A MUSICAL EVENING. AST night the Folhams and Rochesters called to see us, on their way home from a fine dinner-party. Luigi also came in, and we had a charming evening without ruffle or tangle. Philip and Florence sang together, which they do very cleverly, and their voices harmonize nicely. I had been riding with Philip in the afternoon, and had the excuse of fatigue for my silence; so without much interference from loquacious Mrs. Folham, I rested on one of the window lounges, listened to the music, looked at the happy young people, and felt so comfortable that I found myself wondering if there was any real trouble in the world. "What pang Is permanent with man? From the highest As from the vilest thing of every day, He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours But the sweet and happy hours are conquering me. Last evening a powerful charm was worked on every one, however, by that subtle and delicate interpreter of hidden emotions and inexpressible thoughts, - music. Some one has said finely, "Music's form, composed of vibrations of the air, lives in space and gives form and shape to the impalpable." Indeed, the most impressive, direct, and irresistible language for the ideal is the Tone tongue; it is a much more powerful expression of feeling than any other art form. I watched its effect with great interest last night. Our lovers are just at the most difficult point of their intercourse; their love is unacknowledged, even half unknown to themselves. It is without speech, words have not given it tangible form, therefore music is a pleasant relief to their full hearts; it produces the happiest harmony of feeling. Last evening Venitia and Luigi stood near each other in tender, gentle silence, and during some passages in the singing I observed their eyes meeting without startle in long, quiet looks. The merry conversational intercourse between Philip and Florence formed a pleasing contrast. He compli-mented her gayly on the success of her toilette, making her blush bewitchingly; and she tinkled out her pretty foam-bell laugh, which always reminds me of dancing waters rippling over pebbles. These blondes are truly "the stars of the earth." She was dressed in exquisite taste; the texture of her robe was as delicate as gossamer; its flounces and light ornaments were in perfect keeping, and she moved gracefully about in a half gliding step. I fancy a Parisian modiste would have thought her an exact representation of an Aphrodite rising from the foam of the sea. Her beautiful hair seemed more radiant than usual; it was turned off from the blue-veined temples, and rolled back in that style called "L'Impératrice,” which suits so well a blonde like Florence. The hue of the roots of the hair and the skin is so nearly the same as scarcely to show the line of separation, and both seem to have golddust mingled in their precious compound. The rich mass rose in ripples all over her head as if lifted by little waves of wind, and made me think of Chaucer's Queen of Love, — "It shone as gold, so fine, Florence sings the Sonnambula music better than any other, that is, for my taste. It may be because her fresh young beauty seems so well suited to the charming pastoral story of this opera, "this true Bucolic of the country of Virgil and Theocritus," as Scudo calls it. It is indeed a delicious creation, full of the freshness and perfume of spring; its sadness is only a short shower at sunset, refreshing the young, springing herbage which was a little bent down by the rays of an over ardent noonday sun; then, after the little shadow of trouble is over, the air is filled with resonance, and the young rising moon of love is greeted with the delicate notes of Arcadian reeds, piping sweetly and tenderly a ravishing epithalamium. She sang last evening the aria in the first act, "Come per me sereno," in the most winning manner; and in the ensuing allegro, "Sovra il seno la man mi posa," her high notes were thrilling, and filled with that mysterious, invisible fluid which escapes from a fast throbbing soul. I think I liked her execution of this passage better than the finale, “Ah non giunge," although she did throw into that an éclat, a bounding girlish joy, which was delicious. Philip sang with her the duos following the arias, and his ruby-hued voice mingled with hers delightfully. They gave us almost the illusion of the opera; for added to their very clever singing was an unconscious display of deep emotion, which was equal to the finest acting. The two lovers were evidently speeding off just as fast as the swift locomotive of a mutual infatuation could carry them. During the little dialogue in "Prendi l'annel ti dono,” Janet glanced at me once or twice, and she had to check a merry quivering of her expressive lips, and drop her eyelids quickly to hide the frolicsome dancing of the eyes. Florence's reply to “Sposi or noi siamo” was very naive. She had yielded up her whole being unconsciously to the new element which music and love combined had created, and on its tender pulsating waves her spirit floated happily. Her violet-hued eyes were full of sweet meditation when she sang, sotto voce, "Sposi"; then she struck the E flat, and the sound was fruity. Although it is a headnote, the sudden gush of deep feeling made it "fullthroated" like the nightingale's tone. A soft swell followed, the voice floated down on the A with the most ravishing little turns soft and silvery, and "Tenera parola" lay on the air like little swaying flower petals. Philip, I knew, was thrilled by it; for his reply, " Cara, cara nel senti posi questa gentil viola," was so full of emotion it almost choked him. Florence's response was sung as if she were unconsciously uttering aloud the sweet echo his "gentil viola" had left in her love-touched soul, “Pura innocenta fiora,”—it was inimitable! Luigi stood near Venitia; his long dark eyes were half closed, and rested on her; he seemed lost in a sweet dream. Dear Mrs. Folham, delightfully innocent of Italian, sat bolt upright, looking on the whole affair in the most practical English mamma manner; but Janet and I were "the chiels amang 'em takin' notes." When it was over, the young people gathered around the piano, and tried to cover their real feelings by earnest talk about nothing. Wenzel, a music teacher, who plays accompaniments for them, preluded softly; the rippling arpeggio passages he played were not meant to attract attention; the discreet Italian only wished to fill up a gap. Janet stood a few moments by the piano, then went to Mrs. Folham, who was talking with Mr. and Mrs. Rochester. After saying a few words to them, she came to the lounge where I was lying in a true hypnotic state. "This music makes me think of a passage I read in Scudo to-day," she said, leaning over me. "It is not high art producing a grand dramatic emotion; it is a delicate pleasure, a sensuality of the ear tempered by a light. moral feeling, which sweetly penetrates the heart, per aures pectus irrigatur, as a Latin poet has said so happily." I could not reply to her; to be spoken to by any one gave me a keen sensation, which was almost like pain. After a glorious flight on "music's mighty wings," it is impossible to return to ordinary mortal means of communication; the soul has been soaring off in its own ether, and comes back as folâtre and rebellious as an Ariel; the poor body seems like a prison, and it beats the bars of the cage mercilessly. The body, too, becomes impregnatic, as it were, with some of the same emotion, and a vertigo and irritability result which few know how to control; so I only smiled back an answering assent, and leaning my head on the cushions closed my eyes. Janet sat near me in silence; she rested her little hands on my head, and kindly smoothed down the hair bands; her soft magnetic touch was very soothing, and gave me great comfort. Venitia finished the evening by playing that Polonaise of Weber in E major, which Liszt calls dithyrambic; in it life, warmth, and passion glitter on the wave crests without disturbing the grand ebb and flow of the majestic ocean of deep feeling. I listened, still in my raptus state, and whispered to the beat of the measure, |