ed, but the music had not begun. Mr. Fawcett and Sir George Smart were playing whist. A number of foreigners, principally I believe Italians, were standing looking on the cards. I stood looking on the players. Shortly I had more players to look at, for almost at the instant Mr. and Mrs. C. Kemble and Mrs. Liston were announced. We are strange creatures! We clothe players with the imaginary qualities of their fictitious existences. We are gratified to divest them of the drapery in which our fancies arrayed them, and to see them as they are.

The

The rooms now became crowded. music books were opened, and Sir George Smart was taken from the whist table to the pianoforte. Had I not heard him announced I should, from the intelligence of his eye, have guessed him to be either poet or musician. The piano-forte sounded as he was seating himself; the spontaneous movement of the ladies, and the indistinct sound of their voices and fans, shewed how highly their expectations were raised.

The fair audience had good reason for expectation, for the musical group now assembled could scarcely any where be equalled, and no where perhaps be excelled. Beside our host, who, if I may so speak, was an host in himself, there were Madame Fodor and Signior Ambrogetti of the Opera House, Miss Stephens,

Miss Goodall, Miss Corri, Miss Byrne, with many others.

Alternately they took their stand at the piano; and in hearkening to the dulcet song of those syrens, (the Emperor Tiberius puzzled a Greek sophist, by asking him what the song of the syrens was,) the hours flew unnoted away. The music was exclusively Italian, and several of the compositions were of exquisite beauty; there were others, in which sentiment and meaning, to my apprehension at least, were sacrificed to sound. This I fear is the almost unavoidable consequence of the refinement of musical taste; it separates so widely the heart from the ear, that pure melody can scarcely reach it. Modern music seems most calculated to display brilliance of execution; those like me whose zeal is greater than their knowledge, have therefore to lament that the charm of music is too often sacrificed to the ostentation of skill, and complication of harmony. This intricacy, I am sure, overwhelms many who profess to be pleased with it.

Between one and two we went to supper; I had a very pleasant lady, though I rather think not a professional one, on my right hand, and Miss Byrne sat on my left. The circumstances. under which this deserving young woman chose the stage as a profession, insures to her the good wishes of every humane person; she has a particular claim on mine, for to the hospita

lity of an uncle of hers, I was some years ago often indebted. Though her vocal powers are not of the highest order, they are respectable. Nature has not been unkind, nor has art been spared; perhaps it has been lavished, and I am sure she is lavish of it; but good sense is as necessary to singing, as Horace says it is to writing well; true song, like true wit, is only nature to advantage dressed, and should never be over adorned.

Rather than all be ornament, let none be there.

Of Madame Fodor it is difficult with moderation to speak, and I would give much that you had heard her; the chaste simplicity of her manner could alone be the result of exquisite taste, united to exquisite art; it was indeed. the perfection of art, for while it decked her, song with music's choicest beauties, it was hid in the wreath which itself had prepared.

She was quite the Calliope of our party, and every one who at all knew her, seemed eager to pay her their respects. There is in her countenance an expression of goodness, which gives the most favourable idea of her heart and disposition. But can woman or man either be a great musician without a good heart? It is impossible: those who have no sympathetic feeling of tenderness can never fully convey the higher beauties of song, and if we would

move others, we must first be moved ourselves. It is to this that Miss Stephens owes her charms; and not to her voice, which is not superior; nor to her science, which is not extraordinary; nor to her manner, which oftentimes is not good.

Immediately after supper, Mrs. and Miss Corri were called on to sing; they sang the duet of Roy's wife of Aldivalloch; they might easily I think have chosen a better; I have heard it remarked for the simplicity of its melody, but it seems to me more remarkable for its monotony.

Neither Madame Fodor nor Miss Stephens sang at the supper table; Ambrogetti, who sat between them, seemed to occupy them sufficiently. If I may judge by the smiles of Miss Stephens, he is as entertaining in conversation as in song; he had given us before supper several of his buffo songs, with the humour for which he is so remarkable. On these occasions I generally stole for a few moments a seat, for the young ladies were all on tip-toe to observe his countenance and action.

Mr. Liston performed that night both in the play and farce, and therefore did not come in. until it was late; I was glad to see and converse with him; he is a pleasing and unaffected man, as unassuming in his manner as in his talk. I was forcibly struck with the contrast between the display of Ambrogetti, and his

seeming unconsciousness that he too was a general object of regard.

Some such observation I made to two ladies; and Mr. C. Kemble, who was standing near, seemed to misunderstand me, as if I undervalued Mr. Liston by the comparison. I intended the very reverse; scarcely any one values. his powers more highly; which are the more admirable, as while even to the opening of the mouth they are comic, they are so without effort.

Were I consulted by a melancholy patient, I should send him in the morning to Primrose Hill to gather flowers, and in the evening to Covent Garden to see Liston in Rob Roy; nothing can exceed his delineation of the Baillie, who is the principal character; it is in truth not acting; it is the character itself stepped from the pedestal of the author's imagination, and by some Promethean fire warmed into life. He told me that the moment he read the novel, the Baillie struck him as a genuine dramatic personage; Dominie Samson is spoken of, said he, but the Baillie speaks.

Mr. Liston assumes the Scotch accent to perfection, yet he was never in Scotland but once, and then only for eight or ten days; at first he hesitated whether or not he should play the part in Scotch, but luckily decided that he should; yet Scotchmen, he told me, object to his accent as not being sufficiently