_The Ancient Mariner_ with Mr. J. F. BARNETT'S brilliant music at St. James's Hall last Thursday night, held entranced a large audience which listened "like a three ears child" ("Had I three ears I'd hear thee," says _Macbeth_. Did COLERIDGE write SHAKSPEARE?--however, this has nothing much to do with the _cantata_, and so on we goes again)--so "the Mariner hath his Will" (which is almost conclusive evidence that COLERIDGE'S _Mariner_ was written by WILL SHAKSPEARE) and we were all delighted. I hadn't a book. Who was ALBERT ROSS that the _Mariner_ shot? Madame PATEY sang "_O Sleep, it is a Genteel Thing!_" (I think these were the words) with great feeling and expression. Beautiful idea, "sleep a genteel thing!" Somebody told me I was wrong, and that the poet wrote, "_O Sleep, it is a Gentle Thing!_" which anybody could have said, without being a poet. So I prefer my own version. The recitative (SANTLEY) and chorus (Everybody), about "the coming wind did roar," and something (I didn't catch what) was "like a sledge," and "the Moon was on its side and then upon its edge," which sounds just what a harvest moon would do after a good day's harvesting, were excellent.
Then followed Mr. C. V. STANFORD'S Symphony in F Minor, "_The Irish_" as my neighbour informed me, to which I replied, "Oh, indeed!" and appeared, as I hope, much interested; though what he meant I haven't the smallest idea. Who was my neighbour?--a very learned person who kept on drawing my attention to the excellent instrumentation, and the admirable use which the Composer had made of his "strings"--I didn't see that he had any "strings," but I said, "Ah, yes,"--his "Wood-wind and Horns." "Just observe his horns!" said my neighbour enthusiastically. He spoke of Mr. C. V. STANFORD as if he were drawing the portrait of Ancient Nicholas, as portrayed by CRUIKSHANK when illustrating _The Lay of S. Médard_, in the _Ingoldsby Legends_. A Composer with Strings, Wood-wind ("comest thou with blasts from----" &c., as BACONSPEARE hath it) and "horns" is the man to write a _cantata_ entitled "Herne the Hunter," and I am not at all sure that there isn't a _Herne_ already in existence, and that that Herne isn't His'n. After a pause (during which the orchestra continued playing) my neighbour begged me to notice that now the theme was, "Remember the glories of O'BRIEN the Brave," but at this point not wishing to enter into a political discussion which might have landed me in the police-station, I courteously, but firmly, wished him good night, and having signified to everybody generally the extreme pleasure I had derived from the entertainment provided by the Messrs. NOVELLO AND EWER, I gracefully withdrew, and am, No Fellow, but Ewers truly, THE CRICKET ON THE HARP.