appearance of Catherine Hayes in the metropolitan theatre of her birth-place. And that appearance, so ardently yet so tremblingly longed for-that success which was felt to be the great and crowning reward of all the toil of incessant practice, all the years of diligent study that success, so suddenly imperilled, so nearly marred-it is not any wonder that Miss Hayes ever refers to this incident as the most painful throughout her entire career. The following evening she appeared in Norma, and concluded her brief engagement in La Sonnambula, her first gratifying professional visit to Ireland terminating with two concerts given in her native city. Her second appearance in Dublin took place in February last; and she proceeded hence to Limerick and Cork, on that occasion, as the prima-donna of an Italian company. Her reception was deeply gratifying. Numbers of the most respectable inhabitants of the former city assembled at the railway terminus to meet her, and their welcome was indeed a demonstration of respect and attachment not to be forgotten. The theatre, each night of her performance, was crowded to overflowing. On the occasion of her benefit, her performance presented a scene of intense excitement, and her leave-taking has thus been described by an eye-witness "The hotel was surrounded from an early hour, and it was with difficulty she was able to proceed to the carriage in waiting to convey her to the railway terminus. Hundreds of the poor, to whom she gave liberal charity, blessed her as she departed; and amid the farewell salutations of large groups of ladies and gentlemen, the latter uncovered in her honour, she at length drove away, affected to tears by the favours enthusiastically heaped upon her.' " In Cork, also, the "Irish prima donna" received a truly Irish welcome. Hundreds could not obtain admission to the theatre on the nights of her appearance; and, on more than one occasion, costly presents were handed to her by the ladies in the boxes. On the 2nd of April, Miss Hayes, having accepted an offer from Mr. Lumley, made her first appearance in her Majesty's Theatre; the adroit manager thas securing himself, in the absence of Jenny Lind, from a rivalry he especially dreaded. Her debût in Lucia was triumphantly successful, the London critics, without a single exception, speaking in laudatory terms of her vocal and dramatic powers. It is not for us to profess to comprehend the mysteries of theatrical management, or to account for the singular fact that, during the season now just terminated, Miss Hayes, whose past career was so brilliant, whose debût was so successful, whose reputation, in a word, was established, should have been afforded so few opportunities of appearing. Although a large payment was secured to her, and although every overture of the most flattering description was made by the management, in order to attach her to the company for the season, after the engagement was signed, Miss Hayes was rarely called on to gratify the patrons of the opera. A prima donna of former years-whose performances, however wonderfully pure, fresh, and brilliant still, were associated with the recollections of the past, was brought prominently forward every night, while Miss Hayes was "shelved," as far as the management could effect this obscuration. Certainly the diminution in the attraction at her Majesty's Theatre, which has now turned that noble building into a species of promenade concert-room, has not afforded proof of the wisdom of this arrangement, nor has the unworthy treatment of our fair countrywoman diminished in any, the least degree, the popularity she enjoys both in England and this country. We have now briefly traced the vocal career of Catherine Hayes, from that early period when her first audience cheered the child-songstress on the Shannon's brink, till pronounced second only to Jenny Lind by the coldest and severest critics in the world-till described by one of their cautious organs as "certainly the sweetest, the most graceful, and the most interesting represensentative" of Lucia on the stage. Her professional triumphs have been as brilliant as her private life has been pure and amiable. If to Grisi and Adelaide Kemble it has been given to astonish by the sublime grandeur of their tragic acting, the passion and the thrilling beauty of their vocalism; if to Alboni, mighty in all the meaning of the word, be granted amazing attributes of power, and a voice organ-like in blended depth and sweetness; if to Sontag be con fided the charm of pure and delicate expression, wedded to delicious floridness of flute-like execution; if to Jenny Lind, greater than all, the queen of song, be given that purely beautiful perfection of vocal melody-that true "sunshine spoken," blending light, and loveliness, and feeling, which never till her advent came from human throat-to Catherine Hayes have descended the deep sensibility, the mournful pathos, the heart-speaking expression which characterise her native music. Her voice is a clear and beautiful soprano, of the sweetest quality in all its ranges; ascending with perfect ease to D in alt., and in its freshness, mellowness, and purity giving no token of having at all suffered by the excessive severity of her Italian discipline. It has been well said of Jenny Lind and Catherine Hayes: "The one, like a gem, flashes upon the sense, and emits a thousand rays, each glorious in itself; the other, like a flower, is redolent of our soil, and gradually diffuses sweetness around. Or we might compare the foreign artiste to one of her native landscapes, basking in splendour, and clear in its outline and objects beneath a starry sky; Miss Hayes's beauties are those of our own clime, with its features of tenderness melting into light, or darkening into shade." As an actress, too, Miss Hayes, during her career, has displayed dramatic genius of the highest order, repudiating the idea, to a great extent still existing, that in opera the interpretation of the music alone was the essential of success. What, for instance, can be more true to nature than her Amina, so full of innocent and joyous animation in the earlier scenes, so painfully real in the after-abandonment to grief, so tender in love, so touching in sorrow, so purely simple throughout? Then her Linda, is not the madness of that love-lorn girl painfully real? Was ever sorrow expressed in more plaintive utterance, more moving action? Her Lucia too, is it not an exquisitely original conception, truthfully carried out? And even her Norma, a part for which the soft and gentle attributes of her nature render her almost unfit, is it not still a grand and moving performance, a fine portraiture of the woman, not, as is that of Grisi, of the fiend? Having accepted an engagement at Rome as prima donna during the grand carnival, Miss Hayes will leave for that city on the termination of her present engagement in Ireland, proceeding thence to Naples, and returning to London in March next. When again to Ireland? THE MYSTIC VIAL; OR, THE LAST DEMOISelle de cHARREBOURG. VI. THE MINIATURE. LUCILLE had not, therefore, gained by her marriage the position to which her ambition aspired. She had made several ineffectual efforts to dissolve the spell of isolation which seemed to seclude the intercourse of the Chateau des Anges from all human ken and visitation as absolutely as the palace of a merman. With the exception, however, of a few visits from the great ladies who resided in the neighbourhood, no casual beams from the bril liant world of rank and fashion without penetrated the dismal shadows of her gorgeous abode. She was dissatisfied, angry, and resolved upon the earliest fitting occasion to rebel against the selfish tyranny which consigned her to solitude and monotony. She had hitherto gained nothing by those little expedients, hints, and even entreaties, which are sometimes found so effectual in like cases. The old Fermier-General was just as smiling and as promising as the Chateau des Anges itself, but, alas, as absolutely impenetrable. An iron will encountered and repressed all her shifts and struggles. She chafed and coaxed alike in vain. Whether the bird sang or fluttered, the bars of her cage were immoveable. Under these circumstances, no very cordial feelings began to animate the fiery girl respecting her resolute and reserved old helpmate. Meanwhile the humble cottage in the park of Charrebourg was deserted, and permitted to fall to decay, for the old Visconte, and even Marguerite, had been removed to the establishment at Des Anges, and So, in process of time, the little walks were overgrown with grass, the fences spread and straggled, dark green plants clambered to the roof, and weeds showed themselves over the tiled vestibule, and even ventured into the inner chambers. Thus time and nature, in mournful alliance, began their obliterating work. But there were some plants and flowers which grew outside what had been for so long Mademoiselle Lucille de Charrebourg's window. They had been the objects of her care, and Gabriel-sweet but sorrowful remembrance !—had been, in those happy times, privileged to tend them for her. Poor Gabriel was now desolate indeed, but he pleased himself with dressing those flowers, and watering, and weeding them day by day, just as if she were there; and he would then sit on the bank that bounded the bowling-green, and watch the desolate casement where he used so often to see that face that too probably was never more to beam on him. And thus hours would glide away, and, young as he was, he came to live chiefly in the past. And generally when he rose, and with an effort, and many a backward look lingeringly departed, he would strengthen his sinking heart with some such reflection as this: "She did not love the FermierGeneral-it was the Visconte who made her marry him. This Monsieur Le Prun-what was he at first but a roturier- no better than myself—and made his own money-fortune may yet befriend me also. I have energies, and resolution, and courage, for her sake, to dare ten thousand deaths. I'll not despair. And then the old fellow can't live very long-a few years—and so who knows yet what may befal." There was one beautiful rose which grew close to the window, and which Lucille herself had planted, and this tree Gabriel came gradually to regard as connected by some sweet and silent sympathy with the features and feelings of its mistress. When it drooped she, he thought, was sick or in sorrow; when, on the contrary, it was covered with blossoms and fresh leaves, she was full of smiles and health; when a rough gust tore its slender sprays, some vexation and disappointment had fretted her; and when again it put forth new buds and sprouts, these were forgotten, and time had gathered round her new hopes and delights. Thus this tree became to him an object of strangely tender interest, and he cherished the fancy that in tending and guarding it, he was protecting the fortunes and the happiness of poor Lucille. Meanwhile, as a sort of beginning of that great fortune that awaited him, he obtained employment as an undergardener at the Chateau de Charrebourg, which had just been let to a wealthy noble, whose millions had elevated him (like Monsieur le Prun) from the bourgeoisie to his present rank. But we must return to the Chateau des Anges. Lucille's apartments were situated at a side of the Chateau overlooking a small court communicating with the greater one at the front of the building; and this narrow area was bounded by a lofty wall, which separated the other pleasure-grounds from the park. It was night, Lucille and her gentle companion, Julie, had been chatting together, as young-lady friends will do, most confidentially. The little maiden had detailed all her sadness and alarms. Her married companion had been fluent and indignant upon her wrongs and disappointments. Each felt a sort of relief, and drawn as it were into a securer intimacy by the absence of Monsieur le Prun, who was that night necessarily absent upon business. The conversation had now shifted to Julie's engagement. "And so, I suppose, I must marry him. Is it not a cruel tyranny to compel one who desires nothing but to live and die among good Christians, in the quiet of a convent, to marry a person whom she does not or cannot love?" "Yes, Julie, so it seems; but you may yet be happier so married, than leading the life you long for. Remember, Julie, he is not a man who has outlived the warmth, and tenderness, and trust of youth. He is still capable of a generous passion, and capable of inspiring one. There is no grief like the tyranny of one whom law and not love has made your master." As they conversed, some cases of Lucille's lay open on the table before her companion, who had been amusing herself in girlish fashion by the varied splendour and exquisite taste of the jewellery they contained. "This brooch," she said, taking up a miniature in enamel, representing some youthful tradition of Monsieur Le Prun's person, set round with diamonds, "is set very like mine, but I hate to look at it." -." "It represents, then "The world calls him handsome, I am told." "Yes, but somehow, if he be so, I can't perceive it; he does not please me." "Well, then, bring me the miniature, and I will pronounce between you and the world." With a melancholy smile Julie ran to her own apartment, hard by, and in a few moments returned. With curiosity all alive, Lucille took the brooch and looked at it. "Well, what say you?" asked Julie, who stood behind her chair, gazing at the trinket over her shoulder. Lucille was silent, although nearly a minute had elapsed. "He certainly has the noble air," she continued; but still Lucille offered no criticism. On a sudden she put down the miniature sharply on the table, and said, abruptly, It is time to go to rest; let us go to bed." 66 She rose and turned full round on Julie as she spoke. Her face was pale as death, and her eyes looked large and gleaming. Her gaze was almost wild. "Are you ill?" said Julie, fiightened, and taking her hand, which was quite cold. "Oh, no, no," said Lucille quickly, with a smile that made her pallor and her dilated stare more shocking. "No, no, no-tired, vexed, heart-sick of the world and of my fate." Julie, though shocked and horrified, thought she had never seen Lucille look so handsome before. She was an apparition terrible, yet beautiful as a lost angel. "You are, after all, right," she said suddenly. "I-I believe I am ill." The windows of the apartment descended to the floor, and opened upon a balcony. She pushed the casement apart, and stood in the open air. Julie had hurried to her assistance, fearing she knew not what, and stood close by her. Never was scene so fitted to soothe the sick brain, and charm the senses with its sad and sweet repose. The pure moon, high in the deep blue of the heavens, shed over long rows of shimmering steps, and urns, and marble At least five minutes passed in silence. Lucille, on a sudden, said— "So at the end of a year you will be married?" It seemed to Julie that the countenance that was turned upon her gleamed with an expression of hatred which froze her. But the moonlight is uncertain, and may play wild freaks with the character of an excited face. "Yes, dear Julie; alas! yes," she answered, in a tone that was almost deprecatory. 66 "Well, well, I am better now," she said, after a second interval. My head, Julie-my poor head!" "Have you a pain there, dear Lucille ?" "Yes, yes, it's all there," she said, abstractedly; and returning, she kissed her gentle companion, bade her good night, and was alone. Julie was strangely perplexed by the scene which had just occurred. She could account for it upon no theory but the supposition that some flickering vein of insanity was shooting athwart her reason, and as suddenly disappeared. As soon as she was partially composed, she kneeled down at the bed-side, and prayed long and fervently; and for far the greater part of the time poor Lucille was the sole theme of her supplications. At last she lay down, and composed herself to sleep. Spite of the unpleasant images with which her mind was filled, slumber ere long overpowered her. But these painful impressions made teasing and fantastic shapes to themselves. Her pillow was haunted, and strange dreams troubled her slumbering senses. From one of these visions she awoke with a start, and found herself sitting upright in her bed, with her heart beating fast with terror. A burst of passionate wailing from Lucille's apartments thrilled her with a sort of ter ror at the same moment. In hushed uncertainty she listened for a repetition of the sound; but in vain. She was prompted to go and try whether she needed any help or comfort; but something again withheld her; and after another interval of somewhat excited reflection, she once more gradually fell asleep. Again, however, hateful visions tormented her. She dreamed that a phantom, said to have haunted the chateau for ages, and known by the familiar title of "La Belle Colombe," was pursuing her from chamber to chamber, dressed in her accustomed shroud of white; and had at last succeeded in chasing her into a chamber from which there was no second door of escape-when she awoke with a start; and, behold! there was a light in the room, and a female form, dressed in white, standing between the bedside and the door. For some moments she fancied that she saw but the continuation of her dream, and awaited the further movements of the figure with the fascination of terror. But gradually her senses re. ported more truly, and she perceived that the figure in white was indeed Lucille-pale, haggard; while with one hand she held the candlestick, with the other she motioned slowly towards the bed, which she was approaching with breathless caution upon tiptoe. With an effort Julie succeeded in calling her by name, almost expecting as she did so to see the whole apparition vanish into air. "Awake, awake; how softly you breathe, Julie!" said Lucille, drawing close to the bed-side, and drawing the curtains. "Yes, dear Lucille; can I do any thing for you?" "No, no-nothing; but " "How do you feel now?-are you better?" "Yes, better than I desire to be." "But why are you here, dear Lucille?—has anything—frightened you?" "Ha! then you heard it, did you?" "Heard it? What?" |