recorded in the letters of the lamented Malibran, that the latter was, for a time, in 1828, the only depositary of Sontag's secret, that amongst the crowd of sighing and adoring swains who followed her respectfully at a distance, tendering their offers of marriage, there was one on whom she had bestowed her heart, and was about to bestow her hand.

The fortunate object of Madlle. Sontag's choice—and time has proved how well-founded was her judgment—was a member of the diplomatic body then accredited at the Court of the Tuileries. Count de Rossi, although then a very young man, was already, at that critical period of political affairs, Conseiller d'Ambassade of the Sardinian mission—a sufficient proof of his mental powers. He had the good looks, the elegant manners, the tastes, and the gifts of conversation which distinguish the travelled man and the real homme de qualité—qualities which no adversity can diminish. Fearing the prejudices of his noble relatives and of his royal master, until they could be assuaged, it was determined to conceal the wedding for the time being. It consequently was solemnized with all due form, but in secret, with only two or three intimate friends as witnesses.

A highly interesting circumstance attended this marriage—one perhaps unparalleled.

The late kind-hearted King of Prussia, apprised of the intended marriage, was desirous on the one hand to show his estimation of his fair subject, and on the other to prepare for the prejudices and obstacles this marriage would meet with on the part of the Sardinian Cabinet. Unsolicited, he spontaneously bestowed on Madlle. Sontag, before her marriage, a Patent of Nobility, with every necessary details of Coat of Arms, &c., together with a title, and the name of De Launstein. So singular a circumstance cannot be contemplated without the deepest interest. It appears to us to do as much credit to the feelings of the lamented Sovereign, as it did honor to the character of Madlle. Sontag.

But now the time was arrived when the Countess de Rossi must leave Paris once more. The regret was universal; by this time she had endeared herself to every one that approached her.

If at Paris Madlle. Sontag was admired by the public at large for her talents and her beauty, her gentle and amiable character and her generosity in private life gained her the esteem of all circles of society. One trait, amongst many, may be cited, which adds glory to her character as a woman as well as an artist.

The parents of Madlle. Sontag were, as we have stated, artists, with very limited means. This she never forgot; and her short experience of adversity in her earliest years was sufficient to awaken every sentiment of charity. She was known by all the exiled Germans whom adversity had driven from their native land to seek charity and sympathy in France. One cold night, on leaving the theatre, after a performance of Don Giovanni, Donna Anna, still full of emotion, observed on the step of a door, as she passed, three young girls near their mother, singing lieders of their Fatherland. Madlle. Sontag recognised the poor mother, who was weeping: she was scarcely thirty years old. She recollected that she had seen her at the theatre at Darmstadt, when she herself had been taken there in the arms of her parents. The Cantatrice approached the group with trembling steps, and in a voice deeply moved by emotion, asked the mother where she lived—procured an answer—dropped a gold coin—hurried to her carriage, and drove off.

On the same evening, a servant, attired in splendid livery, knocked at the door of a garret of a house in the Fauxbourg du Temple. "Who is there?" was asked by a voice, weakened by poverty and want. "A friend, who brings you good news," was the immediate reply. The door opened. "Here is a letter which I have been requested to deliver to you," said the lacquey. "Read it." The letter was thus couched:—

"Pray tell me the name of the saviour of myself and children?" "I cannot," was the reply of the messenger; "at Darmstadt only will it be known to you."

The beggar dressed her children in their best attire, and the following morning took the road to Germany. For seven years she regularly received a pension, which enabled her to give her daughters a good education. One of them entered the Conservatoire of Berlin, and has now become one of the most brilliant stars of the German stage. Her name we of course must refrain from mentioning. Only within the last two years has the poor wanderer of those days discovered the secret author of a deed of such noble charity.

This is but one instance of the many acts of signal charity of the Countess Rossi recorded by the German writers, from whom we have borrowed largely for the uses of this trifling sketch.

It will now be asked, what had the Direction of Her Majesty's Theatre in London been doing during the several years that the great capitals of the Continent had been enjoying the marvellous gifts of Countess Rossi? The fact is, that as regards distant things, no great foresight or vigilance could be expected from those who formerly directed this institution. The engagement of Madlle. Sontag was too far-fetched an effort: whilst she was at Vienna or Berlin, affairs at home absorbing too much of the time and attention of the unfortunate lessee for the time being. Her Majesty's Theatre—specially established by royalty, and the chief amusement of the successive sovereigns and their illustrious guests—liberally supported by the greatest aristocracy in the world—for thirty years presented the most disorderly and disgraceful aspect which ever characterized any theatre of such pretensions. Instead of being governed by general principles of equity, and with a view to general results, it was alternately subjected to the caprice of a coterie, or to the passions of an artist. The stage was looked upon as a resort of gallantry, enlivened by the envies, jealousies, and battles of the prima donna; and the audience part of the theatre, where the greatest personages of the land habitually appeared, headed by Royalty itself, was frequently turned into a bear-garden, for uncouth exhibitions of temper and unseemly rows. Needless to add what was the fate of the successive lessees—at one moment compelled to live under the foot of a favorite dancer, at another to be at the beck and call of an imperious prima donna; to pay them whatever they asked, and sacrifice to them whoever or whatever they pleased—"Stet pro ratione voluntas!" was ever the order of the day. Not astonishing, that whoever took the helm—a great and liberal nobleman, like the Earl of Middlesex and other personages, whose mishaps Horace Walpole has so wittily portrayed—a sublime composer, like Handel—a rich banker, like Chambers—a librarian—an Italian impresario, or a clever actor—let the theatre be governed by a single individual, or by a committee—ruin was sure to ensue. To seek a prima donna of German extraction at Berlin, might, at some moment, when an Italian "assolutissima" was reigning, have been considered as high treason, and exposed the perpetrator to the highest punishment her admirers could inflict. However, when Madlle. Sontag came to the Italiens in Paris, the lessee might venture, without risk of such dire punishment, to wish to vary and increase the amusement of the public and his own receipts. Mr. Ebers, who has recorded with unanswerable data the absurd caprices and consequent losses of which, under this system, he was for seven years the victim, was then the lessee of Her Majesty's Theatre. Mr. Ebers was naturally anxious to make an engagement