At one of these Westminster Abbey performances a striking coincidence occurred.  The morning had been threatening a storm; but instantly the grand chorus “Let there be light, and light was over all” commenced, the sun burst forth and gilded every dark nook of the solemn old Abbey with a flood of splendor.  On another occasion, while a chorus descriptive of a storm was being sung, a hurricane burst over the Abbey, and the fierce rattling of hailstones, accompanied by peals of thunder, kept time to the grand music of Handel.  During the performance of the chorus “The Lord God Omnipotent Reigneth,” the audience was so moved that King, Queen, royal family, and all present, rose by a common impulse to their feet—­a practice which has been preserved in English audiences to this day during the singing of this mightiest of all musical choruses.  Mme. Mara gave great offense by remaining seated.

Shortly afterward she sang at a musical festival of Oxford University, whither the report of her supposed bad temper and intractability had preceded her.  The gownsmen were as riotous then as now; and as one or two things happened to irritate their lively temper, a row soon became imminent.  Mara got angry and flung a book at the head of one of the orchestra, when Dr. Chapman, the Vice-Chancellor, arose and said that Mme. Mara had conducted herself too ill to be allowed to sing before such an audience.  Instantly a wicked wag cried out, “A riot, by permission of the Vice-Chancellor!” A scene of the utmost confusion ensued, and the agitated cantatrice quitted the theatre, amid hisses and yells, in high dudgeon.  A deputation of gentlemen waited upon her, and promised that she should do exactly as she pleased if she would only return.  She did return, and sang the airs allotted to her, but remained seated as usual while the choruses were being sung.  A cry arose of “Turn Mara out!” Not comprehending, she smiled, which provoked the audience still more; upon which the Vice-Chancellor said that it was always the rule for every vocalist to join in the choruses.  Miss George, one of the singers, explained this to the prima donna, who, staring in bewilderment and vexation, exclaimed, “Oh! me does not know his rules; me vill go home”; which resolution she immediately carried into effect.

This great singer’s numerous quarrels and controversies in England were very amusing.  Yet, in spite of the personal bitterness growing out of her own irritable temper and professional rivalry, she remained a great artistic favorite with the public.  Underneath the asperity and obstinacy of her character there was a vein of deep tenderness and generosity, which she showed in various cases, especially in forwarding the interests of struggling artists.  Michael Kelly, the Irish composer, in his “Reminiscences,” gives the following instance.  He himself, then a young man, had aroused Mara’s dislike by some inadvertent praise of a rival.  Watching his opportunity,