in the South Kensington Gallery, and which for many fortunate years adorned my father’s house, after working in absorbed silence for some time he suddenly exclaimed, “Damn it, madam, there is no end to your nose!” The restoration of that beautiful painting has destroyed the delicate charm of its coloring, which was perfectly harmonious, and has as far as possible made it coarse and vulgar:  before it had been spoiled, not even Sir Joshua’s “Tragic Muse” seemed to me so noble and beautiful a representation of my aunt’s beauty as that divine picture of Gainsborough’s.

Two circumstances occurred during my stay in Edinburgh which made a great impression upon me:  the one was the bringing of the famous old gun, Mons Meg, up to the castle; and the other was the last public appearance of Madame Catalani.  I do not know where the famous old cannon had been kept till it was resolved to place it in Edinburgh Castle, but the event was made quite a public festival, and by favor of some of the military authorities who presided over the ceremony we were admirably placed in a small angle or turret that commanded the beautiful land and sea and town, and immediately overlooked the hollow road up which, with its gallant military escort of Highland troops, and the resounding accompaniment of their warlike music, the great old lumbering piece of ordnance came slowly, dragged by a magnificent team of horses, into the fortress.  Nothing could be more striking than the contrast presented by this huge, clumsy, misshapen, obsolete engine of war, and the spruce, trim, shining, comparatively little cannon (mere pocket-pistols for Bellona) which furnished the battery just below our stand, and which, as soon as the unwieldy old warrioress had occupied the post of honor reserved for her in their midst, sent forth a martial acclaim of welcome that made the earth tremble under our feet, and resounded through the air, shivering, with the strong concussion, more than one pane of glass in the windows of Princess Street far below.

Of Madame Catalani, all I can say is that I think she sang only “God save the King” and “Rule Britannia” on the occasion on which I heard her, which was that of her last public appearance in Edinburgh.  I remember only these, and think had she sung any thing else I could not have forgotten it.  She was quite an old woman, but still splendidly handsome.  Her magnificent dark hair and eyes, and beautiful arms, and her blue velvet dress with a girdle flashing with diamonds, impressed me almost as much as her singing; which, indeed, was rather a declamatory and dramatic than a musical performance.  The tones of her voice were still fine and full, and the majestic action of her arms as she uttered the words, “When Britain first arose from the waves,” wonderfully graceful and descriptive; still, I remember better that I saw, than that I heard, Madame Catalani.  She is the first of the queens of song that I have seen ascend the throne of popular favor, in the course of sixty years, and pretty little Adelina Patti the last; I have heard all that have reigned between the two, and above them all Pasta appears to me pre-eminent for musical and dramatic genius—­alone and unapproached, the muse of tragic song.