Nothing but loathing can attend the open, deliberate, and utterly gross destruction of virtue as planned and executed by that miserable libertine. Mephistopheles himself is scarcely more corrupt, and the representation of these two great poisonous spiders, weaving their meshes round their unfortunate and but too easy prey, can never in any sense impress us as lofty specimens of _high art_. How different is the plot of 'Fidelio,' where one can yield oneself to the beauty of the music and the pathos of the story without a single jarring sensation! Let the masters then beware! Music is essentially pure, and should never by great minds be wedded to coarse ideas. The subject must have an influence upon the immortality of the work. The really noble and truly art-loving men and women of all countries will, as they advance in mental cultivation and comprehension of the higher aims of art, banish such gross delineations and festering moral sores from the stage, and fine musical works thus sullied will continue to live solely as represented by such instrument or instruments as may best be calculated to express their real value and meaning. We go to the opera for relaxation, improvement, and enjoyment, and none of these can be found in the spectacle of noble means perverted to corrupt ends. May the day soon come when such important channels of public amusement and instruction may be guided by a refined taste and correct views of the intimate connection between the Beautiful and the Absolute Good! Ballads of the War. THE DEATH OF COLONEL SHAW. By ISABELLA McFARLANE. Loud rang the voice of the chieftain, As the Fifty-fourth rushed on: 'Charge on the guns of Wagner, Charge--and the fort is won!' On--like a wave of the ocean, Dashing against a rock!-- Back--ah! back--all broken, Like a wave from the fruitless shock. Thus from the guns of Wagner The Fifty-fourth surged back: But the voice of their brave young chieftain Checked not their backward track For there, on the sands by Wagner, The gallant Shaw lay low, 'Midst a heap of his brave black soldiers, Left in the hands of the foe. Not a flag was lowered in his honor, Not a gun its deep voice gave, When, on the sands by Wagner, Shaw was laid in the grave. Not a friend stood over his coffin, Shedding tears on his gory breast; But instead, was curse and insult, Cruel laughter, ribald jest. Wide and deep was the trench they hollowed, Where the gallant Shaw was laid, With forty negro soldiers Piled over his noble head. Yes, forty negro soldiers, Whose hearts were hearts of steel, Who had fought in the cause of freedom, Who had died for their country's weal. Was it then so great dishonor For that chief so young and brave-- Who had led them on to the battle-- To be with them in the grave?