bouquets strewed the stage. Cries of "bis, bis" were reiterated on every side, and the song was re-sung. This is enthusiasm at the Italian Opera. While the air was in process of execution, the stillness was complete. Not one single note, however delicate, failed in its end of descending through the ear far into the hearer's heart. Not until that air was closed, did bars and bolts seem to fly asunder, and enthusiasm to burst forth. They do these things well in France. It is hardly so, however, when an orator harangues the Chamber of Deputies. What with talking, and walking, and shuffling of papers, and murmurs from the extreme right and approbation from the extreme left, and begging to silence by the President's bell, the poor orator's discourse of speech seems half in vain. When pleasure is the object, the French have most admirable systems, which most admirably do they apply. When, however, business, and mere comfort and benefit are the ends of their systems for accomplishing them, the same remark cannot with truth be made.

The voice of Rubini is as wonderful as that of Grisi. It is believed to have realized the beau ideal of tenors. It came from Bergamo, much renowned as la cittá degli tenori. Out of his voice, Rubini is little or nothing. He has a blue eye, a large round face, enormous whiskers, and an awkward gait. As a dramatic performer, you pronounce him, after some observation, a mere stick. But in his vocal organs, he is one of the great prodigies of the time. And of them is he completest master. The ease and facility with which he brings them all into appropriate action, are indeed marvellous. This evening, on several occasions, he seemed to treat his voice as something apart from himself, some wondrous instrument, with whose strings or stops he was perfectly familiar and which he de lighted to use, like some plaything, as does Paganini his violin. He is conscious that it has powers vast and unfailing, and therefore does he dash ahead with a freedom and fearlessness that I have never heard, except perhaps in Malibran. There is nothing in its way more gratifying to a novice than the supreme self-possession with which Rubini advances to the front of the stage, and surveys the most profoundly fastidious musical critics of all Europe, ere he commences one of his magnificent arias. He probably knows that, as before there could be a Longinus, there must be a Homer; so before there could be such critics as themselves, there must be such a Rubini as himself. It is from him, and such as him, that they derive their principles of criticism.

Rubini has a wide barytone and a still wider falsetto, and the power with which his voice plays in these two spheres is quite incomprehensible. Moreover, the beauty with which it glides from one up into the other is beyond all description. And then he pours

forth his treasures, not only boldly and beautifully, but abun dantly. Sometimes his voice is like a bugle, sometimes like a clarionette, now like a trombone, and again like a harp. It has likewise tones which no human instrument, nor no human voice ever possessed. What are those tones? Altogether indescribable; and I doubt not as much a mystery to Rubini himself as to his astounded auditors. The most extraordinary exhibition of these peculiar tones was last week made in a new opera by Costa. Until his appearance in this opera, Rubini was supposed to have developed and revealed all his vocal powers. Every thing which his voice could do, it was believed to have done. Each night witnessed only a fine reproduction of former tones. Now, in this new opera, there is a song whose execution by Rubini has disclosed capacities in his voice of which he himself was totally unaware. That song, moreover, has saved the poor opera from damnation. I shall not soon forget the almost frantic burst of applause with which it was, for the first time, received. The house did not, as usual, wait until the artist had entirely concluded. It was hurried out of its wonted decorum by surprise. The passion expressed is revenge. And while there was hardly a spark of that passion in Rubini's face, or attitude, or gesticulation, his voice seemed actually to glare and flame with it. The tones were of the wildest, fiercest, most hyena-like savageness. And the impression they produced, not revealed in mere hand-clapping, and wreath-flinging, came forth in a burst and shout of amazement. An Italian, at my side, declared that such notes were never heard before in Europe. That song, as I said, saved the opera. Hundreds now wait with indifferent patience to hear it, and having so heard, instantly quit the house. I cannot call it pleasing-only marvellous. Being marvellous, it takes with a Parisian audience. Rubini's voice is not only peculiar in the mere strangeness of its tones, but likewise in their tenderness. I know not where to look for an image that may express, though faintly, the surpassing beauty, and delicacy, and pathos of some of his cadenzas. They oftentimes half vanish, and die away into those imaginary melodies only heard by lovers and poets, themselves halfdreaming in midnight solitudes. Just as some of these beautiful efforts close, a long-drawn breath may be heard escaping from many a spell-relieved listener.

But here is Lablache. The Italian company--the finest in the world-has no place unfilled. It has every vocal as well as instrumental tone which it desires. What is the place held therein by Lablache? He is the bass-singer. And in his sphere, he is as unrivalled as Rubini or Grisi in theirs. In the first place Lablache has the loudest voice for song in Europe. Place him between an

orchestra of fifty instruments, and a chorus of fifty voices, all in their strongest action, and the tones of his larynx will be audible above them all. In the second place, his voice has great richness, great expressiveness, great compass. Lablache is a mighty man in that enormous chest and stomach of his. His lungs must be of broadest and most tough material. The ease with which he rolls forth his strong, organ tones, is perfectly refreshing. You hear a grand effect, and you see an adequate cause. Lablache is, moreover, a very good actor. In what is called the opera buffa, he is universally esteemed a beau-ideal. In all his voice and all his manner preside a masculine vigor, and a robustness, which make him a general favorite. He is one of the very few whom these critics deign to applaud on his first entrance, each evening, to perform his part. Lablache, like Rubini, seldom or never returns applause with body-bending.

His voice

Tamburini is the counter-tenor of the company. rings like a silver-trumpet. It has not the wide compass of Rubini's or Lablache's, but in its sphere is admirable. It makes no astounding efforts. It goes on alone, or in company with the others, clearly, vigorously, elastically. Were his vocal organs anatomically examined, I doubt not they would surprise by their hale, healthy, muscular springiness. And Tamburini has feeling too, feeling momently revealed through those organs. In pathetic and tender expression, I have sometimes thought him equal to Rubini.

Ivanhoff-small as he is and serf as he was-brought up with him to Paris in 1830, from the distant Russian province of Chernigoff, one of the most magnificent sopranos I have ever heard out of the Sistine Chapel. He secures a fair quantity of applause, and in quartetts and quintetts, his shrill notes are remarkably effective.

Of Albertazzi, and Taccani I now say nothing, nor of the admirable male and female chorus, nor moreover of the orchestra. How harmoniously their tones chimed in, each with the other, to reveal the poetry of Bellini, as embodied in his Puritani, I cannot well express in words. They seemed to be all drilled in complete perfection. Each voice and instrument had its sphere, and in that sphere was unexceptionable. I heard not a single false note from the beginning to the end of the performance. If every department of French action could but enlist the care, and labor, and skill bestowed upon these tones which perish soon as created, this society would swiftly move on to its ultimate destinies. I can recall no like example of so numerous and powerful agents brought into so efficient an execution of a single end. And well might Bellini rejoice, not only in such vehicles of his thought, but likewise in such

refined and appreciating ears. He has not conceived in vain. His best inspirations are best expressed before the best judges. He is not unlike a fine poet, impressing an assembly alive to poetry through a noble language.

The music of Paris is the music of Europe and of the time. It is not uninteresting to know, though imperfectly, what that music. is, how it is here performed, and here received. I see therein some illustration of the taste and character of the age.

MY FIRST LOVE.

BY F. A. DURIVAGE.

WE met-upon the silver sand
Beneath a starry sky,

When silence fell on sea and land,
And none of earth was nigh.

If in the blue horizon shone
A white and spectral sail,
Soon, phantom-like, it hurried on,
And vanished with the gale.

Her lily hand was linked in mine,
Her eyes were fixed on me-
She stood benignant and divine,
A Naiad of the sea.

I dared around her marble brow
A wreath of flowers to bind,
Where diamonds burn and sparkle now
With orient pearls entwined.

We met beside the moonlight wave

In innocence and truth,

And each unto the other gave

The hopes, the vows of youth.

J. J. J.