_Beethoven's Fidelio_.--This noble opera has lately been given us by Mr. Anschuetz, with the best use of such means as were at his disposal. The orchestral, choral, and concerted vocal portions are grand and beautiful, highly characteristic and effective. The story is simple, pure, and deeply pathetic. The prison scene affords scope for the finest histrionic abilities. In the solos, however (with the exception of that of Pizarro, where dramatic power satisfies), we miss the lyric genius of the Italians, their long-phrased, passionate, and never-to-be-forgotten melodies, containing the element of beauty _per se_ so richly developed. Cannot the whole world produce one man, who, with all the expanded musical knowledge of the present day, can unite for us Italian gift of melody and German power of orchestral and choral effect, whose endowments shall be both lyric and dramatic, and whose taste shall be pure, refined, and ennobling? Should we recognize such a genius were he actually to stand in our midst, or would both schools reject him because he chanced to possess the best qualities of either? L. D. P. Ballads of the War THE BROTHER'S BURIAL. BY ISABELLA McFARLANE. Hear me, stranger, hear me tell How my gallant brother fell. We were rushing on the foe, When a bullet laid him low. At my very side he fell-- He whom I did love so well. On we rushed--I could not stay-- There I left him where he lay. Then when fled the rebel rout, I came back and searched him out. Wounded, bleeding, suffering, dying, Midst a heap of dead men lying. Friend and foe above each other-- There I found my mangled brother. Blind with tears, I lifted him: But his eyes were sunk and dim. 'Brother, when I'm dead,' said he, 'Find some box to coffin me.' For he could not bear to rest With the cold earth on his breast. All around the camp I sought; Box for coffin found I not. Still I searched and hunted round-- Three waste cracker-boxes found; Nailed them fast to one another,-- Laid therein my precious brother! Then a grave for him I made, Hands and bayonet all my spade. Long I worked, yet 'twas not deep: There I laid him down to sleep. There I laid my gallant brother: Earth contains not such another! Little more than boys were we, I sixteen, and nineteen he. For his country's sake he died, And for her I'd lie beside. FOOTNOTES: [A] But a copy fell into the hands of a French bookseller, who published a wretched translation, and Jefferson authorized an edition in London in 1787. [B] A statue was erected to Buffon with the inscription: NATURAM AMPLECTITUR OMNEM. Some sceptic wrote underneath: QUI TROP EMBRASSE, MAL ETREINT; a saying which we do not care to translate, but which is too good a description of Jefferson's scientific acquirements to be omitted.