citative in some parts of the Messiah, we know how to appreciate his genius and allow for his inequalities. In "Behold and see, if there be any sorrow like his sorrow," the profoundly human simplicity of tenderness was almost inconceivable in one whom we had heard addressing himself to such vulgar and shallow states of mind. In "Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel," were justified the wonders we had heard of his voice. Such power, such perfectly rounded production of tone is not to be believed till it is heard. Each note flew to its mark with the precision of a dart, and filled the air like thunder.

We had afterwards opportunity to admire the range of Mr. Braham's powers at a concert where he did equal justice to the delicate, dreamy graces of "My mother bids me bind my hair," to the playful melody of Ally Croker, and to such songs as "Scots wha hae," and "No, no, he shall not perish." But his excellencies have already been characterized with feeling and discrimination by a writer in Number Four of the Dial. Nowhere can he be heard to so much advantage as in this great oratorio music, where the choruses may represent the history of the world, while the solos are free to declare the inmost religious secret of a single soul, as in "I know that my Redeemer liveth."

Spohr's Last Judgment we heard only once, and without receiving any decided impression from it. Madame Spohr Zahn gave us the pleasure of a fine style of singing, and those who heard her more frequently spoke highly of her powers of expression. She did not give us the idea of high power, but often it requires time to catch the secret of a new voice, a new instrument, or a new mind.

In instrumental music we have been so rich that it has seemed one continuous musical life, passing from one sweet disclosure to another in the enchanted realms of sound. As for the pianists, we must confess to little pleasure in them, and do not wonder the great genius sneered at them as "harpsichord knights." Miss Sloman excited great interest here from her youth, naive manner, and a performance wonderful at her age, or indeed at any, but it seemed to us unjust to compare her with Rakemann, who was the first to introduce to our knowledge the wonderful feats now so common in Europe. His performance has an airy ele

8

gance, an easy command and thorough finish, which Miss Sloman rarely approached and never equalled.

That little world, the piano, is certainly invaluable as the means of study and private pleasure. But, for rich and varied compositions, it has not adequate fulness and exquisiteness of tone. Compositions which would take us to heaven, if heard from the full orchestra, leave us cold in this miniature representation. It is like an ink outline of one of Titian's pictures, in the effect on the mind, enough for the thoughts, but not enough for the feelings. Sensuously it fails of effect because the sound is but a thread in the rooms where we are assembled to hear it. If we are to hear so much attempted without the aid of the orchestra, let it be in smaller rooms. But we do not like the music that is offered us upon it. With the exception of two or three pieces, (Lizzt's Chromatic Galope is one,) it leaves not a trace behind, in the memory, in the soul. It is very well that dexterity should be carried so far, and very pretty, just at the time, to hear the sparks struck out, and fairy footsteps, and rivulets of notes gushing all over the instrument, but this should never take place of the real thing, or a handmaid talent appear to our thoughts as the great winged music itself.

It was pleasant to hear the piano with the full orchestra. There as the solo triumphs were achieved and the instruments swelled in at each close with bursts of triumphant sound, it was like some delicate young girl, advancing from a crowd of more beautiful but older companions to show her grace and agility in the dance unsustained, while ever and anon, as she achieves a more difficult step, they advance, surround, and crown her with garlands, making their child their queen, and more stately for their graceful defer

ence.

Of the violin we have heard much, of its marvellous richness and pathos, and have heard it played well enough to recognise the power of this most difficult instrument. From our own violinists we had learned how truly this master of ceremonies on the gayest occasions, is called also the tearful violin. The able performers whom we have heard this winter have added to our knowledge. Herrwig was the favorite of the audience from his frank and simple manners and his freedom from trick and stage-effect. But

Nagel's hand seemed in itself a mind, so educated and adroit was its every motion, which his violin obeyed as gently as a reed whispers with the wind. The instrument is worthy of the hand of genius, would be worthy to be its companion in its hours of most impassioned utterance. It must tempt to a voluptuous sadness. De Beriot's compositions have been compared to garlands, and Paganini seems to have made his instrument wail, and proclaim, and fascinate, like a volcanic country in its various moods and fury, of desolation, of perfidious slumberous beauty.

Still a higher pleasure have we derived from the violoncello. This instrument we had never heard so played as to give us an adequate idea of its powers. The wonderful union of deep and grave passion with soft aerial vanishing notes, in the two parts, the slides of such easy transition made the instrument impressive as a spiritual presence in itself, apart from the music played upon it. Often it seemed that the deep searching emotions of life were answered and elevated by an angel's voice. When hearing these aerial notes echoing one another, then vanishing till the last in its remoteness, though still precise and perfect, seemed but the shadow of a sound, one present, not prone to glowing emotion, said, "I hear the farewell of a disembodied spirit." Another, when the deep tones were again heard, calm as with a treasure of repressed feeling, said, "Then it is both male and female." Some wept, and were unwilling to have so much told of those depths of life which words can never speak.

And surely it was a true artist that had so tamed the spirit and confined it in this heavy machine. The quiet security, dignity, and grace of his performance was such that, for a great while, we never thought of it. We went to hear Mr. Knoop almost every time he played during his prolonged stay in Boston, and it was only in the last times that we observed himself. So truly was he the musician and the artist that the soul he loved spoke for him and took his place. When we did think particularly of himself, there seemed something impressive in the perfect repose of his manner, in harmony with the great effects he produced. He had none of that air of seeking popular favor which seems to please audiences here. If the music did not speak to them, why should he? He respected himself and

his art too much to dream of it. In his eye and gesture there was calm self-assurance; the eloquence came from his instrument. Sometimes we fancied that larger audiences or a more intelligent sympathy would have kindled him to do still more for us, for his performance was of a level and sufficient beauty throughout. He never surpassed though he never disappointed the expectation formed from first hearing him. We hope he knew how much he conferred on his limited but faithful audience. To his first concerts large numbers went from mere curiosity, but, afterward, only the few attended who rejoiced to give themselves to hear this noble and tender instrument, as to learn a new mode of life, and those were confirmed and charmed every night in a way that they cannot forget, for this music is "not remembered but a part of memory," so true and homefelt was the joy it gave.

But, of all these musical festivals, none conferred so solid a benefit as the concerts given by the Academy of Music throughout the winter where an excellent orchestra, under the guidance of an able leader, gradually acquainted themselves, and made a constant audience familiar with the beauty of several of the really great compositions. Concerts given for immediate gain must, with a public not yet raised to the high standard which exists among a people by nature gifted with a sense for an art, and continually educated by new geniuses following out and fulfilling one another, be made up of uncongenial ingredients, really beautiful music alternating with pieces intended only to catch the ear and prevent those of the hearers, who have not an earnest interest, from being tired. Thus, just as you have risen to a poetic feeling and are engaged in a pleasing flow of thought, you are jarred and let down by flat and unmeaning trifles, or by some even vulgar performance. In this way the taste of the many will never be improved, for the performer goes down to them, instead of drawing them up to him. We think they should never do so, and that the need of money is not an excuse. Compromise, always so degrading, is especially so with those beautiful arts which we expect to lift us above everything low and mercenary, and give us light by which to see the harmony destined to subsist between nature and the soul of man, when mutually purified, perfected, and sustained.

These concerts of the Academy were really adapted to form an audience that will require what is good instead of merely tolerating it, and have in their department begun the same work as the Atheneum Galleries in cherishing and refining a love for the other arts.

Several fine overtures were performed during the winter, and often enough for us to become quite familiar with them. But the great pleasure, and one never to be forgotten by those who had the happiness to share it, was the performance of two Symphonies of Beethoven, the Pastoral and Fifth Symphony.

The Pastoral is one of the most famous compositions of this master, indeed it might be styled a popular composition. It does not require a depth in the life of the hearer, but only simplicity to feel its beauties. The bounding and extatic emotions with which the child traverses the enamelled fields on a day of bluest blue sky, of perfect verdure, bloom, and fragrance, the excitement of the peasant's dance, with its joyous whirl, hastily pattering feet, and light flashes across of movements of breezy lightness, the joy and plaints of the birds, the approach and burst of the thunder shower, its refreshing haste and vehement bounty, and the renovated lustre of life that succeeds, all these perfections are not unknown to any eye that has ever opened on life, all these glorious gifts nature makes to every man, each "green and bowery summertime." Beethoven's was one of those souls that prevent nature from being too weary, as she sometimes must incline to become of her prodigal love, for he was great enough to receive her into his heart, great enough to paint a picture of their meeting. But it is only one hour of his true life.

But in the Fifth Symphony we seem to have a something offered us, not only more, but different, and not only different from another work of his, but different from anything we know in the clearness with which we are drawn to the creative soul, not of art or artist, but of universal life. Here with force, and ardent, yet deliberate approach, manifold spirits demand the crisis of their existence. is the questioning heard in vain, but, in wide blaze of light and high heroic movement, more power flows forth than was hoped, than was asked. With bolder joy, with a sorrow more majestic, life again demands and meets a yet

Nor