“One shadow that throws Its bleak shade alike o’er his joys and his woes.” He has no religious belief—no hope which divests the grave of its terrors. Rossini confesses to being a coward, and often turns the laugh against himself. I remember with what humor he once recounted to us an incident of his early youth. He was at Naples during one of its many political convulsions, and was, much to his disgust, made a “garde Nationale,” and, of course, expected to take turns of duty with the others. The young musician excused himself on the plea of his well-known want of courage. His excuse, however, was not accepted. Poor Gioacchino was equipped _en militaire_, furnished with a musket, and ordered into the sentry-box to keep guard. “I entered,” said Rossini, “and remained there about an hour, trembling in every limb. At last I heard, or thought I heard, footsteps. I laid down my musket gently, and slipped out of my _guérite_, and then I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, and never stopped till I reached home and was safe under the blankets in my bed. In the morning they put me under arrest, and would have shot me.—But,” added Rossini, with evident pride, “I escaped _because I was the author of ‘Il Barbiere.’_” The father of the young genius was by no means remarkable for musical talent. He used to play the horn in the orchestra conducted by his son. One day Papa played too outrageously false to escape censure. “Who is that bad horn?” said young Rossini, pretending ignorance. “It is I, my son,” said Rossini _père_. “Then, papa, I am sorry, but you must leave the orchestra.” One more _bon mot_ I must mention. One evening, on our return from the performance of “La Gazza Ladra,” at the Italian Opera, we went to pay a visit to the _Maestro_. Rossini manifested the most perfect indifference as regarded the vocalists, but made anxious enquiries as to the way in which the magpie had performed her part. Many other anecdotes might be recounted, but here we can give but a passing notice of this wonderful man—wonderful in his greatness, and scarcely less so in his weaknesses. Usually silent in general society, it is in a _tête-à-tête_ with a sympathetic companion, that Rossini betrays the versatility of his genius and the extent of his information. He appears conversant with all subjects. Notwithstanding the rich vein of humor which sparkles in his music and in his conversation, Rossini, like Byron, is a melancholy man. Nor is this singular, for I have invariably found that the wittiest and most _spirituel_ are ever the saddest; and those who press to their lips with the keenest relish the cup of pleasure, when the moments of excitement and intoxication are over, too frequently drain to the very dregs the chalice of misery.