felt to be so sore a burden. A new happiness-that of a father's pride and joy-visited the desolate heart of the poor old man, and, entering softly, he found that the little Elizabeth had managed to reach an old violin, whence she drew the sounds which had so unexpectedly greeted her father's ears.

Now began a new life for these two human beings-a life of happy companionship. It

would have been a fine study for a painter to watch the young musician, still almost an infant, propped up on her high chair; her features-to which even the common beauty of childhood had been denied-lighted up with the spirit of har mony, as the violin obeyed the little trembling fingers, and sent forth its sweetest sounds. Close by, on the only other seat the room could boast, sat the now happy father, urging on and encouraging the little one; and at a very difficult passage, producing from his capacious pocket a rosy-cheeked apple-a rare dainty for Elizabeth with which her exertions were to be rewarded.

After a short time, under the high patronage of the child's godfather, a rich tailor, and the sacristan, Schmühling and his daughter gave little concerts at the houses of their neighbours

-an employment at once pleasant and profitable. They were enabled to make two additions to their household-a servant and a large dog; and both accompanied them on their musical expeditions. The little procession always delighted Elizabeth. As her weak limbs would not support her weight, she was carried by her father; then came the maid-servant, carrying the violin; and lastly, the dog, who was intrusted with a little basket filled with violin-strings, &c. Sometimes their auditors required ballads, or country songs, and then the servant joined her rustic voice; but this always displeased the old man, who was nevertheless compelled to obey the wishes of his audience.

Gradually, however, Elizabeth's fame spread among the richer citizens; the houses of the wealthy tradesmen were opened to the childmusician; and at length a rich merchant, who was going to the great fair at Frankfort, offered to convey Schmähling and his daughter there. The poor child, then hardly eight years old, could scarcely bear the jolting of the carrier's waggon in which she travelled; but she rested her aching head on her father's shoulder, and, although her limbs were nearly frozen with the cold, he kept her hands warm, by placing them under his coat upon his heart. But her cold and weariness were forgotten completely when her father, at length, showed Elizabeth the city of Frankfort-then full of the life and bustle of the great fair-and told her that there she would play before the rich and great, and earn not only money, but fame.

Schmähling and his daughter lived for two years at Frankfort, succeeding so well as to be in comfortable circumstances, while every day seemed to develop the wonderful powers of the child; her health, too, improved, and she could walk, though with difficulty.

The old man, whom poverty had bound for so many years to Cassel, loved a wandering life, and went from Frankfort to Vienna, where his

lemnized; and now, in the midst of her success and honour, began the secret sorrows and shame of the unhappy Elizabeth Mara.

She soon discovered how fatal a step she had taken; her husband lavished her earnings on the lowest, both of his sex and her own; he was almost always in a disgraceful state of intoxication; and, not content with heaping every neglect on his patient wife, he openly reproached her with her want of beauty.

Now, too, she began to experience that her position at court was only a gilded slavery; for the king, who hated the worthless husband, made the innocent wife feel his anger. A request she made to be allowed, on account of her health, to visit the Bohemian baths, was refused; and on the edge of a petition her husband compelled her to present for leave to accompany him on a tour, she found written in pencil by the ing, "Let him go, but you shall remain."

Mara was furious against the King, and behaved most brutally to his wife, who pursuaded him in vain to keep a prudent silence; he complained loudly of Frederick's tyranny, and even wrote ridiculous pamphlets upon his wrongs.

This was perhaps the most miserable period of Madame Mara's unhappy married life. The King showed his displeasure openly against her, and she shared the odium with which her husband was universally regarded; anxiety, grief, and distress threw her into a dangerous fever. Just at this juncture, the Grand Duke, Paul of Russia-a great admirer, almost a worshipper, of the "Colossus of the century," as he styled Frederick, arrived at Berlin. Among the festivities arranged for the occasion was a great opera, by Tomelli, in which Madame Mara was to sing the principal part. On the morning of the day on which it was to be performed, it was announced that Mara was very ill. The King sent her a message, to the effect that she could be well if she pleased, and it was his pleasure that she should be. She returned a respectful answer, saying that she was really very ill. All Berlin was in commotion, and eagerly watched the result of a battle between Frederick the Great and his first singer. No other entertainment was arranged for the evening; the King commanded the preparations to be completed. Evening approached; the director, in despair, hastily donned his court-dress, and repaired to the King, to whom he represented that he had seen Mara; that she was really ill, and could not be induced to leave her bed. Frederick, who either really thought, or affected to believe, the indisposition feigned, merely said, "Do not disturb yourself; she will be present;" and half an hour afterwards, one of the royal carriages, accompanied by eight dragoons, stopped before Madame Mara's door, and the officer announced to the terrified servants that he had orders to bring their sick mistress by force to the theatre. We will detail the story in Madame Mara's own words to Goethe. She says

revenge filled my soul. As I placed the dagger of Armida in my girdle, I wished with all my heart that I could slay my pitiless tyrant with it. Yes, I said to myself, as the heavy diadem was pressed on my poor aching head, yes, I will obey the tyrant! I will sing, but in such accents as he has never heard before: he shall listen to the terrible reproaches I dare not utter in words.' In this mood I went to the opera; the common people showed their sympathy, when they saw my guard of dragoons, my face wet with tears, and wan with sickness. Some even rushed forward to rescue me, but they were driven back by the soldiers. The officers had orders to accompany me to the side-scene, and stand there until I was called upon the stage to sing my part. I felt sick unto death as I stood waiting, and my physician, who accompanied me, has since said that he feared the worst. I looked on the stage once, as the ballet-dancers swept past: it seemed to me as if they were dancing on my grave. Now I had to appear; I sang the bravura in a weak, trembling voice; but I felt very much vexed that I could only sing so feebly, for ambition awoke in me. When, in the second act, I had to sing the "Mi serame,' I poured out the whole sorrow and oppression of my heart. I glanced at the King, and my looks and tones said, Tyrant, I am here to obey your will, but you shall listen only to the voice of my agony.' As the last piteous tones died on my lips, I looked round; all was still as death. Not a sound escaped the audience; they seemed as if they were witnessing some execution. I saw my power, even in my weakness; this gave me strength: I felt my illness yield for the time to the power of melody within me. Vanity, too, came to my assistance; she whispered that it would be an eternal disgrace if I allowed the Grand Duke, who had heard of my fame in a foreign land, to suppose that I was not equal to my renown. Then came that magnificent duet, in which I had to address Rinaldo, Dove corri, O Rinaldo?' and then I raised my voice, but did not put forth all my power, until I had to sing those burning words, Vivi felice? Indegno, perfido, traditore!' My audience seemed overpowered; the Grand Duke leaned over his box, and testified his delight in the most evident manner. For some moments after I had finished, there was a breathless silence, and then came the full thunder of applause. I was sent for to appear again, and receive the plaudits; but no sooner had I got behind the scenes than I fell into a fainting fit. I was carried home, and for many days my life was despaired of."

discovered and brought back as state pri

soners.

Frederick, who desired nothing more than praise from the French press, had been rather mortified at the view taken by the Parisian journals of his barbarous violation of Mara's sick-room; they expressed, in the strongest terms, the deepest indignation at his conduct, and the most heartfelt pity for the sufferer. The voice of public opinion, added to a secret consciousness that he had gone too far, determined the King to inflict no punishment on Madame Mara herself; but he indemnified himself for this forbearance by making her husband feel the whole weight of his anger. The luxurious, pampered, royal musician was forthwith ordered repair to Kustrin, in the capacity of drummer to a fusileer regiment! Forgetful of her many wrongs, the faithful wife wished to throw herself at the King's feet, and beg that the sentence might be revoked. He would not see her; and sent her a large portfolio of music, with the following note: Study these, and forget your good-for-nothing husband: that is the best thing you can do."

The unhappy drummer wrote the most piteous letters to his wife; touching her heart by complaints of absence from her, which he professed to find unspeakably bitter; and vowing that he had never felt his love for her till now, that absence taught him how dear she was. Poor Mara, accustomed to words of affection, and willing to be deceived, made the most urgent efforts to obtain his recall, and succeeded at last, when all appeals to Frederick's generosity, honour, and clemency, had failed, by an appeal of a different nature, which was far more likely to weigh with the parsimonious monarch. She offered to purchase her husband's freedom with the resignation of half her annual salary; and the great bero of the eighteenth century was nothing loath comply on these terms.

to

This sacrifice for so unworthy an object was the wonder and admiration of Berlin. It happened that the first time Mara appeared afterwards was in a little opera called "The Galley Slave." The audience applied a scene, in which the singer, unbinding the chains of the galley slave, was addressed by him in these words: "Ame tendre et géneréuse, tu brisas mes fers," to their favourite herself. In spite of the royal prohibition, garlands, bouquets, and even costly jewellery, fell at her feet, as these words were pronounced. One of the fairest trophies of her public life was a fine engraving of this scene, from a sketch taken on the spot, by Chodowiecki. Madame Mara preserved it carefully, and loved to contemplate the picture even to her dying day. At length, in 1779, after having resided at the Prussian court, as first singer, for nearly ten years, Elizabeth Mara obtained her most welcome dismissal. "Now," she wrote to her friends, "the imprisoned bird is let loose, and can fly everywhere." She went to Vienna, where an incident occurred, of which she always spoke as the most gratifying and exciting she had ever known. We will give the full particulars of an

example of the power of harmony, only equalled by the story in Holy Writ of that sweet singer of Israel who charmed by his melody the gloomy demon from his royal master.

An

Count S —, a powerful Hungarian noble, had lost, under the most distressing circumstances, his only child, a beautiful girl, who was on the eve of marriage. Although two years had elapsed since this bereavement, the unhappy father remained in the most melancholy condition. From the hour when he had looked his last on the dead body of his child, he had remained in the same room, shedding no tears, and uttering no complaints, but in a speechless melancholy and despair. The most celebrated physicians had been consulted, and every means which could be thought of used, to awaken Count S from his lethargy of grief; but all was in vain; and his medical attendants at length despaired of his recovery. Most fortunately, a member of the sufferer's family had heard Mara sing, and entertained a firm belief that if any sound on earth could reach the heart which was already buried in his daughter's grave, that voice, which seerned more like that of an angel than a human being, would have power. The other relatives, though hoping little from the experiment, yielded to the solicitations of this sanguine friend, and every arrangement was made to give full effect to the singer. ante-room, opening into that where the count sat, was prepared. The choir for an oratorio was placed in a concealed gallery; Mara alone stood in the foreground, yet in such a position that she could not be seen in the next room, which was hung with black, and a faint shadowy twilight only admitted, excepting a few golden rays from a small lamp, which burned in a niche before a beautiful Madonna. Suddenly, upon the solitude and silence of that sick room, there broke a wonderful harmony. Elizabeth had chosen Handel's "Messiah," and took her place, deeply moved with the singular circumstances under which she was to exert her talents. At first, the music and that heavenly voice all seemed to be unheeded; but, by degrees, the desolate parent raised himself on his couch, and glanced with earnest longing towards the spot whence those soul-moving sounds proceeded. At length, when Mara sang those words— "Look and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow," she appeared inspired by the sympathy she felt; and the relatives of the Count, who listened with beating hearts, could not restrain their tears. Nor did these alone bear witness to the singer's power: heavy sighs escaped the sufferer; large tears stood in those eyes which the very extremity of grief itself had long forbidden to weep. Crossing the room with feeble steps, he prostrated himself before the image of that Heavenly One, who "bore all our griefs;" and when the full choir joined in the hallelujah chorus, his voice of praise and thanksgiving mingled with those strains. The recovery was not only complete, but lasting, and was, at the time, the marvel of Germany.

In 1784 she again visited England, where she

had not been since, as an ugly, sickly child, she was despised for her excessive plainness. Now, however, full justice was done her, and she was welcomed as the queen of song. George III. and his graceless son were at least agreed in their admiration of Mara's voice. During her stay in England, those bonds which she had twelve years before so eagerly embraced, and found such galling fetters, were broken, and she separated from her worthless husband, pensioning him off so amply as to satisfy the selfish dé

bauchée. After this separation, her days were calm, if not happy. She retired early from public life, and settled at Reval, where, on her eighty-third birthday, she received a copy of verses from Goethe, who, on the same day sixty years before, had, as a student at Leipsic, sung her praises as Mademoiselle Schmähling.

Madame Mara died at Reval, on the 20th of January, 1833, having nearly completed her eighty-fifth year. - Godey's American Magazine.

It has been justly said that the origin of the drama must be sought for in that powerful agent in human nature, the love of imitation: hence, in our efforts to trace its rise, the mind must be directed to periods the most remote, when civilization had not visited the abodes of man. The rude war-dance, indicating a species of entertainment, when the performers formed an exhibition for the amusement of the spectators, has always existed among savage tribes; forming, with them, the rites of their religion, and which is found to prevail in the early history of all nations.

As representations of this rude nature increased in proportion as religious ceremonies advanced, imitative exhibitions became more extensive, and finally constituted that which in a strict sense may be denominated dramatic performance.

These rites and ceremonies, originating when man was in a rude and barbarous state, are still performed with many nations; for, even to this day, at the celebration of various festivals, exhibitions are brought forward of a religious kind, which represent with more or less accuracy the chief particulars of the event about to be commemorated in short, the elements of the dramatic art have existed among all nations; and every country which has made any progress in civilization has at the same time developed this

art.

As mankind progressed in knowledge, the drama assumed in its character a form differing from mythological representation. Greece, distinguished beyond all other ancient states for the advance of those arts which lead to the cultivation of science and philosophy, is the country to which we must look for the rise and progress of the regular drama. But although Homer had sung with great beauty the conflict of the Trojan war, and Hesiod had breathed forth in immortal song the enjoyments of rural life, yet centuries elapsed before the people of ancient Greece had established the old Greek comedy, and which principally consisted of dramatic songs and

mirthful, ludicrous, and too often indecorous. The term "Comedy" signifies village-song; but the original meaning has been much altered. To Lusarion, who flourished 580 years before the Christian era, the Greeks were indebted for the first regular comic-drama.

Thespis-of whom we know little more than the name, retained by his descendants, the children of the "sock and buskin” of the present daywas contemporary with Lusarion, and added to the interest created by the choral-songs in introducing an actor whose office it was to recite, during the pauses of the singing, verses in honour of Hercules, Theseus, or some other hero of antiquity. The face of the actor was daubed with wine-lees; and the simple paraphernalia necessary to the exhibition were conveyed from place to place in a waggonsomewhat after the fashion of our travelling. showmen who frequent the public fairs. With this rude structure, on a moveable stage, Lusarion and Thespis held up to ridicule the vices and follies of their age." At the end of the Peleponnesian war it was strictly prohibited to bring living persons by name on the stage, or to ridicule the government. And a proof of the power of the drama over the human mind at that period may be deduced from the fact, that the comedies of Aristophanes influenced the Greeks in their decree of death to the great philosopher, Socrates.

Aristophanes, the most popular, and at the same time the most severely satirical, of the Greek dramatists, in his writings held Socrates, his doctrines and the philosophy of his school, up to the severest ridicule; which, it is said, tended much to alienate the minds of the ever-changing multitude from their great sage. By degrees tragedy became a distinct branch of the art, and its graver scenes served as an entertainment for the inhabitants of cities; whilst comedy retained its gay character, and chiefly served to amuse the country-people of Greece. Regular companies of comedians were at length established at Atticus, being tolerated by the government.

The old comedy of the Greeks was thoroughly national, with something of a political tendency.