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OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.-LXIV.

MICHAEL W. BALFE.

Ir is half-past seven o'clock, and the first bell has rung! What a Babel of sounds issues from the music-room. Hark, above the loud blast of the trumpet, and the deep tones of ophiclyde and bassoon, the "shrill treble" of the piccolo, while clarionets and oboes, cornopeans and drums, are contending in discordance with scraping, and screwing, and twisting into tune of the whole stringed tribe. What a chaos of dissonance it is now; but ere long we shall

have a concord of sweet sounds.

The second bell has rung, and see from two doors which lead from beneath the stage, emerge a crowd of musicians, who soon fill the orchestra, and await the coming of their leader and conductor. Who is this just entered? It is Tolbecque; a minute more, and another appears. What intelligent features! What a searching and intellectual eye! How assured is his manner; how faultless his dress! How admirably gloved his hands! With what an air he carries his baton! He has mounted the rostrum, and now he turns over the music of the opera he is about to conduct. The bell has rung from the stage; he taps his desk in reply. A comprehensive look from left to right; another bell; the baton is raised, and you hear the first movement of the band responding to his expressive action. This is Michael W. Balfe, conductor of music to her Majesty's Theatre, one of the most popular composers of the day; an Irishman, too; and the subject of our memoir.

Born in Dublin in 1808, he spent the first four years of his life in the metropolis, and then accompanied his father to Wexford. It was there he began to evince the love of music with which nature seems to have endowed him. One day he heard the band of an infantry regiment, quartered in the town, playing through the streets, which so delighted his young fancy, that from that moment he became "all ears to hear," and never lost an opportunity of being present whenever and wherever they played, many a time slipping out of school and away from home to gratify his youthful passion. The master, a Mr. Meadows, soon remarked the little boy who was such a regular attendant at the performances of the band, and having made his acquaintance, invited him to his house, where young Balfe became a great favourite and constant visiter. Mr. Meadows led with the clarionet, but he also played a little on the violin, to which instrument his young friend made love, and very much to the astonishment of its owner, actually learned the scale without assistance. This piece of precocious development so surprised Meadows that he called on the child's father, and offered to teach him gratuitously, which offer was gratefully accepted; and just as he had entered his fifth year, he received his first lesson in music from his kind friend, the bandmaster. Three months produced such wonderful results that Meadows began to think he could do very little more for his pupil, and therefore resolved to visit his father again, and inform him that it was high time to put his son under a more experienced master.

66

See, sir," said he, "he has just composed a polacca for our band; and what do you think, he scored every note of it himself. We practised it to-day, and I had a great deal of difficulty to persuade the men that it was written by the little fiddle-player, as they call him."

This piece of gratifying intelligence soon determined Balfe's father as to the course he should pursue; and shortly afterwards the family removed to Dublin, where arrangements were speedily made to place our young musician under the care of Mr. O'Rourke,† then one of the best violinists resident in Ireland.

*The score is now in the possession of a Mr. Hickie, in Wexford, from whom Balfe got lessons in music before he left that town.

† Now Mr. Rooke, the talented composer of Amilie, &c.

wandering among the old and new graves, round the ruined cathedral, with feelings of melancholy rarely equalled.

66

The family affliction" alluded to in the paragraph of the Limerick Chronicle, announcing Mr. Sydenham's resignation of his appointment at C, no doubt was caused by the deaths of his two younger daughters, and all Arnold's bitter feelings against Caroline abated. She was now gone from the world, interred in a spot where he recollected to have heard her say, the very last evening he had seen her, she would "just like to be buried." The words had fallen lightly on him then; but, alas! how soon the wish was fulfilled. Her sister, too, the gentle, quiet little Agnes, lying now side by side with her in death! Arnold felt, indeed, that life was uncertain. He was taught a lesson not easily forgotten.

A few years have elapsed since the last hapless love affair of our young dragoon, and he is now a captain, of grave, steady demeanour. He attends church regularly every Sunday, in the morning and evening, and is observed to pay undeviating attention to his prayer-book during the period.

of Divine service. His brother officers have ceased to wonder why, on earth, Hall has become so strange and altered; yet there are vague suspicions entertained that he has been jilted by some fair one, as he eschews the society of ladies, and rides thirty miles off when the regiment gives a ball, that he may not be expected to attend it.

We understand that Miss Sydenham is still unmarried, and her faithful attendant, Charlotte Fogarty, remains with her. Some young ladies, verging on old maidism themselves, begin to wonder that a "handsome girl like Miss Sydenham does not get married;" but she adheres to a determination made long since, and resolves on living in single blessedness all her days. Since the death of her sisters, her father and mother have become reconciled to each other's society, and they all now live together in a lonely mansion, some miles distant from a quiet watering place in the south-west of England, where they maintain a strict seclusion seldom interrupted.

And now, reader, our tale is ended, and it has, at least, the merit of being, for the most part, truthful, if it fails in brilliancy of incident or description.

OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.-LXIV.

MICHAEL W. BALFE.

Ir is half-past seven o'clock, and the first bell has rung! What a Babel of sounds issues from the music-room. Hark, above the loud blast of the trumpet, and the deep tones of ophiclyde and bassoon, the "shrill treble" of the piccolo, while clarionets and oboes, cornopeans and drums, are contending in discordance with scraping, and screwing, and twisting into tune of the whole stringed tribe. What a chaos of dissonance it is now; but ere long we shall have a concord of sweet sounds.

The second bell has rung, and see from two doors which lead from beneath the stage, emerge a crowd of musicians, who soon fill the orchestra, and await the coming of their leader and conductor. Who is this just entered? It is Tolbecque; a minute more, and another appears. What intelligent features! What a searching and intellectual eye! How assured is his manner; how faultless his dress! How admirably gloved his hands! With what an air he carries his baton! He has mounted the rostrum, and now he turns over the music of the opera he is about to conduct. The bell has rung from the stage; he taps his desk in reply. A comprehensive look from left to right; another bell; the baton is raised, and you hear the first movement of the band responding to his expressive action. This is Michael W. Balfe, conductor of music to her Majesty's Theatre, one of the most popular composers of the day; an Irishman, too; and the subject of our memoir.

Born in Dublin in 1808, he spent the first four years of his life in the metropolis, and then accompanied his father to Wexford. It was there he began to evince the love of music with which nature seems to have endowed him. One day he heard the band of an infantry regiment, quartered in the town, playing through the streets, which so delighted his young fancy, that from that moment he became "all ears to hear," and never lost an opportunity of being present whenever and wherever they played, many a time slipping out of school and away from home to gratify his youthful passion. The master, a Mr. Meadows, soon remarked the little boy who was such a regular attendant at the performances of the band, and having made his acquaintance, invited him to his house, where young Balfe became a great favourite and constant visiter. Mr. Meadows led with the clarionet, but he also played a little on the violin, to which instrument his young friend made love, and very much to the astonishment of its owner, actually learned the scale without assistance. This piece of precocious development so surprised Meadows that he called on the child's father, and offered to teach him gratuitously, which offer was gratefully accepted; and just as he had entered his fifth year, he received his first lesson in music from his kind friend, the bandmaster. Three months produced such wonderful results that Meadows began to think he could do very little more for his pupil, and therefore resolved to visit his father again, and inform him that it was high time to put his son under a more experienced master.

66

See, sir," said he, "he has just composed a polacca for our band; and what do you think, he scored every note of it himself. We practised it to-day, and I had a great deal of difficulty to persuade the men that it was written by the little fiddle-player, as they call him.'

This piece of gratifying intelligence soon determined Balfe's father as to the course he should pursue; and shortly afterwards the family removed to Dublin, where arrangements were speedily made to place our young musician under the care of Mr. O'Rourke,† then one of the best violinists resident in Ireland.

The score is now in the possession of a Mr. Hickie, in Wexford, from whom Balfe got lessons in music before he left that town.

† Now Mr. Rooke, the talented composer of Amilie, &c.

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OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.-LXIV.

MICHAEL W. BALFE.

Ir is half-past seven o'clock, and the first bell has rung! What a Babel of sounds issues from the music-room. Hark, above the loud blast of the trumpet, and the deep tones of ophiclyde and bassoon, the "shrill treble" of the piccolo, while clarionets and oboes, cornopeans and drums, are contending in discordance with scraping, and screwing, and twisting into tune of the whole stringed tribe. What a chaos of dissonance it is now; but ere long we shall have a concord of sweet sounds.

The second bell has rung, and see from two doors which lead from beneath the stage, emerge a crowd of musicians, who soon fill the orchestra, and await the coming of their leader and conductor. Who is this just entered? It is Tolbecque; a minute more, and another appears. What intelligent features! What a searching and intellectual eye! How assured is his manner; how faultless his dress! How admirably gloved his hands! With what an air he carries his baton! He has mounted the rostrum, and now he turns over the music of the opera he is about to conduct. The bell has rung from the stage; he taps his desk in reply. A comprehensive look from left to right; another bell; the baton is raised, and you hear the first movement of the band responding to his expressive action. This is Michael W. Balfe, conductor of music to her Majesty's Theatre, one of the most popular composers of the day; an Irishman, too; and the subject of our memoir.

Born in Dublin in 1808, he spent the first four years of his life in the metropolis, and then accompanied his father to Wexford. It was there he began to evince the love of music with which nature seems to have endowed him. One day he heard the band of an infantry regiment, quartered in the town, playing through the streets, which so delighted his young fancy, that from that moment he became "all ears to hear," and never lost an opportunity of being present whenever and wherever they played, many a time slipping out of school and away from home to gratify his youthful passion. The master, a Mr. Meadows, soon remarked the little boy who was such a regular attendant at the performances of the band, and having made his acquaintance, invited him to his house, where young Balfe became a great favourite and constant visiter. Mr. Meadows led with the clarionet, but he also played a little on the violin, to which instrument his young friend made love, and very much to the astonishment of its owner, actually learned the scale without assistance. This piece of precocious development so surprised Meadows that he called on the child's father, and offered to teach him gratuitously, which offer was gratefully accepted; and just as he had entered his fifth year, he received his first lesson in music from his kind friend, the bandmaster. Three months produced such wonderful results that Meadows began to think he could do very little more for his pupil, and therefore resolved to visit his father again, and inform him that it was high time to put his son under a more experienced master.

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See, sir," said he, "he has just composed a polacca for our band; and what do you think, he scored every note of it himself. We practised it to-day, and I had a great deal of difficulty to persuade the men that it was written by the little fiddle-player, as they call him.'

This piece of gratifying intelligence soon determined Balfe's father as to the course he should pursue; and shortly afterwards the family removed to Dublin, where arrangements were speedily made to place our young musician under the care of Mr. O'Rourke,† then one of the best violinists resident in Ireland.

The score is now in the possession of a Mr. Hickie, in Wexford, from whom Balfe got lessons in music before he left that town.

† Now Mr. Rooke, the talented composer of Amilie, &c,

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