-or the quality of its tone, and the skill of their execution? It cannot be the former, for then the stentorian lungs of the town crier would place him on an equality in that respect-nor can it be the latter merely, for we often meet with those whose voices are of faultless tone, and whose skill in the modulation of them is unrivalled-but who are not the wonder of their age. Yet when to these qualities, a soul-like expression is added, we then have a Malibran, a Catalani, a Braham.

The latter has come in the decline of life to gain new laurels in this western world. Gently has the hand of time fallen upon the greatest of English vocalists. The fire of youth may have abated, and its elastic tread may have gone, but the firm step of manhood is still his. His hale and burly form is not bent, nor apparently weakened by age. His features not furrowed by wrinkles, retain their striking Jewish cast. Though his mighty voice may have lost its early power, it is thrilling still. When he sings, you no longer hear the hireling vocalist-a gifted improvisator stands before you, whose words pour forth, as it were, the inspiration of the moment. There is an eloquence, a pathos in his tones, which draw tears from the artificial and affected-and his earnest, expressive gestures speak no less audibly than his words. However rare and wonderful may have been his other powers, it is his deep pathos, his eloquent expression which have made Braham the first

singer of his time-which have almost elevated him to a rank with the orator and poet.

The last characteristic of sacred music which I shall mention, is unity-or the subordination of all the parts to one general design.

The primeval chaos contained the elements of nature confused and indistinct in its deep bosom, but "it was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep." When the forming and quickening Spirit had moved upon the waters and there was light, it was not the light of a thousand suns pouring from their meridian height upon a new-born world-no eye might have looked upon that firmament, or the dazzling focus below. It was rather the serene light of day, revealing the varied and beautiful scenery of the earth, silvering its waters and casting deep shadows from its mountains. Neither the land nor the sea, the mountain nor the valley, the sunlight nor the shade singly make the landscape-its beauty lying rather in the harmonious blending of all those features.

So the artist copying from nature compels the numerous and various objects introduced into his picture to contribute to the unity of his general design. Were that picture glaring with light, or sombre with shade-were there no land, or were there no water, it would be a landscape no longer. It might indeed possess the characteristic of unity, but it would be the unity of light or darkness, or

some other which not even French ingenuity has found among the famous three of Aristotle.

In like manner, it is the aim of the musical composer to give expression to some one idea-to make all the details of his composition contribute to this, not allowing himself to wander in search of ornaments foreign to his subject, nor giving such undue prominence to any part as shall obscure and impair the general effect of the whole. That music, which, in its performance, should realize this idea, would leave nothing farther to be desired-it would be perfect in its kind.

In reference to this end, the composition of a choir, or the adjustment of its several parts, deserves a careful attention. To each should be assigned its due proportion of voices-nor should these parts bear a conflicting or divided sway. The lower should not drag down and stifle the harmony beneath their overpowering weight, nor should an excess of the higher render it frivolous and shrill. They should all mingle naturally and harmoniously, each softening and subduing, or giving life and spirit to the rest. When they thus unite, it is the full tone of a single instrument we seem to hear.

But not only should the constituent parts of a choir be thus adapted and proportioned to each other-the individual voices of its members should each maintain a subordinate position. I say individual voices, not because they should retain their individuality in a choir, but because they not un

frequently do. The unity of the finest choir may be broken, and the general effect of their music destroyed by some individual acting under a sense of peculiar responsibility for the full exercise of his vocal powers. It is unfortunate that those voices which are peculiarly harsh and unpleasant, and which would naturally retire from notice, are often the first to court attention and demand to be heard.

Even the most melodious voice should not be too distinctly heard-it should rather be willing to lose its identity in contributing to the general effect. How beautiful are the snow-flake and the rain-drop-the one a starlike gem-the other a chrystal sphere--but they mingle with other flakes and drops beautiful as themselves, and the broad river in whose bosom they melt, is more beautiful than all.

It is when ministering at the altar of Religion that Music attains her noblest dignity. She has no higher vocation. Rich is the reward her services receive. She lends a single jewel-her brows are decorated in return with a diadem of regal beauty.

The names of Handel and Haydn--what imperishable honors have crowned them. They gave their wonderful powers to the commemoration of events with which religion has to do, and she gave them in return subjects for their powers, whose grandeur has never been equalled. The one sang of the Creation in the beginning of time,—the

other of the Messiah who came in the "fulness of time" to restore its lost glory to the first creation. He who has heard the mighty chorus of Haydn, in which the completion of the work of creation is celebrated-"The heavens are telling the glory of God," or the concluding chorus of the Messiah, in which the work of redemption is sung-"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain," will never forget them. We listen to their repetition with an interest which never tires. The Future will receive these master-pieces of art, as a precious legacy from the Past-and while she shall guard the rich treasures on which Religion has set her own imperishable seal, the names of Handel and Haydn shall not be forgotten.

Time would fail me to tell of others, from whom Religion has received the honor she has so richly repaid.

I might speak of Mozart, who, after a brilliant career of triumphs even from his extreme boyhood, died at an early age ere "his eye was dim or his natural force abated." It is affecting to recal the closing days of his life-how in the midst of his well earned fame, while those laurels which shall never fade were fresh on his brows, that mysterious stranger came, who seemed to Mozart a messenger from the hidden world. The funeral mass which the stranger requested, he had a presentiment was to be his own dirge-and to its composition he devoted the full powers of his transcendent genius. From that moment his language was,