common pauper; and her delight in books, flowers, pictures, and music, far exceeded that of the refined and intellectual boy. She was not a pretty child, at least to every one; but sometimes there was a strange, wild, gipsy beauty about her that was wonderful. When excited by music, her swarthy face seemed to clear up, and the wild eyes to look poetically beautiful. Her thick dark locks hung in heavy masses on her shoulders; for she, poor thing, had no one to arrange them in tidy plaits, and that detracted much from the comeliness of her appearHer aspect was forgotten, however, in the charm of her naturalness, her grace, her loving, winning manner; and she soon endeared herself to Ashley as a playmate, and to Mrs. Courtenaye as a protégée. "May the Father bless you, kind lady!" was all, at that moment, she could say. But the little girl, with an impulse of gratitude, crossed the room and knelt, with childlike grace, to kissance. the white hand of her benefactress; and then, with tears subduing the brightness of her wild eyes, returned again to the side of her mother. Ashley," said his mother, "tell James to bring some wine and biscuits here; and send Aun to me." While Mrs. Courtenaye spoke with her servant, Ashley had pressed the wine and biscuits on the poor creatures. The mother seemed too unwell to feel hunger; but the little girl ate ravenously. Whilst so doing, he stood by questioning her. 46 asked her name. Natalie du Verrier,” was her reply, when "When mamina is better, I will sing for you. I know many beautiful songs; and I can play, too, on the piano. But poor, poor mamma is so sick! She must lie down and rest; for I know she is tired." And she smoothed, with her little hand, the wan cheek of her mother. Her mother had written to her brother; but she was herself rapidly declining. Her only hope now, as she told Mrs. Courtenaye, was to see her brother, and to consign to his fostering care her child. Three months had they been dependent on the bounty of their kind benefactress, when Madame du Verrier died. Mrs. Courtenaye took Natalie into her own house, mother and son. In the midst of her deepest where she was treated as a plaything both by vered and her eye still glistened with its tears, sorrow for her mother, whilst the little lip quidid Ashley but tell her not to give up to such dash off the briny drops, and, subduing her sobs, sorrow, she would endeavour to obey him-would would play for him some of her wildest and merriest pieces. How grateful, too, was she to Mrs. Courtenaye!-anticipating every little service of love she could render her; arranging her bouquets, her jardinière, which no one could do so well, or so tastily, as the little French girl. Every day would she, in her grateful love, seek some delightful surprises to one or the other of the objects of her devotion. The old proverb, love begets love," held good in this case; for the tenderest affection for this engaging little creature sprang up in the hearts of her two protectors. 66 Mrs. Courtenaye had already attended to her toilette, and was about entering her into an excellent school, when her uncle arrived in the city to carry herself and mother back again to France, dear native France. Poor little Natalie! what a struggle in that young heart! Her uncle had but a sufficiency, upon which, with economy, he alone could live; but, like all the French, he was willing and eager to share to the last with those who needed it. How much more than willing was he now to take as his own his dear sister's orphan! He resisted-but with gratitude the entreaties of Mrs. Courtenaye that he would allow the child to remain with her, promising to have her reared respectably. So ends Natalie du Verrier's first era; for she accompanied her uncle to France, bearing thither, in her grateful little heart, the most undying affection for Mrs. Courtenaye and for her Indeed, child as she was, her feelings towards Ashley were a mélange of love, gratitude, and veneration. son. space. Well, skip ten years, and come with me. I am about entering one of those lumbering, topheavy machines, called diligences, with the endeavour, by its aid, to reach Paris, the capital of the beau-monde. 'Tis well that the roads are so delightful, or that gentleman with the tremendous boots would have to utter more "pestes !" and "sacres!" at the progress of his ropefastened team than he does at present. But all goes on glass, for the roads are almost as smooth. The vehicle is nearly full. On the front seat sits a heavy, sour-looking mynheer, and beside him a companion, with whom he every now and then exchanges some gutturals, and then relapses into silence. The middle seat contains one Englishman and two Americans; whilst the back seat is occupied by an old Frenchman and a young lady. I suppose her to be young, for she has the lithe, pliant figure of youth; but whether she be maiden, wife, or widow, 'tis not so easy to say, so closely does she keep that thick veil folded over her face. But 'tis a dear little hand, with its nice fitting glove, that holds down this screen; and, surely, 'tis the most melodious voice in the world that answers, ever and anon, the old man. So sweet is it that, once or twice, the fair-haired young American on the seat before her has turned to the con- | cealing veil; for he seems to think its music sounds like a familiar strain. It probably recalis a dream of his far-distant home. "The last stage, monsieurs," said le conducteur to several of the passengers, who had alighted. "We shall soon enter Paris. What would you please to have, madame?" as he stepped to the window of the vehicle, where sat the lady spoken of. "A glass of eau-sucré, if you please," said the sweet voice. And again the young American, who was standing near, turned at the words, and looked at the speaker. The conducteur returned with the water, and the thick veil was raised as the lady lifted the glass to her lips. What a radiant, piquant face! What large, almondshaped orbs of jet shone, in their dark beauty, upon them! On glancing at the young American of whom we have spoken, a smile parted the rosy lips as she held forth her little hand, and the words, "Is it possible! Do I, indeed, behold Mr. Courtenaye?" were replied to by the glad utterance of, "Natalie du Verrier!" Yes, 'tis even so. Natalie, the little French girl, the dependent on his mother's bounty, is now before him in that beautiful, coquettishlyattired demoiselle, who is known to the world as la belle Natalie, the prima donna; to hear whose sweet notes crowd nightly to the opera the king, the queen, ladies, lords, and the people. Yes, 'tis the far-famed French nightingale, of whom the journals have been prating for the last twelvemonth, and who is now on her way to Paris, with her uncle, to set the beaumonde wild again with the bewitching spell of her music. And how comes Ashley here? That is soon told. After we saw him last, he entered college. Three years of hard study sent him into the world a graduate with high honours. He then studied medicine, received his diploma, and now travels, ere he sits quietly down, in his native city, with his loved mother. Mrs. Courtenaye remains at home, feeding on the hope of soon embracing her idol, cheering herself with his warmly-welcomed and ever punctual letters in the meantime. All this, and more, had they related to each other ere the vehicle reached the faubourgs ; and so interested was Ashley in this narration, that he forgot to gaze, with a traveller's curiosity, around him. 66 You must come and see me, to tell me all about dear Mrs. Courtenaye," said Natalie. "Here is my address." And she handed him a card, on which she had penciled some directions, as the diligence turned into Rue St. Honoré. Ashley needed not her uncle's pressing invitation to induce her to come. He felt the old charm of her manner that had so won his boyish heart, aided most powerfully now by her magic beauty; for 'twas, indeed, magical to him, for he had never dreamed that the swarthy, meagre child could become so wondrously bewitching. His first visit found her in her charming little boudoir, whose rose-coloured drapery threw a soft blush over her. She was studying a new opera when he was announced; and either the words or the music had given a look of softness to the large, dark eyes, that made them appear still more dreamy. Her dress, too, suited her style. The orange-coloured cashmere would have made any one but herself look like a fright; but it threw off, with a fine effect, her rich, satiny skin, with its warm glow, and her bands of raven hair, arranged with the taste and beauty peculiar to a Parisienne. Ah, the hours were, indeed, winged to those two beings! for Natalie's grand piano was in exquisite tune; her taper fingers had lost none of their dexterity; and the strains from her mellow voice were so enchanting, that Ashley, from his heart, felt that "Her deep and thrilling songs Seemed, with their piercing melody, to reach The soul, and, in mysterious unison, Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love." She was not to appear for several nights; and she told Ashley, ere he left, that she would look forward always to seeing his familiar face among her audience. What a charm there was to him in her graceful, playful manner, tempered, as it was, by a childlike deference towards him! It was a direct compliment, and he felt it in his heart; for he had ever heard that the beautiful prima donna was the haughtiest of the haughty, keeping, by her cold, proud manner, at a respectful distance many who would have bowed in homage to her beauty. "And yet she is all softness, all that is charming to me," soliloquized Ashley, as he gained the Hotel des Etrangers, after leaving her, and sank to sleep with "this flattering unction on his soul." I need scarcely tell you that his visits were often repeated. In fact, Ashley Courtenaye had no wish to employ himself in seeing the wonders of the city, unless Natalie was at rehearsal; and every day found him the favoured, in truth the aly, visitor of the young girl. The night for Natalie's appearance arrived; and Ashley repaired to the opera early, that he might secure a favourable position. Surely her heart will fail her!" thought he, as he glanced around on the brilliant scene, where, tier above tier, rose bright eyes, sparkling jewels, and waving feathers. The air was filled with the perfume of the innumerable bouquets brought there, to lavish, in beauty, on la belle Natalie. The full orchestra had swelled out in harmony, and was just on the finale, when the shouts of welcome, and the waving of perfumed handkerchiefs, greeted her appearance. Ashley was actually startled on looking at the radiant creature, as she stood gracefully and calmly in the full blaze of light, with her arms, gleaming in their beauty and gems, crossed on her breast, and received, as though an every-day occurrence, this tumultuous burst of applause. But now came on his ear such a sweep of music that he almost held his breath, lest he should lose the smallest note of that thrilling and soul-subduing voice. Even when the curtain fell on the last scene, and Natalic, almost veiled in the shower of bouquets and garlands which had rained upon the stage, had retired, he but slowly aroused himself from the trance into which her liquid voice had thrown him. He left the house, and sought his room, that he might feast on the remembrance of the Peri upon whom he had been gazing, and whose tones were surely stolen from the "Springs of Light" heard in Paradise by the blest. Days, weeks, months glide on; for "lightly falls the foot of time, when it only treads on flowers;" and Ashley Courtenaye is the daily companion of Natalie. Fach night that witnesses her triumph on the stage finds him, also, an entranced listener in the parquette, luxuriating in the "Heaven of sweet sounds." And he is conscious, in his own heart, that he loves the sweet song-bird, and that his love is returned, though no words have yet passed between them. One day, he entered Natalie's boudoir with a sad countenance and a heavy heart, which even her bright smiles and affectionate manner could not cheer. Her own speaking face became shaded through sympathy, as she asked "What is it that grieves you, Ashley?" "That I must leave you. My mother writes urgently, pressingly; and I must obey. It has never entered into my mind to disobey her slightest wish, so dear is she. But oh, Natalie, I have never felt my obedience to her to be anything but pleasing till now. How can I leave thee?" "It is your duty," murmured she, with a pale cheek and quivering lip. And he knew, from the trembling of the cold hand which he clasped, how fondly he was loved. * "But I tell you I cannot, unless it be with the hope of soon rejoining you, never to be again separated. Tell me, dearest Natalie, will you be mine when I have obtained my mother's consent to our marriage?" The pale cheek became still paler: but no sound issued from her lips as she sat there, with Ashley looking anxiously, expectantly in her face. "Answer me, Natalie: one word, one little word, to give joy to my exile from you. Will you not cheer me with one smile, one word?" "You are aware, Mr. Courtenaye, how much I would give if I felt that I could honourably say that word; for you know full well that I love you," said she, sadly, but with a quiet dignity. "But it may not be. Mrs. Courtenaye would never consent; and even you would hate me in time, if I were so ungrateful as to engage myself to you. No; do not urge me again. Go forth unfettered to your mother. Thwart not her wishes, her hopes. Let her not think, for a moment, that the child whom her kindness fostered, whose mother's death-bed was cheered by her benevolence, should, like the serpent, now turn to sting her. Yes; it must be so. I tell you with a pang that only those who love as I now do you could feel. Go to your mother, and forget me." "Never, as you yourself well know! I will go; but it will be to sue, to entreat her consent. She has never denied me anything, nor will she now, when I tell her my whole happiness is at stake. Say, will you consent to be mine? Say dear Natalie ?" How hard was it to that loving, tender girl to compel her lips to utter words of refusal to those beseeching looks and tones, and her still more pleading heart; yet her duty was plain before her. She knew Mrs. Courtenaye was proud, for she recollected some instances of it as a child, and remembered Ashley's speaking of traits which showed its existence still; and she therefore loved him too well to bid him hope, only to disappoint him; for her own heart told her he could never obtain the consent of his parent. Then, with a moral courage great in one so young, so ardently loving, still greater and nobler in one who had lived for the public, with no fond mother to urge on, by precept, to this noble sacrifice of her own happiness to principle and gratitude, she answered, still trembling, but calmer and more confident It "No, dear Ashley, I must ever say no. is useless to hope. Your mother will not consent; and I will not take your vows-your love, so dear to me; but I will say now, as ever, obey your mother; go to her; forget me, or remember me only as an humble friend. This has been a delightful dream; but He that is over us knows only how fully I am awakened. Henceforth-though the memory of this joy shall be hallowed-I am but Natalie, the dependent on your mother's charity; and you must be to me the son of my benefactress--my childhood's kindest friend. Adieu! For my sake and your own, let this be our last interview." And, though he endeavoured to detain her, she left him. Overwhelmed at her firmness, he sat speechless: he waited for her return, but she came not. Message after message did he despatch; yet the only answer they sufficed to bring was a billet of adieu; so he was forced to leave. He saw her no more before his departure; for, on going to the opera, thinking to see her, he learned "that the engagement for the season had been brought to a sudden close on account of the illness of the prima donna." When he inquired, from the porteress of the house in which she and her uncle had resided, he heard that she had left with Monsieur Duval; but where, he was unable to find out. Ashley, hopeless, returned to America, with a heart burdened by sad experience. And thus ends the second era in the life of a prima donna. ERA THIRD. "Farewell! my life may wear a careless smile, Twenty-six years of age! and yet she is in the prime of her sunny beauty. Those five summers seem to have changed Natalie but little to outward appearance; and though Time has brought sorrows to her, as to all of Earth's travellers, still they have not withered the radiance of her complexion, nor dimmed the brightness of her eye. Behold her now in New York, whither she has come to fulfil a professional engagement! How many memories are crowding in her mind, as she sits at the window of her parlour at the Astor-house, looking out upon the crowded scene! Her voyage has been tiresome, and she now courts the agreeable lull of doing and saying not. She has denied herself all day to "callers," who, ever crazy after "stars," have been craving admittance; whilst her uncle has gone out to attend to the dull realities of business with the manager. There she sits, as I Her young said before, gazing sadly out. days! What a retrospect passes through her mind! and, above all, will obtrude the everloved image of Ashley Courtenaye. She has not heard of him for five years; and even now the recollection suffices to colour with a brilliant glow her soft check. Not all the fascinations of her splendid carcer, nor flattery, nor change of scene, had banished from her mind the image of her childhood's friend, her youth's lover, which now plainly and vividly rises before her. The thought of once more seeing him made her induce her uncle to close with the offer of Mr., when he sent to engage her services. "To-morrow I shall behold him!" thought she; "for to-morrow night my engagement commences; and my coming has been sufficiently heralded, if one can trust these papers for information." And she again leaned over one lying in her lap. What crowds the next evening betook themselves towards the Opera House in Astor-place, to hear the new prima donna in "Norma!" So many seats had been secured, that numbers could not be admitted. Natalie was there; but, unlike her usual calm manner and reserve, she was reconnoitering the dress circles and parquette as eagerly as ever did débutante before or since, from a convenient slit in the curtain. Long she gazes, without any interest, apparently, on the large and fashionable audience before her; but at length a start, which from its vehemence shook the curtain, showed her to be awakened. Near the stage-so close, in fact, that every eye-glance might be detectedsat a party of three, upon whom her regards were fastened Mrs. Courtenaye, her son, and a lady, sitting between them, of an intellectual and sweet face, who, at the moment Natalie's eye rested upon the group, was familiarly placing her hand on Ashley's arm, as though to call his attention. "His wife !" was her thought; and a new sadness sprang up in her heart as she looked upon his animated face, which exhibited no traces of the sorrow from which she had suffered-still was suffering. No-he was gay; and his liveliness must have found words, from the smiles wreathing the lips of his two listeners. There is the tinkle of the first bell-the second, and she must now call up her smiles to face the audience, who are so ready to applaud. One last sigh to her past days, and "Norma" is bending in salutation to that expectant crowd. How justly was the praise merited that night in her plaintive strains! How correct in gesture, in look, in tone, was her personation of the forsaken, self-sacrificing priestess! And the applause was loud and heartfelt as she left the stage, with a pale face, and a sad, sad heart. The next day, Ashley Courtenaye and his mother came to see Natalie. There was scarcely a spice of embarrassment in his manner towards her; and Mrs. Courtenaye was as affectionate as a relative. "Come to us soon, Natalie," said she, "and renew some of our old days and gladsome feelings. I promise you 'twill be a family party; none but ourselves and Mary-ness, of the world, and all its belongings! But Ashley's wife-who would have called also, but she had too long been in the habit of hiding her babe was unwell. By the way, you cruel her real feelings to betray them now; and one, why did you treat my poor Ashley so badly though her face flushed, yet did she compel whilst in France? Why, 'twas impossible for herself to smile, and answer lightly, even with me to comfort him for your dismissal of his suit; his eyes looking upon her. It only added the and I must confess I sympathized with my son, one drop to the brimming cup, the rose-leaf on and blamed you for not letting him know your the full goblet; and, as she watched from the whereabouts, in order that he might tell you of window their departure, she turned, with a bitmy permission by letter. But don't blush so; ter sigh, into her own chamber, saying with her let the past be forgotten. He has a sweet little heart, not lips, "Farewell, hope and all that wife now. Come very soon, and get acquainted gilds this past and hollow dream. My profeswith her. I am sure you must love her, as sion and my talents must, in future, be sufficient we do." for my earthly happiness; for never will I bind my spirit down to this clay again." And, if her happiness depended on this, it was assured; for the musical and fashionable world long and rapturously sung the praises of the French nightingale, Natalie du Verrier. How agonizing! Not only was her noble sacrifice unappreciated, but, what was far more galling, was the fact that it was unnecessary! How that thought sank into her soul, making her feel the bitterness, and yet the abject little LETTERS TO A FRIEND ON TEACHING THE PIANO. LETTER VII. BY JOHANNA KINKEL. (Concluded from page 137.) A historical knowledge of music without any theoretical knowledge would indeed be impossible. It is difficult to acquire even pianoforteplaying without a knowledge of thoroughbass; and no teacher should allow a forward pupil to practise a piece of the inner construction of which the latter was entirely ignorant. Who has not any knowledge of forming chords plays his notes in the manner of a boy repeating a piece of Latin poetry, which he has learned to say off by rote without understanding the meaning of it. Another simile will express more exactly what I mean. An artist who had hot studied anatomy can never paint the human Egure with so much expression as one who knows exactly what muscles move under the skin. Even the folds of the drapery will tell you whether the painter has studied his subject below the surface. Just so you can hear, from the musician's mode of executing his piece, whether he understands the skeleton of a composition or not. There certainly are some possessed of such great talents that their musical intuitions will lead them to a higher point than other less gifted ones can attain even with the aid of musical knowledge, but that by no means disproves my assertion; for what might not the former have done with knowledge? what could the latter have done without it? An amateur who has only made sufficient progress to be able to execute pieces of about the same difficulty as the easiest of Mozart's sonatas, ought at the same time to have acquired a suffic'ent amount of thoroughbass to be able to improvise a prelude or an accompaniment to any little song, and to transpose a tune into any key. This is only a reasonable requisition, and how much more useful would such an acquirement be than the most rapid playing of a difficult concerto! The study of thoroughbass, which I consider quite necessary for young ladies, who, as they only look upon music as one amongst their many acquirements, can give but a small portion of their time to it, must certainly not be so taught them, as that by the aid of an infinite deal of writing, the only result which they have produced is an excessively dry attempt at an original composition. The pupil rather must make an immediate practical use of every newlyacquired chord, and should be accustomed to recognize it whenever he may meet with it in the compositions of others. This practice stimulates the desire to know more, and the pleasure and interest taken by the pupil in his study of music will increase with every difficulty which he thus overcomes. With what admiration does he regard the mysteries of those exquisite works of art, the grandeur of which he begins to comprehend even though the thread of Ariadne given to him by the study of thoroughbass scarcely leads him far enough to penetrate their labyrinth-like depths; and how low does all that is merely superficial and shallow sink in his estimation when he thoroughly examines the miserable material which assisted in completing the deception! Something is already gained when the pupil feels-"This is a work of art which is beyond my comprehension, and which I must not therefore criticise;" or, "That, it is true, pleases me because it flatters the ear; but I am nevertheless aware that as a composition it is worthless." If he himself feels that something worthless pleases him, while that which is grand and |