correct his error, he had lost all calculations of the motions of time. He listened, therefore, with an ear half-fearful, halfhopeful, to the risings of the blast. At first it began to whistle shrilly through the shrouds and rigging; the whistle deepened into a thundering roar, and the idle rocking of the ship was changed into the boisterous motion of a storm-beaten vessel. Loeffler, however, threw himself as usual on deck for his night's repose; and, wrapped in his sea-cloak, was rocked to slumber even by the stormy lullaby of the elements. Towards midnight the voice of the tempest began to deepen to a tone of ominous and apparently-concentrating force, which might have startled the most reckless slumberer. Sheets of lightning-playing from one extremity of the sky to the other-shewed wide-spread sheets of surge running towards the ship with a fury that half suggested the idea of malevolent volition on their part; while they dashed against the sides with a violence which seemed to drive in her timbers, and swamped the deck with foam and billows. Whether any of these storm-tossed waves made their way below-or whether the ship, so long deprived of nautical examination, bad sprung a leak in the first encounter of the tempest-Loeffler could not determine; but the conviction that she was filling with water forced itself on his mind. He again cast his eyes to the north-eastern horizon, and again uttered aloud-" Farewell! farewell!" The storm subsided, and the moon, rising over dense masses of cloud-which, dispersed from the mid-heaven, now cumbered the horizon-saw our young German lying, in the sleep of confidence and exhaustion, on the still humid deck. He slumbered on, unconscious that the maindeck was now almost level with the waves -unconscious of the dark gulph preparing to receive him! The very steadiness which the waters, accumulating within her, had given to the ship, protracted the fatal repose of the sleeper. He woke not until his senses were restored, too late, by the gushing of the waters over the deck. Down, down, a thousand fathom deep, goes the gallant and ill-fated vessel; and with her-drawn into her dark vortexsinks her lone and unpitied inhabitant! It was in less than a month after this. event that Loeffler awoke in a spacious and beautiful apartment, the windows of which opened into a garden of orange and lime-trees, whose sweet scent filled the air, and whose bright verdure and golden fruit shewed gay and cheerful in the sunshine. Christian believed that his awakening was in paradise; nor was the thought less easily harboured that the object he best loved in life stood by his couch, while his head rested on her arm. "And thou too," he said, confusedly"thou, too, hast reached the fair land of peace, the golden of God!"— "His senses are returning he speaks-he knows me!" exclaimed Ernestine, clasping her hands in gratitude to Heaven. She had just received her husband from the hands of the stout captain of a Dutch galliot, whose crew had discovered and rescued the floating and senseless body of Christian on the very morning succeeding the catastrophe we have described. The humble galliot had a speedier and safer passage than the noble man of war; and, in an unusually short time, she made the harbour of Lisbon, to which port she was bound. It is needless to add that the Germau recovered both his health and intellects, and lived to increase the tender devotion of his bride, by a recital of the dangers and horrors of his Solitary Voyage. WEEP NOT FOR HER. WEEP not for her!-she hath pass'd as the breeze, Bringing freshness and balm over Araby's sea, That, fraught with perfume from the rich incense trees, Hath in it the breath of Eternity. Oh! the hearts that bewail her, should joy for her LOW, When her spirit its dwelling of clay hath laid down, And the beauty of holiness" sits on her brow, With the hallowing light of that heavenly crown. Weep not for her! Weep not for her!-she hath flown to the skies, As the dews of the morning to heaven arise, A meteor of hope shall her bright presence be, When a seraph-she points out to Earth's broken hearted his sons; and in this capacity of executor he has laid before the public the posthumous works of his deceased friend, accompanied with various dissertations of his own, critical and biographical. With his aid and that of one or two other sources, we shall endeavour to lay before our readers some authentic particulars relative to this great and good man. Weber was born at Enstin, in Holstein, on the 18th of December, 1786. Like almost every other great composer, his father was a musician. He was an accomplished violinist, and at an early period auxiously devoted himself to the education of his son. The retired habits of his family, his early intercourse with per sons older than himself, and his seclusion from the society of rude and boisterons playmates, soon excited in his mind a disposition to thought, and taught him to live in a world of his own imagination. "I heated my fancy," says Weber in a letter to a friend, written long afterwards," with the reading of romances, and pictured to myself models of ideal excellence." These sedentary pursuits and early wanderings of imagination, while they matured his intellectual faculties, not improbably laid the foundation of that physical weakness which too soon terminated in disease. occupations were incessant. Music at first only shared his attention with painting and drawing. He wrought in crayons, in oil, in water-colours; he etched very tolerably; every thing, in short, indicated that restless activity of mind, which whether it be spread over the whole field of art, or poured into a single channel, seeins to be the inseparable concomitant of genius. Gradually the master-feeling of his soul assumed the preponderance, and banished its rivals from the scene; painting and etching dropped silently into abeyance, and music engrossed the whole ener gies of his youthful mind. His Even the field of music, it seemed, was not wide enough for him. Senefelder's discovery of lithographic printing all at once inspired him with the resolution of turning lithographer. He thought he had discovered an improved process in lithography, and forthwith set about reducing his invention to practice, by removing to Freyberg and actually commencing the practice of the art. But the mechanical, "spirit-killing" drudgery, as he calls it, of this employment soon became repulsive, and throwing away his alkalies and his dabbers, he returned with a warmer and now.unalterable attachment to his former studies. In 1800, he composed the music of the Chevalier Steimberg's opera, "The Maid of the Woods," which though he himself characterizes it "as a very immature production, only not entirely destitute of occasional invention," appears to have been received with approbation even in Berlin and Petersburgh, no trifling distinction for the work of a boy of fourteen. Vienna is, in Germany, the Holy Land to which all musical devotees make their pilgrimage, and Weber also turned his' face to the east. His reception was kind and cordial. Musicians, in general, are not conspicuous for the harmony of their intercourse with each other; but Weber was received with generons sympathy by those in whose minds his rising genius and boundless application might have excited envy. He travelled throngh Germany in various directions, and his operas were played with success in Frankfort, Berlin, and Vienna. Weber's marriage was a happy one. His wife was the celebrated actress, Caroline Braud, with whom he had formed an acquaintance when at Prague. In the prosecution of laborious duties, in various capitals, Weber passed his time till 1819, when ill health drew him to the country. During this season of tranquillity he commenced the well known "Frey schuttz," an opera which had long been commissioned for the Berlin theatre, founded on a romance of Apel's. His friend Kind, by whom the text of the opera was to be framed, had at first given it the name of the " Jager's Bride," which was afterwards changed for the more striking title (to a German ear) of “The Enchanted Bullets." His labours were for a time interrupted by the sickness of his wife; bnt in 1821, the newly-erected royal opera at Berlin was opened with "Der Freyschutz." The effect produced by the first representation of this romantic opera, which we shall never cease to regard as one' of the proudest achievements of genius, was almost unprecedented. It was received with general acclamations, and raised his name at once to the first eminence in operatic composition. In January it was played in Dresden, in February at Vienna, and every where with the same success. Weber alone seemed calm and undisturbed amid the general enthusiasm, But while increasing in celebrity, and rising still higher, if that were possible, in* the estimation of the public, his health was rapidly waning, amidst his anxious and multiplied duties. "Would to God," says he in a letter written shortly afterwards-" Would to God that I were a tailor, for then I should have a Sunday's holiday!" Meantime a cough, the herald of consumption, tormented him, and “the slow minings of the hectic within began to manifest themselves more visibly in days and nights of feverish excitement. It was in the midst of this that he accepted the task of composing an opera for Covent Garden theatre. His fame, which had gradually made its way through the North of Germany, (where his Freyschutz was played in 1823), to England, induced the managers to offer him liberal terms for an opera on the subject of Oberon, the wellknown fairy tale on which Wieland has reared his fantastic but beautiful and touching comic Epos. He received the first act of Planché's manuscript in December, 1824, and forthwith began his labours, though he seems to have thought that the worthy managers, in the short time they were disposed to allow him, were expecting impossibilities, particularly as the first step towards its composition, on Weber's part, was the study of the English language itself, the right understanding of which, Weber justly considered as preliminary to any attempt to marry Mr. Planché's ephemeral verses to his own immortal music. These exertions increased his weakness so much, that he found it necessary to resort to a watering-place in the summer of 1825. In December he returned to Berlin, to bring out his Euryanthe there in person. It was received, as might have been anticipated, with great applause, though less enthusiastically than the Freyschutz, the wild and characteristic music of which came home with more intensity to the national mind. After being present at two representations, he returned to his labours at Oberon. The work, finally, having been completed, Weber determined, himself to be present at the representation of this his last production. He hoped, by his visit to London, to realize something for his wife and family; for hitherto, on the whole, poverty had been his companion. Want had indeed, by unceasing exertion, been kept aloof, but still hovering near him, and threatening with the decline of his health, and his consequent inability to discharge his duties, a nearer and a nearer approach. Already he felt the conviction that his death was not far off, and that his wife and children would soon be deprived of that support which his efforts had hitherto afforded them. His intention was to return from London by Paris, where he expected to form a definitive arrangement relative to an opera which the Parisians had long requested from him. He set out early in 1826, accompanied by his friend Furstenau, a celebrated performer on the flate, travelling in a comfortable carriage, which his health rendered indisVOL. VI. 3 A pensable. His cough was less troublesome on the journey than it had latterly been. He reached Paris on the 25th of February, where he was received in the most flattering manner by Rossini, who was so anxious to see him, that he had called before his arrival, that he might ascertain the exact moment of his coming. On the 27th he was present at the first representation of Spontini's "Olympia;" and though no great admirer of the com poser, the way in which the opera was performed elicited his warmest approbation. "How splendid a spectacle," says he, "is the opera here! The noble building, the masses upon the stage, and in the orchestra, are imposing, almost awful. The orchestra in particular has a strength and a fire such as I never before witnessed." The longer he remained in Paris, the more the number of his visitors increased. "I cannot venture to describe to you," he writes to his wife, "how I am received here. It would be the excess of vanity. The very paper would blush for me, were I to write down half of what the greatest living artists here tell me. If I don't die of pride now, I am ensnared against that fate for ever." Though thus breathing an atmosphere of flattery, and feeling his health and spirits improving amidst the novelty of the scene, his letters betray his longing to revisit his domestic circle, and his resolution never again to undertake so long a journey without the comfort of their society. On the 2d of March he left Paris for England, which he reached on the 4th amidst a heavy shower of rain-a gloomy opening to his visit. The first incident, however, that happened after his arrival, showed how highly his character and talents were appreciated. Instead of requiring to present himself as an alien at the Passport Office, he was immediately waited upon by the officer with the necessary papers, and requested to think of nothing but his own health, as every thing would be managed for him. On the 6th he writes to his wife from London. "God be thanked! here I sit, well and hearty, already quite at home, and perfectly happy in the receipt of your dear letter, which assures me that you and the children are well; what more or what better could I wish for? After sleeping well and paying well at Dover, we set out yesterday morning in the Express coach. a noble carriage drawn by four English horses, such as no prince need be ashamed of. With four persons within, four in front, and four behind, we dashed on with the rapidity of lightning through this inexpressibly beautiful country; meadows of the loveliest green, gardens blooming with flowers, and every building displaying a neatness and elegance which form a striking contrast to the dirt of France. The majestic river, covered with ships of all sizes, (amongst others the largest ship of the line, of one hundred and forty-eight guns,) the graceful country-houses, altogether made the journey perfectly unique." He took up his residence with Sir George Smart, where every thing that could add to his comfort or soothe his illness bad been provided by anticipation. He found his table covered with cards from visitors who had called before his arrival, and a splendid pianoforte in his room from one of the first makers, with a request that he would make use of it during his stay. "The whole day," he writes to his wife," is mine till five, then dinner, the theatre, or society, My solitude in England is not painful to me. The English way of living suits me exactly, and my little stock of English, in which I make tolerable progress, is of incalculable use to me. "Give yourself no uneasiness about the opera (Oberon), I shall have leisure and repose here, for they respect my time. Besides, the Oberon is not fixed for Easter Monday, but some time later; I shall tell you afterwards when. The people are really too kind to me. No king ever had more done for him out of love; I may almost say they carry me in their arms. I take great care of myself, and you may be quite at ease on my account. My cough is really a very odd one. For eight days it disappeared entirely; then, upon the third (of March), a vile spasmodic attack returned before I reached Calais. Since that time it is quiet again. I cannot, with all the consideration I have given it, understand it at all. I sometimes deny myself every indulgence, and yet it comes. I eat and drink every thing, and it does not come. But be it as God wills. "At seven o'clock in the evening we went to Covent Garden, where Rob Roy, an opera after Sir Walter Scott's novel, was played. The house is handsomely decorated, and not too large. When I came forward to the front of the stagebox, that I might have a better look of it, some one called out, Weber! Weber is here! and although I drew back immediately, there followed a clamour of applause which I thought would never have ended. Then the overture to the Freyschutz was called for, and every time I showed myself the storm broke loose again. Fortunately soon after the overture, Rob Roy began, and gradually things became quiet. Could a man wish for more enthusiasm, or more love? I must confess that I was completely overpowered by it, though I am of a calm nature, and somewhat accustomed to such scenes. I know not what I would have given to have had you by my side, that you might have seen me in my foreign garb of honour. And now, dear love, I can assure you that you may be quite at ease, both as to the singers and the orchestra. Miss Paton is a singer of the first rank, and will play Reiza divinely. Braham not less so, though in a totally different style. There are also several good tenors, and I really cannot see why the English singing should be so much abused. The singers have a perfectly good Italian education, fine voices, and expression. The orchestra is not remarkable, but still very good, and the choruses particularly so. In short, I feel quite at ease as to the fate of Oberon." The final production of the drama, however, was attended with more difficulty than he had anticipated. He had the usual prejudices to overcome, particular singers to conciliate, alterations to make, and repeated rehearsals to superintend, before he could inspire the performers with the proper spirit of the piece. "Braham," says he, "in another of his confidential letters to his wife, (29th of March, 1826) "begs for a grand scena instead of his first air, which, in fact, was not written for him, and is rather high. The thought of it was at first quite horrible; I could not hear of it. At last I promised, when the opera was completed, if I had time enough, it should be done and now this grand scena, a confounded battle piece and what not, is lying before me, and I am about to set to work, yet with the greatest reluctance. What can I do? Braham knows his public, and is idolized by them. But for Germany I shall keep the opera as it is. I hate the air I am going to compose (to-day I hope) by anticipation, Adieu, and now for the battle. So, the battle is over, that is to say, half the scene, To-morrow shall the Turks roar, the French shout for joy, and the warriors cry out victory!" The battle was indeed nearly over with Weber. The tired, forces of life, though they bore up gallantly against the enemy, had been long wavering at their post, and now in fact only one brilliant movement remained to be executed before they finally retreated from the field of existence. This was the representation of Oberon, which for a time rewarded him for all his toils and vexations. He records his tri mph with a mixture of humility, gratitude, affection, and piety. 12th April, 1826. My best Caroline! Through God's grace and assistance I have this evening met with the most complete success, The brilliancy and affecting nature of the triumph is indescribable. God alone be thanked for it! When I entered the orchestra, the whole of the house, which was filled to overflowing, rose up, and I was saluted by huzzas, waving of hats and handkerchiefs, which I thought would never have done. They insisted on encoring the overture. Every air was interrupted twice or thrice by bursts of applause. So much for this night, dear life: from your heartily tired husband, who, however, could not sleep in peace until he had communicated to you this new blessing of heaven. Good night." But his joy was interrupted by the gradual decline of his health. The climate of London brought back all those symptoms which his travelling had for a time alleviated or dissipated. After directing twelve performances of his "Oberon" in crowded houses, he felt himself completely exhausted and dispirited. His melancholy was not abated by the ill success of his concert, which, from causes we cannot pretend to explain, was no benefit to the poor invalid. His next letters are in a desponding tone. 17th April, 1826. "To-day is enough to be the death of any one. A thick, dark, yellow fog overhangs the sky, so that one can hardly see in the house without candles. The sun stands powerless, like a ruddy point, in the clouds. No: there is no living in this climate. The longing I feel for Hosterwitz, and the clear air, is indescribable. But patience-patience-one day rolls on after another; two months are already over. I have formed an acquaintance with Dr. Kind, a nephew of our own Kind. He is determined to make me well. God help me, that will never happen to me in this life. I have lost all hope in physicians and their art. Repose is my best doctor, and henceforth it shall be my sole object to obtain it. "To-morrow is the first representation of my (so called) rival's opera, Aladdin.' I am very curious to see it. Bishop is a man of talent, though of no peculiar invention. I wish him every success. There is room enough for all of us in the world." 30th May. "Dearest Lina, excuse the shortness You and hurry of this. I have so many things on hand, writing is painful to me-my hands tremble so. Already, too, impatience begins to awaken in me. will not receive many more letters from me. Address your answer not to London, but to Frankfort-poste restante. You are surprised? Yes, I don't go by Paris. What should I do there-I cannot moveI cannot speak-all business I must give up for years. Then better, better, the straight way to my home-by Calais, Brussels, Cologne, and Coblentz, up the Rhine to Frankfort-a delightful journey. Though I must travel slowly, rest sometimes half a day, I think in a fortnight, by the end of June, I shall be in your arms. "If God will, we shall leave this on the 12th of June, if heaven will only vouchsafe me a little strength. Well, all will go better if we are once on the way-once out of this wretched climate. I embrace you from my heart, my dear ones-ever your loving father Charles." This letter, the last but one he ever wrote, shows the rapid decline of his strength, though he endeavours to keep up the spirits of his family by a gleam of cheerfulness. His longing for home now began to increase till it became a pang. On the 6th of June he was to be present at the Freyschutz, which was to be performed for his benefit, and then to leave London for ever. His last letter, the thirty-third he had written from England, was dated the 2d of June. Even here, though he could scarcely guide the pen, anxious to keep up the drooping spirits of his wife, he endeavours to speak cheer fully, and to inspire a hope of his return. it "As this letter will need no answer, will be short enough. Need no answer! Think of that! Furstenau has given up the idea of his concert, so perhaps we shall be with you in two days soonerhuzza! God bless you all, and keep you well! O were I only among you. I kiss you in thought, dear mother. Love me also, and think always of your Charles, who loves you above all." On Friday, the 3d of June, he felt so ill, that the idea of his attending at the representation of "Der Freyschutz" was abandoned, and he was obliged to keep his room. On Sunday evening, the 5th, he was left at eleven o'clock in good spirits, and at seven o'clock next morning was found dead upon his pillow, his head resting upon his hand, as though he had passed from life without a struggle. The peaceful slumber of the preceding evening seeme to have gradually deepened into the sleep of death. He was interred on the 21st, with the |