Talking of that day, who that heard it could ever forget the tragic pathos of Sims Reeves’s singing of “Waft her, Angels”? That and his thrilling declamation of the recitative at the beginning of the Messiah, “Comfort ye my people,” are among the most haunting memories of my musical days. It was a time of great singers. Amongst our own folk Clara Novello, Miss Dolby, and Santley with Sims Reeves made a great quartet; for the rendering of oratorios there could hardly be a finer. Amongst the foreign artists, Grisi and Mario, Lablache, Ronconi, Graziani, Titiens, Alboni, Giuglini, Patti, Trebelli, are names that will live. With Mario and Grisi I was very intimate, they had been old friends of my father’s; indeed Mario and he had sung together when Mario was an amateur and came to London as Conte di Candia, a handsome young Sardinian officer. There were concerts at Bridgewater House at which Lady Sandwich was the soprano, Miss Gent, a beautiful Irish lady, the contralto, Mario tenor, and my father the baritone. When Mario made his _début_ in Paris, my father travelled all the way from Frankfort, posting, to applaud him. For many years, till I went out to China, I used to go almost every Sunday during the summer to Mario’s villa to spend the afternoon in the garden, often remaining to dinner. They kept open house on Sunday, and I fancy never knew beforehand how many guests they would have—ten? twelve? twenty? All were made welcome. Madame Grisi at the head of the table, smiling and beautiful, though no longer young, with her eyes beaming sweetness, was the picture of happy content. She did not talk much, but she had just one little kind word for everybody, and a motherly tenderness which seemed to enfold the whole world upon which those glorious eyes were looking. [Illustration: MARIO. _By Lord Leighton, P.R.A._] Mario was an altogether delightful companion. He was an artist to his finger-tips. He was no mean sculptor, a learned collector of books and manuscripts, a scholar full of appreciation of all that was beautiful and refined. Many years after the time of which I am writing, when he came to England for the last time, a little before his death, he telegraphed to me to say he was in London. I was in the country and came up at once. He came to my house and we had a long talk over old times. I showed him some first states of engravings by William Faithorne, the elder. To my amazement he knew all about them. “Ah! mon cher,” said he in explanation, “J’ai eu toutes les folies.”