——the king In history little known, Who thought that glory, useless thing, Would not become his throne. A cotton night-cap graced his brows, Which Jeannette, mistress of his house, Gave him as crown. O dear! Oh! what a funny king was here.
MEYERBEER’S “PROPHETE” was given fifty times at the Grand Opera in Paris, when it was withdrawn for a time, as Madame VIARDOT had to visit Berlin, to fulfill an engagement. Madame CASTELLAN, so well remembered in this country, sung the part of _Berthe_ in this opera.
VERDI has selected the subject of Shakspeare’s “Tempest,” for the libretto of his next opera. The genius of VERDI will luxuriate in the storm of the elements and the fierce contentions of passion, but he will never be able to illustrate the spirit of the “_dainty Ariel_,” or the innocent devotedness of _Miranda_. We should think, however, that he will construct a magnificent composition upon the many sublime themes and graphic word-paintings of the great bard.
_The Scarlet Letter, a Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._
In this beautiful and touching romance Hawthorne has produced something really worthy of the fine and deep genius which lies within him. The “Twice Told Tales,” and “Mosses from an Old Manse,” are composed simply of sketches and stories, and although such sketches and stories as few living men could write, they are rather indications of the possibilities of his mind than realizations of its native power, penetration, and creativeness. In “The Scarlet Letter” we have a complete work, evincing a true artist’s certainty of touch and expression in the exhibition of characters and events, and a keen-sighted and far-sighted vision into the essence and purpose of spiritual laws. There is a profound philosophy underlying the story which will escape many of the readers whose attention is engrossed by the narrative.
The book is prefaced by some fifty pages of autobiographical matter, relating to the author, his native city of Salem, and the Custom House, from which he was ousted by the Whigs. These pages, instinct with the vital spirit of humor, show how rich and exhaustless a fountain of mirth Hawthorne has at his command. The whole representation has the dreamy yet distinct remoteness of the purely comic ideal. The view of Salem streets; the picture of the old Custom House at the head of Derby’s wharf, with its torpid officers on a summer’s afternoon, their chairs all tipped against the wall, chatting about old stories, “while the frozen witticisms of past generations were thawed out, and came bubbling with laughter from their lips”—the delineation of the old Inspector, whose “reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the actual banquet, seemed to bring the savor of pig or turkey under one’s very nostrils,” and on whose palate there were flavors “which had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently as fresh as that of the mutton-chop which he had just devoured for his breakfast,” and the grand view of the stout Collector, in his aged heroism, with the honors of Chippewa and Fort Erie on his brow, are all encircled with that visionary atmosphere which proves the humorist to be a poet, and indicates that his pictures are drawn from the images which observation has left on his imagination. The whole introduction, indeed, is worthy of a place among the essays of Addison and Charles Lamb.