ED. BR. O cease! You touch upon remembrances too maddening. The milkiness of my nature has at those moments been so turned to gall, that I have been tempted to a wish akin to the Roman emperors, viz., that all such insensibles had but one pair of lips, that I might clap a padlock thereon forthwith. What think you of hearing a bet proposed, discussed, and concluded, during Mrs. Salmon's exquisite performance of" I know that my Redeemer liveth?" And scarcely less odious are they, who supply a running comment to the musical text, with interlarded" charmings!" and "bravos!" Silence, silence is the only true commendation.

LADY M. Or such an involuntary exclamation of real feeling as I once myself heard Catalani utter, after a song of Mrs. Salmon's, "Vraiment elle a une voix de Cherubin !" Such an energetic tribute of admiration was at once honourable to the heart of the rival who uttered it, and to the powers of the songstress who could suspend even uneasy sensations of rivalship.

ED. BR. Nor is Mrs. Salmon only delightful in the sweet and solemn department of melody; she has given a new charm to the rapidity of its most difficult execution. She alone, as it appears to me, can claim, as perfectly descriptive of her powers, those noble lines of Milton :

"In notes with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie

The hidden soul of harmony."

Who, that has heard the sweet strife between the voice and the instrument, when.she has been accompanied by Drouet on the flute, in Handel's "Sweet bird;" the echo of the liquid shake, the gradual swelling of a note that, from the slenderest, smallest tone, grows into a volume of sound that makes the whole air thrill with harmony;-or the subdued, yet distinct warbling, which robs the voice of more than half its power, to repay it with an usury of more than double sweetness-but must be reminded of the fabled contest between the musician and the nightingale, (LADY M. If they ever heard of it,) and confess that Mrs. Salmon is as much the queen of songstresses among mortals as Philomel among

birds.

6

LADY M. Q. E. D.' as I have heard you Cambridge men say, and I believe I know what it means; for, to confess the truth, I have gone through some of the first propositions in Euclid myself. (Her ladyship sighed. Some tender recollection, doubtless. I have known young ladies ask young

gentlemen to teach them mathematics, for which they betrayed a predilection no less sudden than unaccountable.)

ED. BR. If your ladyship will allow me, I will repeat some lines, which I met with the other day in an old neglected poet, Crashaw. They seemed to me wonderfully beautiful, though somewhat of the quaintest.

LADY M. But are they to the purpose?

ED. BR. You shall hear. They are taken from a piece called "Music's Duel." The contest is between "a sweet lute's master" and "the harmless siren of the woods."

"He lightly skirmishes on every string,

Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she
Carves out her dainty notes as readily

Into a thousand sweet distinguished tones,
And reckons up, in soft divisions,

Quick volumes of wild notes.....

Now negligently rash,

He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash,
Blends all together; then distinctly trips
From this to that; then quick returning skips,
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, every where
Meets art with art: sometimes, as if in doubt,
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,
Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note
Through the sleek passage of her open throat.
-He, amazed

That, from so small a channel, should be raised
The torrent of a voice, whose melody
Could melt into such sweet variety,

Strains higher yet; as when the trumpets call
Hot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo
Men's hearts into their hands ;-This lesson too
She gives him back. Her supple breast thrills out
Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt
Of dallying sweetness; hovers o'er her skill,
And folds, in waved notes, with a trembling bill,
The pliant series of her slippery song ;
Then starts she suddenly into a throng
Of panting murmurs, stilled out of her breast,
That ever-bubbling spring; the sugar'd nest
Of her delicious soul, that there doth lie
Bathing in streams of liquid melody.
Her voice now kindling seems a holy quire
Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre,
Of sweet-lipp'd angels, ever murmuring
That men can sleep, while they their matins sing,
(Most divine service) whose so early lay
Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day.
Shame now, and anger, mixt a double stain
In the musician's face; yet once again,
From this to that, from that to this he fliés,
Feels music's pulse in all her arteries.

Caught in a net, which there Apollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,
With flash of high-born fancies, and anon
Creep on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares,
Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In music's ravished soul he dares not tell,
But whisper to the world.

Sweet soul, she tries
To measure all those wild diversities
Of chattering strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone.
Alas, in vain! for while her tender throat
Yet summons all its sweet powers for a note,

She fails, and, failing grieves,-and, grieving, dies.
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,

Falling upon his lute. Oh, fit to have,

(That lived so sweetly), dead, so sweet a grave."

LADY M. There is certainly a fine old spirit of genuine poetry in these verses; but they are so long, that Frederic will never print them, and if he does, nobody will read them. But come, let us proceed to another goddess. Do you know, I was somewhat surprised at your quiet acquiescence in my allotment of the apple of harmony. I thought that Miss Stephens had been the favourite with all you men, though, for my part, I never saw any thing so very extraordinary in her. What is your opinion?

ED. BR. It grieves me to dissent from your ladyship, but indeed I do see something very extraordinary in Miss Stephens,—a freshness, a simplicity, preserved amidst the sullying atmosphere of public life, like the drop of pure pellucid water enshrined in the transparent stone that graces your ladyship's finger. When I see her advance to sing, with that sweet deprecating look which at once enlists the heart in her favour, with those large loving eyes that have such an askingness (may I coin a word?) in them, and that air of unstudied engageingness, (another word!), I forget the singer in admiration of the woman; while, with regard to Mrs. Salmon, I forget the woman in admiration of the singer. The latter takes my heart captive through the ear; the former more than half through the eye. But why is it that

"Who praises Lesbia's form and feature,

Must call her sister awkward creature ?"

The vocal merits of these two sirens lie in such different departments, that there is no need to detract from the one in order to elevate the other. There is perhaps no one song which suits them equally. All my advice is, that one should

never encroach on the province of the other. Miss Stephens's rich, low, plaintive notes, are heard to particular advantage in Handel's song of "Pious Orgies." I would recommend Mrs. Salmon to concede that song with a good grace,-and to Miss Stephens I would suggest, that in Haydn's air of "With verdure clad," Mrs. Salmon's voice is so glidingly soft, so flowingly melodious, that even her sweet tones fail in their wonted effect, when attempting the same song.

LADY M. There is one question I would fain ask, however invidious. Have these cherubic creatures no faults in their singing?

ED. B. I am of that happy temperament, that the creaking of Venus's slipper does not in the least discompose me. But, in order to save my credit as a conoscénte, I will notice one fault-just one little fault-in each. The pronunciation of Mrs. Salmon is too Italianised, and yet I am told that she does not pronounce Italian itself well. Miss Stephens's defect is a forced manner of I had almost said pumping out her high notes; but this is only occasionally, for her more subdued high notes are beautiful. If I were asked for one distinguishing characteristic of Miss Stephens's voice, I should say that it was pathos. It is this which gives her such a decided superiority over every other singer in the plaintive ballad; and in the national melodies of Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, which have mostly a melancholy character, even when they seem the gayest. It is this which draws tears down many an "" iron cheek" in "Auld Robin Gray" and "Savourneen Deelish." It is this, I think, more than any particular expression, which she gives to the words themselves; for I own I am of opinion, that a little more soul is required to be thrown into her style of singing to make her perfectly irresistible. Not that Miss Stephens can want soul, but that natural timidity, which is at once the veil and the ornament of her talents, seems ever to throw a tint of coldness over her public performances. In private, indeed, I have heard her sing "Auld Robin Gray," without music, in a style that certainly came from the heart, and went at once to the heart. If it were allowable to speak of Miss Stephens in any other than her public capacity, I should launch out into a very warm encomium indeed. I shall never forget seeing her at a private party, where, with the most unaffected good nature, she offered to sing second to a child with a very beautiful voice. "If I am wanted," she said; but she did not make the offer until a real difficulty had arisen about the song, so as to make it evident that her only motive was to be of use. There are some songs that Miss Stephens may claim as peculiarly her own, for I really pity that performer who should be rash enough to attempt them

after her. Bishop's "Echo song" is one of these. That part of the song which is so extraordinary-the echo of her own voice depends entirely on sufficient contrast being made between what is supposed to be the real voice and its echo. It is in this that Miss Stephens triumphs, for her voice is incomparably the most powerful of any female singer, except Catalani; she has also the power of modulating it, which Catalani now has not; so that all the illusion is produced of the most distant dying echo.

LADY M. Alas, why will young misses, whose echo I have often heard louder than the reality, from the very attempt to make it otherwise, torture one's ears in this song! Why will they scream out any of those songs, which are set in keys adapted only to the finest voices? Poor" Bid me discourse,' how I have heard you murdered! How often, when girls have been singing, "I will enchant thine ear," I have thought to myself," My ear is any thing but enchanted."

ED. BR. Your mention of " Bid me discourse," reminds me that it is time to pass on to the siren for whom Bishop composed this his best song, which has much of the fine racy flavour of our old masters,-I mean Miss M. Tree.

LADY M. By the by, we seem to have forgotten all about the birds, and indeed I do not remember that you likened Miss Tree to any of the feathered tribe.

66

ED. BR. I own that I was puzzled to find a resemblance. I thought of the sky-lark, but that is too exulting,—and yet there is a sort of exuberant freshness in Miss Tree's voice, like the thrilling ecstasy" of the lark. I am a very great admirer of Miss Tree; and her singing, on the whole, gives me more mental pleasure than that of any other performer. Mrs. Salmon

in any but in Miss M. Tree. Miss Stephens brings tears into my eyes, but Miss Tree" can give thoughts, that do often lie too deep for tears." Soul is the very characteristic of her singing-fervent, impassioned soul. When she sings those words of Shakspeare,

"Should he upbraid, I'll own that he prevail,
Or sing as sweetly as the nightingale ;
Grant that he frown, I'll say his looks I view
Like morning roses newly dipp'd in dew;
Say he be mute, I'll answer with a smile,

And dance, and play, and wrinkled care beguile,'