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At last the General “smelt a rat.”
Ilis own chickens were missing, and the
egg basket hung on the peg quite empty,
to the utter astonishment of his good wife,
who had never known a similar occur
rence before.
“Col. E.” said the General, as they
met one day in the street, “have I killed
all your liens yet!”
“Killed all my hens, General,” slowly
repeated Col. E. “Why, I have not
owned a living hen these three years !”
The General sloped. lie had shot
and given to Colonel. E. nine of his best
layers.
For the Soatliern Literary Gazette.
TAKE BACK THE RING.
Take back the ring, but I demand,
Before the pretty toy shall shine
Aga n upon thy snowy hand,
A stolen heart of mine.
Take back the ring, but I require
That glorious liberty of thought.
The soul of unexhausted fire,
With which the ring was bought.
Take back the bauble—is it worth
All that to thee was g'adly given ?
The gem is but a star of Earth,
And Love a star of Heaven.
Correspondence of tile Southern Literary Gazette.
MUSICAL CORRESPONDENCE.
New-York, Dec. IG, 1852.
Maeder’s new fairy opera ‘•'The Peri,”
or the “ Enchanted Fountain ,” was first
brought out on Monday evening last,
and made a decidedly favourable impres
sion.
The character of the music is light and
pleasing, but not remarkable for its orig
inality. The piece is full of melodies
land lias some of the most beautiful little
ballads I have ever listened to. The
two second soprano songs, “ Home of my
Youth ’ and “ Come to the Forest ,” the
opening tenor song, “ Thoughts that have
for years been cherished , and the baritone
song, “ Dark Eyes'f will, probably, be
as popular English ballads as have ever
been published. There is a want of va
riety and strong points of contrast which
takes off from the most effective points,
and too many sweets are crowded to
gether. Tor simple parlor ballads, 1 have
never met with a more choice collection.
The librette of the opera is a poor affair,
weak in its design, and forced in its exe
cution. The scenic effects are the most
elegant I have ever seen—no expense ap
pears to have been spared in preparing it
for the stage, and the spectacle alone will
make it have a good run. The perform-
SOUTIIERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
ers have very much improved since its
first representation. Miss Eichings, the
prima donna, has several fine songs, and
acquits herself creditably for a debutante,
though unfortunately the plot of the piece
instead of giving her the sympathies of
the audience, makes her merely an instru
ment to bring about the happiness of the
tenor and his affianced, who has not ten
words to say, and only appears in the
last scene of the last act. Notwithstand
ing these dramatic defects the opera is
having good and increasing success. Ma
dame Sontag is in Baltimore, she goes
from there to Washington, and then re
turns to New-York to sing in opera, so
you will not see her this winter. Alboni
is, 1 believe, in Philadelphia—what she
will do next 1 do not know, and 1 do not
believe she knows herself. 1 very much
doubt it either herself or manager, have
ever known one week ahead what thev
were to do next.
Gottschalk, the pianist, will arrive in
the Franklin next week ; I hope he will
have all the success his European reputa
tion (and no doubt his great talent,) de
serves. lie is an American by birth, and
though a very young man, has achieved a
reputation hardly second to Litz and
Thai berg. Jullien , the London Musical
Lion, will also soon arrive with his entire
orchestra. 1 believe lie has engaged Cas
tle Garden, but be might as well expect
people to take a cold bath off the battery,
as to get them to Castle Garden in the
winter. Our favourite song writer, Mr.
Geo. E. Root, has accepted the call to the
musical chair of the Union Theological
Seminary. I hope he will make our next
generation of Theologians both harmoni
ous and melodious. Mr. Root is one of
the most amiable, deserving, talented
musicians we have in the city, and lie
will give dignity and honour to the pro
fessorship.
The Last Concert Waltz, by Boulanger,
is a work of very good merit. It is bril
liant and effective, but a little too difficult
for general sale. The u Fascination Polka f
by Munck, the “ Afton Polka and Schot
tischf by Fowler, are regular dancing
pieces, they are easy and almost go of
themselves. Wallace’s Annual, for 1853,
is out, and it is a beautiful and valuable
collection. Such a work will be of in
terest long after the many trashy gift
books have died out of memory.
Mr. Lavenu has shown me the manu
scripts of several beautiful little soivs,
which 1 will tell you about as soon as
they are published.
Your’s truly,
Cujus Summa Est.
BOOTH, THE TRAGEDIAN.
“Old Booth,” as he is familiarly
termed by theatre-goers, is dead. Through
good and evil report, through good and
evil fortune, and through good and evil
habits, he has maintained a Jong and
strong hold upon the American stage.
His life was commenced in London, in
1796, and has ended on a Western steam
boat. No man who ever saw him as
Richard 111., will forget him, or his mas
terly representation of that character.
His perlect bondage to his cups was the
cause of all his troubles, but even through
the most palpable guise of inebriety, his
genius would often shine out showing the
real stamp of a remarkable man.
In connection with the name of Booth,
there occurs to us an incident of his pro
fessional life, illustrative of his disgust
with the clap-trap of the stage, and his
impatience with an audience that could
not appreciate good pla) ing. After hav
ing been extremely successful iu London,
where bis professional life commenced,
he made an engagement with a Manches
ter manager. Manchester, then, as now,
a manafacturing town, was devoted large
ly to the manufacture of buttons. Booth
appeared before his new audience, deter
mined to make a bit. We have forgot
ten the name of the play in which he tip
peared—enough that he threw himself
intuit with his whole soul. But, alas!
the house would not “comedown.” His
choicest efforts were thrown away, and
his heart began to sink within him, and
self distrust to steal over him. At last
there came in the play a personal set-to,
into which Booth went with such a
hearty zest that the cheers and shouts
thus far repressed, broke out a perfect
storm. Booth caught the secret, and
forthwith so belaboured his fellow ac
tor that he fairly yelled with pain. The
applause was unbounded. Then Booth
sat down in his chair, and stretching his
neck toward his audience, with a face
on which was depicted the most utter con
tempt and disgust, exclaimed in a way all
hisown—“What do you think of that, you
confounded button makers Y
He was obliged to leave the stage as
well as the city, with a mob of the but
ton makers on his back. Every scene
he has visited abounds in auecdotes, of
his extraordinary sayings and doings,
both on and off the stage. One night as
he was playing Sir Edward Mortimer, in
the “Iron Chest,” at Philadelphia, it be
came very evident that his potations had
been too deep, and to the manager’s hor-
\J)ecember 25,