the work of the poet, the painter, the sculptor, only as thousands will do after us; but the actor—his memory is with his generation, and that passes away. What a slight idea even I, who speak as a last year's eye-witness, can give of her magnificent Semiramide, defying even fate—of the deep passionate love, ever the ill-requited, expressed in her Medea; her dark hair bound in its classical simplicity round her fine head, her queen-like step—Miss Arundel, I am very sorry for you;" and he stopped in one of those deep pauses of emotion, when the feeling is too great for words.
At this moment Sontag burst upon the ear with one of those Æolian sweeps of music so peculiarly her own: "Can any thing be more exquisite?" exclaimed Emily.
"Granted," returned Lord E. ; "musical talent is at its perfection in her—the finest natural organ modulated by first-rate science; but where is the mind of Pasta? It is folly to compare beings so opposite: like the child, when asked which he preferred, some grapes or a nectarine, I answer, 'both.' The one is the woman of genius—the other a most lovely creature, with the finest of voices."
"How beautiful she is!" rejoined Emily,
