The attempt made some ten years ago, though commended by the minister of the day, was signally abortive; and the subsequent endeavour of a popular musician to open a theatre for the performance of English operas, was equally futile and unsuccessful.  One thing of primary importance—­the patronage of the higher classes—­was wanting to both these efforts.  Were the stamp of fashion once impressed upon such an undertaking, success would be certain, did the fiat of the great world once go forth, the thing would be accomplished.  The marvellous impulse recently given to musical instruction throughout the kingdom, shows the vast power, for good, possessed by the higher classes of aristocratic England.  We have often lamented the apathy of the fashionable world on this subject, and we can entertain no hope of aristocratic support and encouragement for the English opera.  There may, however, be some hope, though faint and distant, for our musicians.  In consequence of a national musical education, a national opera may become a national want; and we can scarcely conceive it possible, that the wide diffusion of musical taste and knowledge should fail ultimately, to produce a large and never-failing demand for dramatic music.  Then would our musicians have a wide, fair field for the development of their resources, success, the highest and most brilliant, would be within their reach, and would depend entirely on themselves.  If, under such circumstances, the reputation of our country did not quickly rise, bright and resplendent in the musical horizon, our hopes of universal excellence would indeed be crushed for ever.

[Footnote 2:  No. cccxxvii. p. 130.]

It might be long before we rivalled either of the great continental schools, each of which would doubtless long retain its ancient worshippers.  Of these two schools, of a character and style so different, we confess a preference for the smooth, voluptuous, peaceful flow of the Italian, rather than the stern, but sublimer, beauty of the German.  The one, like the soft and glowing landscape of its native land, refreshes the spirit, warms the heart, and kindles the affections; the latter, like the wild and often savage grandeur of the scenery of Switzerland, chills, while it awes and subdues the soul.  There is a smiling kindliness about the former, which fascinates and attracts; the latter often pains and distracts, by an intense and varied action which admits of no repose.  It is as the tranquil elegance of the Venus of the Tribune, or the calm dignity of the Apollo of the Vatican, contrasted with the nervous energy of the works of Buonarroti, or the sublime but fearful agony of the Laocoon.

The more enthusiastic admirers of the productions of the Germans, that race of musical Michael Angelos, often despise the lamer attributes of the music of the “sweet south.”  Such spirits delight in the storm and the whirlwind; peace and repose have probably no charms for them.