studied and developed the powers of the instrument which nature had bestowed upon them.  This is the first grand requisite for the singer; without it, respectable mediocrity may occasionally be attained, but real excellence never can be gained.  We know of no English-taught singer who possesses it.  So little are the voice and its capabilities understood in this country, that instances might be mentioned where basses were mistaken for barytones, barytones for tenors, and contraltos for sopranos.  However incredible this may appear, it is, nevertheless, strictly and literally true.  The consequence of such strange blunders is what might be naturally expected; the voice, forced out of its natural compass, prematurely gives way, and at a period of life when the vocal organ, if properly trained and developed, should have arrived at maturity and perfection, the singer’s powers are gone, and, in the prime of life, he is compelled to abandon his profession, and subsides into the mere singing-master, to misinstruct the rising generation, and to mar the prospects of others who succeed him, as his own hopes were blighted by the errors of his own instructors.  To what other cause can be attributed the constant and mysterious disappearance of new singers?  How many young vocalists appear from time to time; lauded at first to the skies, for a few seasons listened to and admired, but whose reputation gradually decays, and who at length disappear from the stage and are forgotten.  There are some who endure for years; but they fulfil no promise of their early youth.  Under these circumstances, we could ill afford to lose an artist who seemed destined to achieve a lasting reputation.  Our musical stage has but now sustained a heavy loss in one of the brightest ornaments it ever possessed; the charms of a happy home have withdrawn her from public life—­but the genius of Miss Adelaide Kemble will not be soon forgotten.  Another bright ornament of our stage, however, still remains.  Possessing less physical energy and tragic power than her contemporary, Mrs Alfred Shaw is, nevertheless, the most pure, polished, and cultivated English singer we ever heard on the boards of our national theatre.  The finish and refinement of her style, and the clear distinctness of her enunciation, make her the worthy model for the imitation of all who are desirous to excel.  Were our future debutanti trained on the system which has thus developed the powers and capabilities of these eminent artists, less frequently would be observed the musical disappearances of which we have been speaking.

The English tenor is a nondescript animal; singing from some unknown region, his voice possesses no natural character, but its tones are forced, strained, and artificial.  Our tenors and counter-tenors—­a sort of musical hermaphrodite, almost peculiar to this country, and scarcely recognized by classical composers—­delight in what is called the “pure,” or, “the good old English”