to the delighted auditors, and made an interesting promenade au fond, always contriving to get his finely-arched nose over the lumieres at the precise point of time (we speak in a musical sense) where the word “voce” is marked in the score.  His pantomime to the allegri was no less captivating; but it was in the stretta that his beauty of action was most exquisitely apparent; there, worked up by an elaborate crescendo (the motivo of which is always, in the Italian school, a simple progression of the diatonic scale), the furor with which this cantratice hurried his hands into the thick clumps of his picturesque perruque, and seemed to tear its cheveux out by the roots (without, however, disturbing the celebrated side-parting a single hair)—­the vigour with which he beat his breast—­his final expansion of arms, elevation of toes, and the impressive frappe of his right foot upon the stage immediately before disappearing behind the coulisses—­must be fresh in the souvenir of our dilettanti readers.

But how shall we parle concerning his voix?  That exquisite organ, whose falsetto emulated the sweetness of flutes, and reached to A flat in altissimo—­the voce media of which possessed an unequalled aplomb, whose deep double G must still find a well-in-tune echo in the tympanum of every amateur of taste. That, we must confess, as critics and theoretical musicians, causes us considerable embarras for words to describe.  Who that heard it on Saturday last, has yet recovered the ravishing sensation produced by the thrilling tremour with which Rubini gave the Notte d’Orrore, in Rossini’s “Marino Faliero?” Who can forget the recitativo con andante et allegro, in the last scene of “La Sonnambula;” or the burst of anguish con expressivissimo, when accused of treason, while personating his favourite role in “Lucia di Lammermoor?” Ah! those who suffered themselves to be detained from the opera on Saturday last by mere illness, or other light causes, will, to translate a forcible expression in the “Inferno” of Dante, “go down with sorrow to the grave.”  To them we say, Rubini est parti—­gone!—­he has sent forth his last ut—­concluded his last re—­his ultimate note has sounded—­his last billet de banque is pocketed—­he has, to use an emphatic and heart-stirring mot, “coupe son baton!”

It is due to the sentimens of the audience of Saturday, to notice the evident regret with which they received Rubini’s adieux; for, towards the close of the evening, the secret became known.  Animated conversazioni resounded from almost every box during many of his most charming piano passages (and never will his sotto-voce be equalled)—­the beaux esprits of the pit discussed his merits with audible gout; while the gallery and upper stalls remained in mute grief at the consciousness of that being the derniere fois they would ever be able to hear the sublime voce-di-testa of Italy’s prince of tenori.