From him that spoke some strange indignity,
Which patience could not pass.

Public Opinion. I know, Review,

Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,

Making it light to Forrest. Forrest, I love thee,

But, never more-be caught in such a trap.

We submit that the above is about as clear an explanation of this unhappy business as Sir Patrick Plenipo himself could give. And thus we take our leave of it. Mr. Forrest has never in his life taken any pains to please the press; nor do we know that he has ever endeavored to do the contrary. But certain it is, there are many of that honorable fraternity, and their name is legion, who are disposed to judge him severely in the matter. It seems his destiny on this occasion to be required to "suffer some." It is beyond all question, we know it, an unpleasant process, but there are few, indeed, who can afford it better than our blest tragedian. He enjoys all the rewards of a laborious life, but how many strive, long and hard, and fail to enjoy anything? He has fallen, at length, into the hands of the Philistines, and if he would permit us to whisper in his ear, we suggest that he "assume a virtue, if he have it not," and manifest an indifference for their stings, perhaps, he does not feel. 'Tis the only way to charm them.

We cannot forbear adding that Mr. Forrest must clearly see by this time the error he committed, which simply consists in giving expressions too warm to his natural indignation at grievances charged against Mr. Macready. His whole offence "hath this extent, no more;" and it is one which men the most distinguished in all countries, have a thousand times fallen into. No man, in his day, was more remarkable for dignified reserve, and the chastest propriety of expression, than George Canning; but on one occasion, in the House of Commons, when Prime Minister, he was so nettled by some contumelious expressions of Henry Brougham, that he rose up, and before the astonished rank and learning of England, charged his adversary, in the most vehement manner, with downright falsehood, and in the pithiest terms possible. It is one of the features of Mr. Forrest's career, that he has constantly maintained a decorous and uniform line of conduct, always preserving the dignity of his position, and exhibiting gentlemanly taste, and high tone in his language and sentiments. These are characteristic of his nature, which is elevated, noble, and magnanimous. "What private griefs he has, alas, we know not;" but it must be deep persuasion of undeserved wrong that has lashed him into momentary forgetfulness of himself.

From the singularly quiet tenor of his life this late sudden burst of strong feeling has produced the more astonishment from the tens of thousands, who, not caring to investigate the provocation, merely pronounce a short sentence of censure on the harshness of his tone. This is a fault that it would be silly in Mr. Forrest's friends to deny, and which must be just as plain to himself as anybody else. No one can make atonement but himself. The remedy is in his own hands. The public of the United States care nothing in this matter about Mr. Macready, or the slights or annoyances that he, directly or indirectly, may have put on Mr. Forrest in England, compared to the concern they feel in the position and character of our first tragedian. We say, then, that Mr. Forrest owes it to himself, and the country, on some fitting occasion, to give an explanation of his late Philadelphia "Card." We shall, then, know what judgment to record for, or against him. It is not just finally to condemn any man for losing his temper on one occasion; much more to put this trifle in the balance against the manifold excellencies of our tragedian's character, and the loud merits of his upright life. We look forward, then, with eagerness, but no anxiety, to the next occasion that will arise for Mr. Forrest's opinion of himself.

THE OPERA. The past month has not been quiet in Astor Place, though we are happy to say that it has been profitable. Italian singers are proverbial for their restiveness, discontent and jealousy, and Mr. FRY has had his share of their "fautastical humors." Whether he himself, or some of those to whom he has delegated authority, or from whom he has received advice, are not somewhat culpable as having provoked these humors and jealousies, we will not pretend to say; but we advise both him and them, that the public are heartily tired of such affairs, and that, however beneficial they may be to the treasury at the time, they materially injure the prestige of the opera in the end. The Opera House is the resort for quiet enjoyment and refined intercourse-a place in which to do propriety and to talk the musical glasses" if not Shakspeare-and a row, even of the most tender and delicate description, is altogether foreign to its atmosphere.

46

The Benedetti row" of the past month was somewhat remarkable in its origin, progress and termination. The first the public knew of it, was the sudden appearance of Mr. Fry before the curtain between the first and second acts of Lucrezia Borgia, one Wednesday evening, to announce to them that Sig. Benedetti refused to perform the part of Pollione in Norma on the following Friday, on the ground that Madame Laborde was to be the Norma, aud that she made herself ridiculous in the part and was unfit to sing with artists. Taken by surprise, the audience did not at first recognize the comical irregularity of the proceeding, and administered an unmitigated hissing to the refractory tenor upon his first appearance on the stage. After a while, fie was allowed to proceed, and the hearty applause bestowed upon his performance in the trio and duo finale of the second act showed that, whatever was thought of his couduct, his sympathetic voice and impassioned singing still held their wonted sway over his hearers. The consequence of this was a serio-comic altercation between manager and artist in the dressing room of the latter, followed by a melo-dramatic fight, in which swords were drawn, but no blood, if we except that which flowed from a scratch on the hand of a distinguished counsellor and patron of the opera; bloody drops which fell in vengeance for the tearsof laughter he has drawn from the eyes of innocent juries. Had Benedetti's sword been a little more trenchant, he who stumped it" lately for GEN. TAYLOR, might have had an opportunity to "stump it" on his own account.

Few occurrences have occasioned more sensation in the world of fashion. Aside from business, it was the topic of the day. The newspapers were full of it. Benedetti published a card in the New-York Herald. The excitement increased. The greater portion of the public were determined that tenors in general, and one tenor in particular, should receive a lesson; but a numerous party, consisting of Benedetti's particular friends, and Mr. Fry's particular enemies, endeavored, of course, to sustain the former. On Friday evening the house was so full that it ran over, and the audience oozed out of the side doors and passages. The excitement was very great, but all was portentous only until the appearance of the offender with Signor Patti as his attendant. Then burst forth a tempest of hisses and hootings, answered by a counter-storm of applause and bravos; the bissers rebutted, the applauders surrebutted, and so it went on, like a double chorus in an oratorio, till Benedetti attempted to have his share of the row, and volunteered an English solo of three or four lines; after this the double chorus of hissers and applauders united their forces, as double chorusses always do in the end, and such a hubbub was raised, that poor Sigr. Patti fled “in disorder,” and the hubbub promised so faithfully to stay raised, that evidently Benedetti or the house, or something must come down, so Mr. Fry chose that it should be the curtain. Down it came, and out came the impressario for his share. He seemed quite satisfied with what he received, and begged that the tempest might cease. He fared better than King Canute; for at his bidding, the waves of discord did roll back, which, to say the least, was very civil on their part. King Canute retired

from before the sea of heads-and the rest of the evening was tranquil, save for gusts of applause.

The whole affair was exceedingly well done. The row was a most gentlemanly one. It was redolent of white kid, white cambric and Bouquet de Jenny Lind; but still it was "most distinctly" a row; rarely has there been one more exciting or more determined. Benedetti might have stood there till now without singing, but for the judicious intervention of the manager; and yet, the very same audience applauded him to the echo when he did sing. The public were dragged by main force into the affair, as palpably as Sir Peter Teazle, whom Charles Surface drags "into court" by the cravat-but being in, they did not hesitate to pronounce a just verdict, and give a severe judgment.

So out of all rule, and beyond all precedent, appeared Mr. Fry's first appeal to the audience, that we supposed that he must be injured by the impression it produced. What right had he to bring his quarrels with his artists before the public, and particularly that public. They had nothing to do with Norma. They came to hear Lucrezia. What was Hecuba to them, or they to Hecuba? He had his contract, let it be enforced. But the event proved fortunate. All's well that ends well. In the first place, poor Benedetti was impaled on the spot, and for the first time. The punishment instantly followed the offence. There was an excitement about the opera. After two appeals to the public, the offender found that, with all his popula ity, he could not influence the public determination. Last, not least, there were three or four thumping houses out of the affair.

But we must say that we nearly agree with Benedetti in his expressed opinion of Madame Laborde's Norma. With all her compass and flexibility of voice and exquisite method, she is unequal to the arch druidess. Her presence lacks the dignity, her voice the nobility and her style the breadth necessary to the role. A clever habitue of the opera said well that her rage reminded him of that of a mad canary-bird. Nevertheless, we must add that her Casta Diva is one of the most exquisitely finished performances ever heard here; and that whatever, and however just, his opinion, Benedetti had no right to express it as he did, or to make it a ground for refusal to perform his duty.

Apropos of refusals to perform duty, MAX MARETZEK was guilty of one such, which we think merits severe censure. It seems that at the unfortunate first performance of I Lombardi--and it was not "I Lombardi at the First Crusade," but "I Lombardi at their own first crucifixion ”—Signor Benedetti took the liberty of turning to the orchestra and beating the time with head and hands for three or four bars; a most barbarous thing, and one at which the conductor was justly incensed, but certainly no justification for the course taken by M. Maretzek; who, simply declaring his intention not to conduct that Opera again with Benedetti as Oronte, leaves town the next morning for Philadelphia, where he remains a whole week, during the performance of the most difficult opera pro duced this season. Surely this was a most high-handed piece of assumption, and a sufficient ground for the manager to break his contract. If M. Maretzek had chosen to say that either Benedetti or he must leave the troupe, very well, Mr. Fry could have made his choice; but while the former retained the conductor's baton of the company, he was bound to wield it for whomsoever was a member of that company, no matter what his private grievances might be. The course of Maretzek was little less culpable than that of Benedetti. We hope that Mr. Fry will not forget that a leader needs to be driven with as tight a rein as any of his team. This one we must say seems not a little inclined to take the bit in his mouth. Let the managinal Jehu beware, lest this Pegasus run away with the whole concern. Already does Maretzek seem as important as Fry; he even takes the liberty of offering a benefit to the orchestra of the Park Theatre-a most laudable intent, doubtless-but it at least should have been done" by the permission of Mr. Fry." The musical monarch should beware that his prime minister does not prove a Woolsey, and say, "I and my impressario."

I Lombardi was a complete failure. Neither their music nor their characters suited

Signorina Truffi or Signor Rosi, and Benedetti did not sing as well as at Palmo's, two years since. They were also not over perfect in their parts. The chorusses, save one or two, were discordant and slovenly; and the orchestra, after the first performance, played as badly as so fine an orchestra could play. Thanks to M. Maretzek. What could be expected when the conductor was away?

The Barber has been given with Rossi Corsi as Figaro, Mad. Laborde as Rosina, Sanquirico as Dr. Bartold, and Giubilei as Basilio; a fine cast, as the performance proved; in spite of Rossi Corsi's illness on the first evening. We are glad to hear that Guillaume Tell and La Favorita are in rehearsal.

X. C.

The love of the Arts is slowly awakening in our country. At least, we may be permitted to judge of the increase of demand, from the recent very remarkable increase of supply. A sure test, we imagine. The great success of the American Art-Union, the late announcement of a new institution with similar objects, the multitude of statues, casts, and other objects of Art which decorate the shops, the splendor of many of the new illustrated editions of classical authors, together with the numerous well-attended "musical solemnities," (to quote from puffs,) which our cities now boast; all these are symptoms of the awakening of taste, artistic taste, in this country.

We believe, that a few years ago, the announcement of a premium engraving would have had but little effect in obtaining subscriptions for a periodical. But now, owing to the new-born feeling to which we have alluded, it appears that the enterprising publishers, who have hit upon the mode of alluring subscribers, have every reason to congratulate themselves as to the result. Among these, it is but justice to assign the first rank to the publishers of the NEW-YORK ALBION. Their plate for 1849, is truly a splendid specimen of the Art of Engraving. The subject, too, may be considered somewhat national, in a country that derives so many of its laws from an Apglo-Saxon origin. "The First Trial by Jury," from C. W. Cope's prize Cartoon, exhibited in 1843, represents the solemn trial of a murderer in the presence of his victim and by "the witnesses"-as the old law formerly directed--of, the deed, or at least by such near neighbors as might be supposed to have extra-judicial nowledge of the fact. Strange, that in the course of time this circumstance should have become an objection to a juror instead of a necessary qualification. We hope and trust that the worthy editor of the Albion may reap the success he so richly deserves for the enterprising spirit that leads him to proffer so rich a prize, or an additional inducement for subscription to a work, whose intrinsic merits alone are sufficient to insure popularity.

For the last two weeks of the last year's existence-peace be to its ashes, it had no peace in its life-we of Gotham seemed condemned to an amphibious state of existence, or rather an omni-bious state, for we were compelled to live not only on land and in water, but on and in both at one and the same time. For twelve or thirteen hours, snow would fall at such a rate that it seemed as if all the feather beds in high Olympus had been ripped up and emptied upon the earth, and misses and livery stable keepers were ready to offer up grateful hecatombs of promises; when all at once the white speckling of the sky would vanish as if by magic, and water would pour down as if the bottom of the celestial reservoir had fallen out, cutting short the promises of misses and livery stable men, and condemning them to navigate the town, muttering curses-both misses and men-both loud and deep. This was done again and again. Now we don't complain of this,―uot at all; but we would simply ask of the Clerk of the Weather "what's the use? Why throw away snow storm after snow storm? Is such a prodigal waste of material consistent with the utilitarian spirit of the age ?" We pause till next month for a reply.

* Our Gossip, judging from the appearance of Broadway, means an omnibus state of existence. [Print. Dev.

NOTICES OF NEW BOOKS.

1.-THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN. By Alexandre Dumas. New-York: Stringer & Townsend, 222 Broadway.

Mr. Dumas is certainly a most extraordinary man. Whoever calls at the establishment of Messrs. Berard & Mondon, in this city, and examines the long rows of shelves occupied by the novels, dramatic and miscellaneous works of that writer, will naturally doubt whether that "multitudinous sea" of books can have welled forth from a single human brain; nay, he will be led to question whether any number of goose-quills or steel pens, wielded successively by any single hand, could, in a man's life-time, have achieved the amount of mechanical labor represented by the countless volumes signed "A. Dumas," to say nothing of the untold mass of feuilletons, letters, contributions and other ephemeral productions, never graced by the honors of binding, which have been issued under this prolific author's responsibility. To account for the obvious disproportion between the number of works produced and the supposed capacity of the human brain, it has been stated that Dumas bestowed little but his name upon most of the works which he consented to father; that he did not so much write as manufacture books; that he and his agents bought up the rough literary attempts of junior scribblers, and caused them only to be recast and remodelled. Many of our readers remember the piquant literary squabble caused by the dispute between Dumas and Mr. Gaillardet,* as to the authorship of the Tour de Nesle. What with a bloodless duel, a scandalous law-suit, the interchange of letters and recriminations through the press, and the comments of the journalists, the merits of the question never were fairly laid before the public, and Dumas' with admirable tact and savoir-faire managed to keep the laughers on his side of the question. His adversary was completely overwhelmed under an avalanche of wit and ridicule, although people generally retained some faint impression, that he had not been fairly dealt with. Dumas pursued his course, unimpeded by clamor and obloquy, and, whether right or wrong, has contrived to issue victoriously from every controversy of that nature in which he was ever engaged. Enough transpired, nevertheless, to leave the public thoroughly impressed with the idea, that Dumas employed literary men of some talent to make researches and to "do" the rough work of book-making. One of his secretaries is said to be his son; another is a Mr. Maquet. We read some time ago in a British periodical, some remarks purporting to give a different version of the affair, on the plausible ground principally, that, if Mr. Maquet could write so well, he would have no need of using another man's name. This, however, is by no means conclusive. Maquet might be well qualified to write a novel or two, and able to meet with a purchaser; yet, he might find it for his interest to sacrifice the pride of authorship, for the sake of a steady, inexhaustible market. We know but little of the real merits of the question; but we feel desirous of publishing that little. We remember M. Maquet perfectly well; we were at school with him many years ago. From our recollection of him, we should consider him perfectly capable of performing the part attributed to him by public rumor. We recollect being particularly struck with the beauty of some stanzas, his earliest we believe, which he wrote at that time. It was something about Spain and "le bleu Guadalquivir," Andalusian women and skies, mantillas and black eyes. Our recollection is indistiuct, but our impression at the time was highly favorable. Since that time, we have heard but little of M. Maquet; some vague intimation reached us that he was "répétiteur" at the College of Charlemagne, our own alma mater. afterwards, we saw a card in some of the French newspapers, signed by Maquet and others, indignantly avowing, that they, the undersigned, were the friends of Mr. Dumas, not his suite, as some papers had then lately asserted, when noticing the perambulations of the most prolific of novelists over Europe. These gentlemen acknowledged that they accompanied Mr. Dumas in his travels, but whether for the purpose of taking down, in short-haud, the impressions of the great traveller, or daguerreotyping his emotions with a view to future book-making, they did not choose to explain. It looked plausible enough, however; and this, with other circumstances, has wrought within us the moral conviction, that Mr. Maquet had much more to do with the works of Dumas than was publicly known. He does wisely, we think, in disclaiming a worthless title to productions which have no other value than their present quotations in the market; they Bell at enormous prices, and of this "the secretaries" get their share; but such works

Late Editor of the Courier des Etats Unis.

Years