Braham’s career as a singer of English opera is that with which his glory in art is chiefly associated.  His first appearance was in a somewhat feeble work called the “Chains of the Heart,” and this was succeeded by the “Cabinet,” a production in which Braham composed all the music of his own part, both solo and the concerted portions in which he had to appear—­a custom which he continued for a number of years.  Seldom has music been more popular than that in which Braham appeared, for he knew how to suit all the subtile qualities of his own voice.  Among the more celebrated operas in which he appeared, now unknown except by tradition, may be mentioned “Family Quarrels,” “Thirty Thousand,” “English Fleet,” “Out of Place,” “False Alarms,” “Kars, or Love in a Desert,” and “Devil’s Bridge.”  As Braham grew older he attained a prodigious reputation, never before equaled in England.  In theatre, concert-room, and church he had scarcely a rival; and whether in singing a simple ballad, in oratorio, or in the grandest dramatic music, the largeness and nobility of his style were matched by a voice which in its prime was almost peerless.  His compass extended over nineteen notes, and his falsetto from D to A was so perfect that it was difficult to tell where the natural voice ended.  When Weber composed his opera “Oberon” for the English stage in 1826, Braham was the original Sir Huon.

Braham had made a large fortune by his genius and industry, the copyright on the many beautiful ballads and songs which he contributed to the musical treasures of the language amounting alone to a handsome competence.  But, following the example of so many great artists, he aspired to be manager also.  In conjunction with Yates, in 1831 he purchased the Colosseum in Regent’s Park for forty thousand pounds, and five years afterward he spent twenty-six thousand pounds in building the St. James’s theatre.  These speculations were unfortunate, and Braham found himself compelled to renew his professional exertions at a period when musical artists generally think of retiring from the stage.  He made a concert and operatic tour in America in 1840, and it was while playing with him in “Guy Manner-ing” that Charlotte Cushman, who then performed singing parts, conceived the remarkable role of Meg Merrlies, which she made one of the most picturesque and vivid memories of the stage.  Francis Wemyss, in his “Theatrical Biography,” refers to Braham’s appearance at the National Theatre, Philadelphia:  “Who that heard ‘Jephthall’s Rash Vow’ could ever forget the volume of voice which issued from that diminutive frame, or the ecstasy with which ’Waft her, angels, through the skies’ thrilled every nerve of the attentive listener?  He ought to have visited the United States twenty years sooner, or not have risked his reputation by coming at all.  Like Incledon, he was only heard by Americans when his powers of voice were so impaired as to leave them to conjecture what he had been, and mourn the wreck that all had once admired.”  Such an impression as this seems to have been common with the American public—­an experience afterward in recent years repeated in the last visit of the once great Mario.