One of the most charming of fairies (and I tell you for your comfort there are still many of them who, to escape the roar and tumult of our mad world, hide themselves far down in the flower-cups), at my earnest request, has lent me her fragrant veil for an hour or two; we wrap it around us and are invisible, and now we can boldly enter the rooms of the artist. Passing through a small antechamber, we carefully open a folding door on the right, and enter a simple apartment, partially darkened, and tastefully and comfortably furnished. Two beautiful busts arrest our attention; one bears the inscription "Eugenie Garcia," the other the immortal name "Marie Malibran." Two familiar portraits adorn the walls: the pleasant kindly face of the Swedish Nightingale, and the earnest countenance of Pauline Viardot. Silvery sounds, full and powerful, reach our ear from the adjoining room; they attract us irresistibly; we follow them, gently open a side door and find ourselves in the very sanctum of the master, in the atelier of the artist. The long folds of the red silk curtains are partially drawn, so that a rosy light falls upon every object; a fine piano stands in the middle of the room; arm-chairs by the fireplace; a luxurious divan on one side covered with scattered music; the elegant marble table loaded with books, portfolios, music-books, papers of all kinds; music-stands in every direction, on one of which, beside the singer, we see an open volume of exercises. "L'école de Garcia, l'art du chant." A breath of poetry seems to pervade the apartment. Garcia sits at the piano, his scholar stands at some distance before him. The maestro is very tall, unusually slender, and of a truly feverish vivacity. His face is small and deadly pale; his dark, slightly curled hair falls over a high forehead. His eyes are dark, restless, flashing, and inspired. Now he listens with fixed attention to the full, swelling notes that flow from the lips of the songstress; the next he throws back his head impatiently; a word of warning or of blame is rapidly addressed to the pupil; sometimes a kindly smile, a slight sarcasm, a pleasant jest, all strangely intermingled with sudden starts, angry stamping of the feet, and stern frowns of displeasure. How rarely a word of praise! But one single warm word of commendation from such a master is a sunbeam that has power to penetrate and unfold every fast closed bud of zeal and earnest effort. How cautiously Garcia handles the precious possession intrusted to his care, the human voice! How tenderly he protects it! how carefully he watches it! how anxiously he strives to preserve that pure, brilliant freshness of youth which is the greatest charm a voice can possess.