AMES MONTGOMERY, the POET, AND ELLIOTT THE CORN LAW RHYMER. A coriespondent of the Boston Atlas furnishes some interesting personal recollections of Montgomery and Elliott. He had met Montgomery in Sheffield while on a visit to that neighborhood in eighteen thirty eight. Two years afterward, being in the same busy mart, he called upon him again.

I had no difficulty," he says, "in finding my way to The Mount,' the name of his residence, and was fortunate enough to find him at home. We had a pleasant talk together, and, after dinner, he accompanied me to the literary institutions of the neighborhood, and it was quite delightful to observe with what marked attention and respect he was every where received. I noticed this to him, and said he must feel highly gratified by it. "I am, of course," he replied, "but I have enemies. Not long since, some rascals broke into my house, one Sunday, while I was delivering an address at a chapel in Sheffield, (Mr. Montgomery sometimes preaches among his own people-the Moravians,) and stole, among other things, a silver inkstand, which had been given me by the ladies of Sheffield. However," he added, "the loss was but for a time, and proved to be the occasion of the greatest compliment to which, in my opinion, I ever had paid me. A few days after my loss, a box came directed to me, and, on opening it, lo! there was, uninjured, the missing inkstand, and a note, in which the writer expressed his regret that he had entered iny house, and abstracted it. The thief said his mother had taught him some of my verses, when he was a boy, and, on seeing my name on the inkstand, he first became aware whose house he had robbed, and was so stung with remorse, that he could not rest until he had restored my property, hoping God would forgive him."

"On our way back to the house. our conversation turned on the poems of the Corn Law Rhymer," of which Mr. Montgomery spoke in very high terms, but deprecated his violence of language. Would you like to see Elliott ?" he asked.

"Much," said I.

"Well, he lives some three miles from here, at Upperthorpe; but he is to speak to-night, at a corn Jaw meeting in Sheffield, and, if you like, after tea, we'll go and hear him, and I'll introduce you to him." "At the time specified we set out-the place where the lecture was to be delivered was situated in one of the most densely inhabited portions of the smoky town of Sheffield. As we neared the hall, groups of

dark looking, unwashed artisans were seen, proceeding in the same direction as ourselves-all of them engaged in deep and earnest conversation on the then one great subject, the corn laws. Strong men. as they hurried by, clenched their hands, and knitted their brows, and ground their teeth, as they muttered imprecations on those whom they considered their oppressors.

"Here we would encounter a crowd of dusky forms circling around a pale, anxious man, who was reading, by the light of a gas lamp, a speech reported in the Northern Star," or the last letter of Publicola. in the "Weekly Despatch"-and women, with meagre children in their arms-children drugged to a deathlike sleep, by that curse of the manufacturing districts of England-laudanum, disguised as Godfrey's cordial, were raising their shrill, shrewish voices, and execrating the laws which ground them to the dustand there were fierce denunciations from mere boys, and treasonable speeches from young men--old men, with half paralyzed energies, moaned and groaned, and said they had never known such times-all seemed gaunt and fierce, and ripe for revolt. It was an audience of working men-of such as these, that Ebenezer Elliott was to address that evening.

"The lecturing hall was crammed with the working classes, and as the orator of the evening mounted the rostrum, a wild burst of applause rang from every part of the house. He bowed slightly, smiled sternly. and took a seat, while a hymn which he had composed for the occasion was roared forth by hundreds of brazen lungs.

"He was a man rather under than above what is termed the middle height. Like the class from which. he sprang, and which he was about to address. he was dressed in working clothes--clothes plain even to coarseness. He had a high, broad, very intellectual forehead, with rough ridges on the temples, from the sides and summits of which thick stubby hair was brushed up--streaks of gray mixed with the coarse black hair--his eyebrows were dark and thick, and shaded two large, deep set, glaring eyes, which rolled every way, and seemed to survey the whole of that vast assembly at a glance. His nasal organ was as if it were grafted on his face; the mouth was thick lipped. and the lines, from the angles of the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, were deeply indented--graven in. A very black beard, lately shaven. made his chin and neck appear as if it was covered with dots, and he had a thick massive throat. His figure was indicative of great muscular strength, and his big horny fists seemed more fitted to wield a sledge hammer than to flourish a pen. Looking at him the most casual observer would be impressed with the idea that no common man was before him.

"He rose amidst great cheering, and for an hour and a half held that great audience in entire subjection by one of the most powerful addresses I ever listened to. With a terrible distinctness he painted

the situation of the working man--he showed what he might have been, and contrasted his possible and probable situation with what it then was. On the heads of those who opposed free trade, the corn law rhymer poured out all the vials of his wrath --but vigorous and forcible as was his language, there was no coarseness, and frequently, over the landscape which he had painted with all the wild force of a Spagnoletti or a Caravaggio, he flung a gleam of sunshine, which made the moral wilderness he had created to rejoice and blossom as the rose. And there were passages in Mis speech of such extreme pathos, that strong men would bow down and weep, like the little children--to these would succeed such sledge-hammer denunciations that his hearers sat with compressed lips, and glaring eyes, and resolute hearts. When he sat down, after an appeal to the justice of the law makers, the whole audience burst forth into one loud cheer, and those near the speaker gripped his hand in fierce delight. I never saw such a scene, nor could I have conceived it possible that one working man should so carry with him the passions and feelings of an audience, consisting entirely of those of his own class.

Montgomery introduced me to Elliott, and we all three walked to the house of the former together. How different from the man on the platform, was the man in the parlor. No longer the fervid orator, he was now the simple, placid poet; and I never before or since heard from mortal lips such powerful and yet pleasant criticisms on our literary men, as I did that night from the lips of Elliott. He spoke with great enthusiasm of Southey, whom he reverenced, despite his politics, and whom he called his " "great master in the art of poetry." He had much reverence for Wordsworth; but I must not attempt to record the conversation. Suffice it to say, that after an hour's chat, our party of three broke up; one of them at least, not a little gratified with the events of the evening."

BALFE THE COMPOSER.-We alluded in our last number to the production in London of a new opera, called the Enchantress," by Balfe, the composer of the Bohemian Girl." It is to be brought out here we learn early this fall by Mr. and Mrs. Seguin and Mr. Frazer. In speaking of the Enchantress," a London paper -The descriptive pieces are remarks.clever, and the orchestra has been skilfully employed in furnishing sparkling effects. The opera, in short, will maintain the reputation of the composer. That reputation, certainly, is, not referable to a very high standard; but as it is awarded by thousands of music-loving though musically uneducated people, the term of existence in store for the Enchantress is therefore not likely to be limited. Balfe is the only man to whom theatrical patrons, who bravely pay their money at the doors, will listen; and seeing that his songs and ballads are full of pleasing melody, have a graceful langor, and above all, are not hard of attainment by practising amateurs, it is not to be wondered at. As far as fancy and imagination are concerned, his operas are quite equal to those of Donizetti, and others of the same class, upon which the fashionable attention is turned

with so much fervor. He is a good tactician, and he knows how to write for the multitude; and to his credit it may be inferred that he has here and there awakened a feeling for music in the bosom of his listeners, which may have afterwards taken a loftier and more artistical direction."

The estimation in which this writer holds Balfe is, probably, the true one. His concluding remark should have weight with a certain class of individuals, who condemn his operas in sweeping terms because they do not conform to the highest musical standards. A composer for the multitude is as essential as a writer for the multitude. The A, B, C, must be learned before the book can be read, and its higher wisdom revealed.

Within the past year, there has been a kind of awaking up in the musical world around us. The opera is becoming more popular. May not this be legitimately traced to the production here of Balfe's opera of the Bohemian Girl," the music of which is of so pleasing and graceful a character? We think it may. And if he have done so much good, let not the "rigidly righteous" in these matters indulge their censorious spirit too freely. Balfe's music will be popular-will do good in warming a musical taste into life-in spite of them. We shall look for the Enchantress" with pleasure, and award to its composer the tribute of praise he deserves. He is not a Rossini nor an Auber. He is only Balfe the writer of music for the people. Ilis operas may alinost be called a series of ballads-but these are understood best, and touch quickest the heart of the multitude. In Italy he could not be so popular. There all classes understand and enjoy the highest musical achievments. It is not so with the Anglo-Saxon race. They have a sterner mission on earth than those who live under an Italian sky. Their educa tion is in a severer school. But, they have hearts to love music, if music comes to their hearts; and whoever so brings it to their hearts will be their idol; his office will be a high one-he will elevate their taste, refine their sentiments, and prepare them for enjoying the beauties of this master art in its nobler achievments.

approach of civilization. The French occupation of '99 gave the first blow to the lazzarone. At this period the lazzarone enjoyed all the prerogatives of his terrestrial paradise: he did not give more business to the tailor than our first father, before the fall; he drank in the sun at every pore. Curious and simple, as a child, the lazzarone soon became the friend of the French soldier, whom he had fought. But the French soldier, above all things, loves propriety; he accorded his friendship to the lazzarone, he consented to drink with him at the cabaret, to walk with him arm-in-arm; but on one condition, sine qua non, that the lazzarone should put on some clothing.

"The lazzarone, proud of the example of his fathers, and of ten centuries of nudity, opposed the innovation for some time, but, at last, consented to make this sacrifice to friendship. This was the first step toward his destruction. After the first article of dress came the vest, after the vest will come the jacket. The day the lazzarone wears a jacket, the lazzarone will be no more; the lazzarone will have become extinct; the lazzarone will have passed from the real, into the conjectural world; the lazzarone will have entered the domain of science, and will rank with the mastodon and the icthyosaurus. In the mean time, we have had the good fortune to be able to study this great passing race and will hasten to furnish data to the learned, by the aid of which, in their anthropological investigations, they may be enabled to ascertain the nature of the lazzarone.

6. The lazzarone is the oldest son of nature; it is for him the sun shines, it is for him the sea murmurs, it is for him creation smiles. Other men bave houses, other men have villas, other men have palaces, the lazzarone has the world. The lazzarone has no master, the lazzarone is amenable to no laws, the lazzarone is above social exigencies; he sleeps when he is sleepy, he eats when he is hungry, he drinks when he is thirsty. Other people rest when they are tired of work; the lazzarone, on the contrary, works when he is tired of resting. He works, not as in the north, plunging into the bowels of the earth to draw forth fuel; bending incessantly over the plough to render the ungrateful and rebellious earth fruitful, or traversing without intermission, inclined roofs and crumbling walls, at the risk of life and limb; his labor is pleasant, careless, embellished by songs and drolleries; interrupted by laughter, and moments of idleness. This labor continues for an hour, a half-hour, ten minutes, or one minute, and in that time brings enough to supply all the necessities of the day. What is this labor? Heaven, only, knows. A trunk carried from the steamboat to the hotel, an Englishman conducted from the Môle to Chiaja, three fish, escaped from the net which contained them and sold to a cook, the hand extended at random, in which the stranger, laughingly, lets fall an alms; such is the labor of the lazzarone.

"As to his food, this is more easy to describe; for, although the lazzarone belongs to the species omnivora, he, generally, eats but two things: the pizza and the cocomero or watermelon.

"The impression has gone out into the world, that the lazzarone lives upon macaroni; this is a great mistake, which it is time to correct. The

macaroni is, it is true, a native of Naples; but, at the present time, it is an European dish, which has traveled, like civilization, and which, like civilization, finds itself very far from its cradle. The macaroni, moreover, costs two sous a pound; which renders it inaccessible to the purse of the lazzarone; except upon Sundays and holidays. At all other times the lazzaroni eats, as we have said, the pizza and the cocomero; the cocomero in summer, the pizza in winter. The pizza is a sort of bun; it is round, and made of the same dough as bread. It is of different sizes according to the price. A pizza of two farthings suffices for one person, a pizza of two sous is enough to satisfy a whole family. At first sight, the pizza appears to be a simple dish, upon examination it proves to be compound. The pizza is prepared with bacon, with lard, with cheese, with tomatas, with fish. It is the gastronomic thermometer of the market. The price of the pizza rises and falls according to the rate of the ingredients just designated; according to the abundance or scarcity of the year. When the fish-pizza sells at a bali grain, the fishing has been good; when the oil-pizza sells at a grain the yield of olives has been bad. The rate at which the pizza sells is, also, influenced by the greater or less degree of freshness; it will be easily understood that yesterday's pizza,will not bring the same price as to-day's. For small purses, they have the pizza of a week old, which, if not agreeably, very advantageously, supplies the place of the sea-biscuit.

The pizza as we have said is the food of winter. On the first of May the pizza gives place to the cocomero; but the merchandise, only, disappears, the merchant remains the same. The seller is like the ancient Janus, with a face which weeps upon the past and smiles upon the future. On the said day the pizza-jolo becomes the mellonaro. The change does not even extend itself to the shop; the shop remains the same. A pannier of cocomeri instead of a basket of pizza is now carried; a sponge is passed over the traces of oil, bacon. lard, cheese, tomatoes and fish which have been left by the winter comesti ble and all is done; we pass to the comestible of the summer. Fine cocomeri come from Castellamare; they have an appearance at once exhilarating and tempting; the lively rose color of the pulp is heightened by its contrast with the black seed. But a good cocomero is dear; one of the size of an eight pound ball sells for from five to six sous. It is true that a cocomero of this size, in the hands of an adroit retailer, will be divided into ten or twelve pieces. Every opening of a cocomero is a new exhibition; the opponents stand opposite and each endeavors to surpass the other in the adroitness and impartiality with which he uses the knife in dividing

it.

The spectators judge. The mellonaro takes a cocomero from the flat pannier where it is piled, with twenty others, like cannon balls in an arsenal. He smells it, he raises it above his head like a Roman Emperor the globe of the world. He cries: It is like fire which announces, in advance, that the pulp will be of the finest red. He cleaves it open at a single blow and presents the two hemispheres to the public one in each hand If, instead of being red the pulp of the cocomero is yellow or