THE LONDON AND PARIS

LADIES' MAGAZINE OF FASHION,

POLITE LITERATURE, ETC.

THE CANTATRICE. "Il cantar che nel' anima si sente."-PETRARCA.

THE odour of violets always reminds me of Bianca C. Her love of the flower amounted to a passion. She almost invariably wore a bunch in her girdle, and a porcelain vase that stood on the little centre-table beside her chair was often filled with them. I have seen her, in winter, when the noonday sun warmed the atmosphere, pour a drop or two of the perfume upon her fingers, and throwing open the window, wave her had to and fro, and as the breeze wafted in the fragrance, you could easily fancy it was the first delicate breath of spring. The association is not incongruous.

was but an indifferent actress. You could

never lose sight of the woman in the character. Her imitative power was very limited. It was impossible not to be conscious that she was feigning the queen, the lover, or the priestess; and, at the same time, such was the personal fascination that you felt, that "only herself could be her parallel." Her professional success was owing entirely to her voice. It was not of great compass, but liquid and true to a marvel. She warbled rather than sung. I never heard anything so bird-like. Often have I instinctively ran my eye suddenly from her face to the lofty ceiling, as if the notes were rising visibly. They seemed to escape so perfect, and well upward like the air-bubbles through a gaseous spring;

"And then my youth fell on me like a wind Descending on still waters."

JANUARY, MDCCCLII.

"As if the expanded soul diffused itself,
And carried to all spirits with the act
Its affluent inspiration ;"

with me long after its audible vibrations died. | professional in her looks or attitudes. Her
I used to walk the streets for hours, on leaving manner of standing and moving, the expression
the opera house, to lull my nerves into of the eye, every glance and gesture was per-
weariness. Nothing vivifies conscience like fectly refined. Without being sylph-like, her
high and exquisite music, especially that of the gait was winning. It was unique upon the
human voice. The waves of emotion palpitate stage. There is something exceedingly signifi-
beneath it like a sea. While singing, Bianca cant in a woman's step. It is marvellously
gave you the impression of a prophetess, or a indicative of character. There is a certain in-
sybil won momentarily from her superhuman describable gait which I have but rarely wit-
attribute by love. When crowned with the nessed,-neither the queenly tread of the
garlands of public admiration, she drew near Tuscan peasant, nor the graceful step of the
the foot-lights, and standing with a Niobe-like fair Spaniard, nor the lightsome trip of the
Grisette; it is a modest, gentle, candid move-
inclination, extended her beautiful arms—
ment, breathing alike of rectitude and depend-
ence. It has something in it irresistibly appeal-
ing. Such a gliding about one makes home
divine. Scott's perception of it is evinced in
his picture of Dumbiedikes, for hours silently
watching Jeannie Deans as she moved upon
her household duties, through her father's
cottage. There is no little integrity in natural
language, and that of woman hath not a more
meaning chapter than her gait. You could
not watch Bianca as she paced the stage, (trod
is too bold a term.) without feeling that it
would be a glorious privilege to walk beside
her through the world. Another attraction
belonged to her of which nature is not prodigal.
Her shoulders were expressively beautiful.
They rounded so full and deftly, that the head
was thrown slightly forward, giving an air of
the most sincere humility, which was the more
affecting from its union with such noble gifts.
delighted to watch her slow progress upon
the stage when arrayed in a most becoming
The full white drawers,
oriental costume.
brought tightly round the ankle, the snug
embroidered jacket, the short tunic, and the
turban of rich merino, finely displayed her
symmetrical form and gave relief to every
movement. It was grace person ied-not
that of art, but the free, dignified, and yet
meek grace of genuine womanhood.

if

Although Bianca was a public character, her to the buret of applause, a silence ensued alspirit was as meek and her affections touched most sublime in its pervading quietude; and to as pensive a sweetness as the violet. She then moved by the grateful homage, and kindled by the vast expectancy of a thousand hearts, she would become quite oblivious of the prescribed music, and fearlessly utter strains of unpremeditated melody that thrilled the hushed multitude with delight and awe. The bewildered orchestra forgot their vocation and rose to listen. Fair heads leaned from the long range of boxes intently. Strangers, side by side, unconsciously grasped each other, by that instinct of sympathy which "makes the whole world kin." At the close, there always succeeded a feeling of vivid surprise, so great was the lapse from ideal heights to a sense of the immediate and the actual. It seemed as upon that stream of harmony we might have attained some infinite good. For a moment the heart vacillated with the pain of awakening from its exalted dream, and then turned its baffled enthusiasm into plaudits to the genius of the hour. But it were as hopeful an emprise to attempt to paint the lightning in its momentary effulgence, or impart in words an idea of the most innate grace of character, as to strive to convey any adequate conception of triumphs so ethereal. When death chills the sculptor's heart, some tokens of his life survive in marble. The bold design, the lines of tasteful skill, the expression of saintly beauty, yet assure us how nobly he thought or how earnestly he felt. And thus it was with the limner of the bard. But the song expires on the lip. Its only trophies are in the auditor's memory. Its triumph endures alone in the heart it stirred and the imagination it fired. Yet how endearing are even these frail oblations, since they belong to that vast array of latent agencies, which perhaps have more to do with our weal and woe, than all the apparent enginery of life. Truly, music is the most spiritual of the fine arts. Apart from her vocalism, it is easier to describe Bianca. In her by-play, and, indeed, at all times, she gave The excitement of such vocalizing lingered you the idea of a lady. There was nothing

I grew buoyant with the melody, and could, as it were, feel every mortal weight fall away from my heart. Not that the sensation was always joyous-Bianca's voice had a silvery pathos in its most lively overflowings-but whatever the sentiment of the music, her cadences were wonderfully aerial. They gave one the feelings of wings. I could apply to her Shelly's apostrophe to the sky-lark

"Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a rapture so divine.

"What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance

of pain?"

I

The success of a vocalist, however scientific, is liable to many interruptions. A slight illness or depression of spirits will often obstruct that delicate instrument, upon the clearness and facility of which the exercise of the art depends. Bianca was remarkably even and sustained. I could never detect any waywardness in her moods. She appeared happy, indeed, in the triumphant display of her rare powers, but there was in this feeling no elation or oppressive excitement-all seemed resolute and placid. She bore herself like one serene and patient, as if above the minor cares of her profession, and devoted to it from love and duty rather than ambition. I remarked this to one of the very few individuals who enjoyed her society, who repeated the observation to the prima donna. She was pleased at the recognition of character it implied, and soon after consented to gratify my earnest desire for

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