filled at once the vast cathedral. It died soon away, until it became no stronger than a lute's voice; and then again it rose, solemn and majestic. I could have had no finer proof of the great musical genius of Handel. Did he, in his solitary composing moments, hear imaginary sounds like these? Unquestionably, and perhaps far finer.

Emotions, surely, music can express. Can it likewise express events and scenes? Its power to do so was never more beautifully revealed, than in this sweet pastoral symphony, by Madame Caradori, 'There were shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.' I suppose it must have been my own quickened imagination that brought up before me the original scene. Yet how was that power put into action, by the notes now heard all freshly various, and, as it seemed to me, distinctly speaking forth the quiet, the simplicity, the confidence of that life, that early pastoral life, wherewith, in mortal hearts, are linked so many sacred associations! The first part of the oratorio, which is descriptive particularly of Christ's coming, concludes with a call upon all who are heavy laden to come unto him for rest.

The second part speaks of the sufferings of our Saviour, of his ascension and final triumph. It is full of most emphatic passages, and though, without the words before me, I could not perhaps have conjectured what the music meant, yet when that fact was known, I perceived, or flattered myself that I perceived, how admirably it was adapted to the expression of those

events. In this feature, music is akin to many paintings, whereof the meaning cannot be clearly known without a verbal description; but when that description is before you, the expressive power of lights and shades is instantly and strikingly made manifest. One passage in this second part, I would not willingly forget. After the word has been given to Christ's followers to be preached among all nations, a voice softly breaks forth into that joyful exclamation, 'How beautiful are the feet of those that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things.' The voice was Miss Clara Novello's, but the music-that could have come only from the soul of Handel.

The concluding part of this Oratorio begins with, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth, and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.' It speaks of the influence of Christ in redeeming man, of the soul's triumph over the grave, and ends with giving honor and glory to Him that sitteth on the throne for ever. To me it seemed full of pathos. 'Behold I tell you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.' And then came the trumpet-obligato of Mr. Harper, with the air, The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.' I had never had an idea of the capabilities of this instrument until now. Its effect in such a passage as the above is quite indescribable. The trumpet shall sound,' said the

voice, and then softly swelled forth its clear, silver note, then for a moment all was still, and the expecting multitude was breathless. I looked around me and beheld some of the best talents, the noblest rank, the vastest wealth, the loftiest pride, the fairest beauty of England. It was a scene of splendor to which all my travels could not furnish a parallel. And yet this scene shall soon fade away, and this splendor shall become dust, and worms shall destroy these bodies.' But not entirely shall they perish; and now was repeated far below me, in clearest tones, 'the dead shall be raised incorruptible,' and then the trumpet was again heard.

I attended one of the miscellaneous concerts. It was made up of overtures, and songs English and Italian, and of instrumental solos. Nicholson's efforts on the flute were beyond all praise. Nothing can describe the ease, and grace, and self-possessed style within which he executed most complicated pieces. Lindley upon the violoncello did wonders. Under the bow of usual performers, that instrument is one thing, under that of old Mr. Lindley, it is quite another. He brought forth from it tones altogether peculiar, and as far above those ordinarily heard, as are the tones of a fine singer's voice above those of ordinary conversation.

There is one circumstance that makes me dwell upon this evening's performance with melancholy interest. Upon looking into another part of my diary,

I find that it was the last public occasion on which the voice of Malibran was to be heard. With what enthusiasm was she not greeted, on appearing with Novello, and Bennet, and Phillips to perform a quartetto from Beethoven! It went off faintly however. Something was wrong, and the applause which followed its execution was transient. Half an hour after, she again came on to perform with Caradori a duet from the Andronico of Mercadante. It was the last musical effort she was to make on earth. It was indeed a

masterly one. Never were those strange, peculiar, mysterious tones, which occasionally she was wont to ring upon the ear, poured forth with more electric, and soul-subduing pathos. It was universally noticed that between the fair performers was a good deal of emulation, such indeed, I doubt not, as their generous friendship would unhesitatingly approve. The efforts of Caradori, admirable indeed, were uniformly followed by the more marvellous strains of Malibran. When they concluded, the applause that rose from the vast and brilliant assemblage, was loud and long. The latter part of the duet was consequently repeated. I take sometimes a sad pleasure in noting the last words, and thoughts, and acts of those who are to think and act no more among men. That impulse tells me to record the last stanza that ever came from the lips of Malibran. No one can fail being affected by the mournfully prophetic character of its strain. What a coincidence between some of its thoughts, and the dark

destiny that so soon was to press her down to the grave for ever!

nents.

Ah! non resta più à sperar!
Quanto è barbaro il mio fato!
Ah restar più non degg' io!
Da lui grazia imploro Oh Dio!
Và felice a trionfar.

Judging of the place which one should hold in the scale of estimation, by the happiness, the rational delight which he or she has created, that to which Madame Malibran is entitled, is certainly very high. Her voice, like her fame, has passed over two contiWhat enthusiasm has she not awakened in her day! What hearts has she not filled with rapture, what mouths with praise! She has fallen now,-fallen in the very prime of her dramatic and vocal powers, in the full bloom of her reputation, and when for her, but a few days ago, seemed to be reserved many, many triumphant years of public action. She has vanished, and with her has vanished all that to so many millions has given happiness. The achievements of the singer and the actor, unlike those in the sister arts, perish with those who wrought them. The voice, the dramatic expression, ever-shifting and only vital with their expressor, cannot alas, be perpetuated like painting and sculpture, to after ages. The grave which closes around their bodies, flings its shroud likewise around their deeds. They live only in the present, and when we mourn their death, it is not as we mourn the death of the sculptor, the painter, or the