I have had few musical wishes stronger than to hear the “Guillaume Tell” of Rossini in Paris. Cloyed as we Londoners had been with Bellini's honeyed, but intensely languid melodies, — the staple of our operatic fare for two seasons, — I looked forward to the representation of this chef-d'œuvre, with all the impatience of one eager for a new sensation. It is rather comfortless for the musical amateur to reflect, how completely within the range of possibilities it is, that ten years of opportunity should leave him little that is untried to desire. He will do well to recollect, that it is such a moment of satiety, that a pedantic and immoderate preference for some particular school or period is apt to seize hold of the unwary; who forgets how little chance there is of his retaining any balance of judgment, or wholesome powers of enjoyment, if he once become a mere collector or an antiquarian.

To modify the opening phrase of Crabbe's delightful “Lover's Journey” — “It is the soul that hears.” This is more than the whole truth; yet there are times, when circumstances throw a wet blanket over the most resolute enthusiasm; and certain it is that my first fulfilment at L'Académie Royale of so long-cherished an expectation left but a very trifling impression on my mind.