people come in and take their places with a certain social air, which diffuses itself agreeably, and during the intervals there is a moving about between places, friend greets friend, and the stiff rows of auditors are broken up into animated groups. by the same quartette: Joachim, the "di- | comfortable velvet-cushioned benches; vine fiddler," Piatti, and Ries have per- back of these are the shilling seats, from formed every year during nearly all the which one can see and hear very well; a time; Madame Norman-Neruda has be- balcony extends around three sides of the longed to the company for several years; hall, and across one end is a gallery. The while the pianists have been steadily the stage seats a large chorus, and gives ample best of the day, including always Charles space for orchestra, soloists, and conductor. Hallé, who comes regularly from Man- I suppose it is because of the regularity of chester for certain concerts. In this way the concerts that one finds weekly an auperfection has been attained, and the Chap-dience which seems familiar and friendly; pells have had the honor of bringing out for the first time Beethoven's posthumous quartettes and many other famous works. Some years since Piatti intimated that he was about to accept a lucrative offer from the court of Russia for an engagement of several years. Mr. Chappell inquired into the terms: they were beyond those of the "Populars," but after a certain hesitation he offered Piatti the same terms to remain, thus securing permanently the services of one of the greatest "cellists" in the world. Joachim's engagement is of the same nature; and when to these names are added four or five others of the highest celebrity, it will be seen the concerts are unique in the world of music. As for St. James's Hall itself, the exterior hardly indicates that it is such a temple of art during these winter months; but then the concert-room occupies only a portion of the building; there are "minstrels" and a fashionable restaurant under the same roof, and as one enters from Regent's Quadrant he is delicately reminded of the 'grills" below-stairs. All along the dingy corridors and up the wandering staircase the walls are suggestive of the music of the season, for there is a general ticket office near by, and one catches glimpses of some fascinating names: "To-night, Madame Patti in Don Giovanni," "Sarasate, at the Crystal Palace, Essipoff," "Janotha,' Christine Nilsson"- -a dozen stars in red and blue letters flash upon you, a dozen delicious suggestions are made as you go up the stairs and through the small doorway which leads into the hall. I fancy there are thousands in London to whom that uninviting entrance seems hallowed on those winter afternoons: musical experiences always have the effect of consecrating time and place in our minds, and surely the regular audiences of the "Populars" have known great days, fit to be enshrined among holy memories. 99 66 99 66 The hall is finely proportioned, and its acoustic properties are admirable. The "seven-and-sixpenny stalls" are in front, I have often wondered what the audiences of 1830 would have thought of those of to-day and the St. James's Concerts. Art has so completely revolutionized taste that to-day one finds as regular subscribers representatives of nearly all classes; but here and there we recognize faces that kindle within us the feeling which a great name inspires. One often sees there the slight figure and keen grave face of Mr. Haweis, the gifted author of Music and Morals. Week after week comes Madame Charlotte Moscheles, the musician's widow and Mendelssohn's friend, to whom harmony remains as a legacy of the great lives with which hers was associated- -a slender little lady with silver-white hair and a delicate mobile face. A year ago one might have seen as a regular auditor George Eliot-a large, rather masculine-looking woman of middle age, in whose strong, thoughtful face one could read intensity, sadness, that pain which is so often the crown that genius wears: the face is heavily framed in brown hair, the eyes are dark and singularly mournful, the mouth full of a grave purpose: certainly it is not a face to forget or pass quickly by. In that varied audience we see actors of note, like Irving, who listens always intently, and musicians like Marzials, the young and now famous author of "Twickenham Ferry," and a dozen other popular ballads; Elizabeth Philp, the composer, whose English ballads are known as widely as the language, and whose musical criticisms are eagerly looked for. Thither, too, come all the musicians who are sojourning, however briefly, in London. There one day we recognized Saint-Saens, the French composer-a trimly built man of forty, with dark hair and a clear-cut, very characteristic French face. Not far away sat Ma dame Jenny Lind Goldschmidt, who, in spite of her complete retirement to private life, is always quickly recognized on any public occasion: how can we think of her save as our "Swedish Nightingale" of earlier days? but to her English friends she is best known as the hostess of one of the most beautiful houses in New Kensington, a home full of artistic and musical associations, where hangs the portrait of her youth which we all know in prints and engravings-the sweet, graceful lady with smoothly braided hair, a white silk gown, and roses-the Jenny Lind of 1850. At the upper end of the hall, in the front row of stalls, one is almost sure to see some of the royal family, generally Princess Christian or Princess Beatrice, who come in very quietly, acknowledging by a bow the salutations of those who rise as they pass, and in the intervals joining in conversation with their special friends, of whom there are sure to be many at every concert in London. The etiquette of their coming and going is almost unnoticeable to any one who does not chance to be near the entrance or exit at the moment. Down stairs, when they are leaving, people are requested by the attendants to stand still and move back a little while the royal ladies go out to their carriages. They bow right and left, perhaps stop to exchange a word or two with a friendsometimes it is with one of the musicians about leaving-and, in a word, endeavor to do away with the stiff sense of formality which the forced pause in the exit of the audience has given. There is not space to fill in other faces in this winter picture of St. James's. We must turn to the performance, and I give below a typical programme: almost say the romance-of the occasion centred about Joachim, whose life has colored the pages of so many books, whose story and musical associations are SO bound up in the lives of all the great artists of this generation, and many of the last. It was in 1844 that, during one of Mendelssohn's visits to London, he talked to his English friends a great deal about his young protégé Joachim, then a lad of fourteen. The boy had never played for the English public, but Mendelssohn declared him a wonder, and there was grave discussion as to the propriety of giving him the first violin at the Philharmonic; but later Mendelssohn arranged for his appearance at the private gatherings of the Musical Union, as well as at the public Concert of that society. This last was a notable occasion: Mendelssohn played, with Joachim, Ernst, and Hausmann. The boy created a furor, seated by his master's side, drawing inspiration from the moment, and producing music which at one touch held the hearers spell-bound, again sent them into an enthusiastic tumult of applause. Twenty-five years divide that scene from the one of which I Speak at St. James's Hall, yet the same sensation greets the now world-famous violinist; the same power, strengthened Naturally to us the interest-I might and developed, exercises its magic over QUARTETTE in A minor, Op. 130, for two violins, MM. Joachim, L. Ries, Straus, and Piatti. Madame Joachim. SONATA in D minor, Op. 31, No. 2, for piano-forte alone.. SONGS. Mlle. Anna Mehlig. BEETHOVEN. "Come, draw we round a cheerful ring." With accompaniment for piano-forte, violin, and the most critical audience of the day. Joachim! we pronounce his name almost reverently, recalling the vivid pages of Charles Auchester, in which he is described the boy with the little "violin face," the tender, passionate, tremulous friend and follower of Mendelssohn. Looking about the impressive concertroom, where animation was suspended while waiting for his appearance, one felt the rustle of his approach almost like the re-opening of that impassioned story. In another moment he is before us: then he has lifted his violin, and in the brief pause the impression of the outer man is given a man of middle height, dark-haired, dark-bearded, the deeply set eyes full of kindly humor and intelligence; the mouth, though so heavily shadowed by his mustache, showing lines of firmness and amiability; the figure strong and youthful. But Joachim is only one of an impressive group who open the concert Ries, Straus, and Piatti make up the famous quartette, over which, of course, he presides, and as the music slowly rises and fills the air, there comes that delicious sense of perfect sound. One can afford to lean back with half-closed eyes, letting harmony drift in between criticism and hearing: there is no enervating influence at work, but for once we feel that art triumphs over all possibility of objection. One can hardly criticise Joachim's playing: it differs from that of other artists in its complete superiority over them; it has strength and that peculiar vigor which makes one feel conscious of unlimited reserve force; it has self-control, and yet an overpowering, passionate sweetness. To him his violin is a medium for the most perfect expression of the most perfect art: he governs it, letting the art govern him; and so inseparable seem the two that, as he plays, we lose sight of their distinct individuality. We listen to a concerto of Beethoven, a symphony of Schubert, or a waltz of Brahms, realizing only that we hear the music laden with the inspiration which created them. When Joachim ceases to play, other sounds lose in power; but I question if three such musicians as Ries, Straus, and Piatti could be found elsewhere together. They play marvellously; and under Sir Julius Benedict's conducting the concerts fill the winter weeks with golden harmonies. Meanwhile talent and mu sical force are concentrating in a dozen other places; oratorios are giving emphasis to various festivals, as well as to the regular meetings of the Sacred Harmonic Society in Exeter Hall. This is the same society referred to in the beginning of this article, and I know of few concerts or audiences so typically English as those we find in the dull old granite building in the Strand. Various elements have lent their dignity and importance to the society: it has all the force of tradition, the lustre of aristocratic patronage; it assembles to hear the grandest and most solemn music in the best way; and to an outsider all this is expressed in the very flutterings of the audience going in and out-the ladies who alight from heavily respectable carriages, leaving their wraps with an attendant, as they pass up the long staircase and enter the hall in that indescribable toilet, so quaint of cut and gaudy of color, which constitutes the English idea of concert full dress; the middle-aged, fine-looking men who move about the hall with an air of proprietorship; the young people—such fair, pretty slips of girls in white gowns and prim little colored capes or scarfs; young men who are musical from culture, and carry their look of the fashionable drawingroom with them; a large number of thorough-going students; and a few people who form the curious nondescript element one sees in every public place in England, people who seem to be always preoccupied and stolidly inattentive-these constitute the audience and represent the occasion. Exeter Hall is well built, but ugly in general effect. The seats are ranged on an inclined plane, so that all may see and hear well; there is a fine orchestra and space for the chorus; above is the organ Mendelssohn played; and below, the conductor's desk, to which, when the hour for the concert arrives, there comes out a large, fine-looking man of middle age, with a face familiar to all English people as that of Sir Michael Costa. He is the director of the Sacred Harmonic, and so closely is he identified with English music indeed, with many English beginnings in the art-that he is generally supposed to be a Briton by birth; but in fact he was born in Naples, and belongs to an ancient Spanish family. He began to compose while a mere boy. At fifteen, I believe, he had written a cantata called L'Ima tific, and can be acquired. The solo parts He gine, which was produced in his college | theatre; later, a grand mass and an oratorio. During this period of boyish fervor he fulfilled various engagements for work in a Neapolitan theatre; and when only nineteen he was asked by the famous old Barbaja, the Italian impresario, to write an opera for the San Carlo. | The result was his Malvina, in which are some delicious bits of pure Italian music. During this time Zingarelli was the lad's master, and in 1829 he sent him to Birmingham to conduct a psalm of his own composition; but, singularly enough, the English manager blundered about it, and Costa made his first appearance in England as a singer. He was put into the band of performers instead of before the conductor's desk. Thenceforward his career was closely English. In 1832 he was invited to take the direction of the Italian opera, and though little more than a boy, and coming from a country greatly dis-had been heard but a few times in Lonparaged by all English musicians just at that time, it was at once felt that he was in his proper place. Chorley writes of the enthusiasm felt for the young maestro. "He at once showed," says this able critic, "nerve to enforce discipline, readiness to the second, and that certain influence which only a vigorous man could exercise over the disconnected folk who made up an orchestra in those days." From that day to the present Sir Mi- | chael Costa (knighted in 1869) has filled various posts of musical importance, directed the Birmingham and Leeds festivals, and been the permanent director of the Sacred Harmonic Society. His pen has never remained idle, nor has it ever quite cast aside the Italian touch of early days; but his works have been mainly based on English principles. He has written fine accompaniments to various oratorios, and has, perhaps, less mathematical severity in his style than many composers whose work is English from association and residence. One needs only to see him at Exeter Hall to appreciate his skill as a conductor: he controls with admirable force; and is not this faculty two-thirds of the conductor's power? The chorus of the Sacred Harmonic is fine, intensely dramatic, and well toned, but with scarcely a touch of impassioned fervor; it demonstrates how well an English chorus can sing from intense culture, from a knowledge of the intricacies of choral singing, which are purely scien He don when his success was complete; and happily Herr Henschel is one of those artists who have conscience as well as genius. "I can only reconcile myself to singing good music," he said, not long ago, to a friend. "But what if your audiences of to-day don't like it ?" "Ah, well, then," said Henschel, "they will learn to do so to-morrow." Personally he is a man of medium height, with profuse dark hair and short dark beard, deep kindly eyes, and a face rather boyish in outline when one considers the work and thought he has put into his life. Not long ago Alma Tadema painted Henschel's portrait for the Grosvenor Exhibition: the picture represents him at the piano in Mr. Tadema's studio that famous piano constructed after the artist's own design; he is singing, his head slightly thrown back, his fingers on the keys. It is a marvellous picture, full of that untaught power which Mr. Tadema puts into his colors, something which transforms his painted figures into living creatures as we behold them. Henschel at the Sacred Harmonic sings always with his whole soul. His voice, though barytone, has that passionate cadence which generally belongs only to the tenor voice; it rings out, vibrating, pulsating, but in its deepest, most solemn tones preserves an undercurrent of pathos. PH SOME PENNSYLVANIA NOOKS. HILADELPHIA is famed for its beau- | it only needed to be tickled with a hoe to tiful suburbs; but there are mines of laugh with a harvest. richness and beauty within an hour or two of railroad travelling whose very existence seems scarcely suspected by many, and places even of historical interest have comparatively few visitors. 66 In the days of stage-coaches and Conestoga wagons, the old Spread-eagle Tavern in Tredyffryn Township, Chester County, was in all its glory. The Welsh name Tredyffryn means 'stony valley;" and stony it is beyond all dispute, to the detriment of horse, vehicle, and passengers in clattering up and down these hills and dales. It is, nevertheless, a particularly fine farming and dairy region; and the beautifully green pasture fields, and sleek, well-conditioned cattle, are eloquently suggestive of butter and cream. The corn fields are cornucopias of plenty; and every cultivated spot has an air of luxuriance, as though, according to the well-worn simile, Old Pennsylvania edifices are all built of stone; and, unlike flimsy timber, they do not show their age by going to pieces, or looking as though they stood "merely from sheer indecision which way to fall.” They get weather-beaten and shabby, and damp and mouldy, it may be; but there they stand, veterans of a hundred years and more, and for all intents and purposes of living, good for at least another century. "The coach stands rusting in the yard, The horse has sought the plough; We have spanned the world with iron rails, And the steam-king rules us now." But the Spread-eagle Tavern still furnishes entertainment for man and beast, with the same capacious porch for loungers, and rooms in which wayfarers slept-possibly the same feather-beds into whose soft depths they sunk-all those decades |