THE day of Jubilee has come.

Boston has been in a flutter of agitation and excitement to-day; for, truth to say, Boston herself has not been over sanguine as to the success of the Jubilee. It is probable that not a person in the city has regarded the experiment in the light of an unquestioned success, except Mr. Gilmore, in whose fertile brain the Jubilee was conceived, and by whom it has been pushed forward, in the face of obstacles, to a successful birth. When Mr. Gilmore offered the Jubilee to New York, the Manhattanites laughed at him, and gently insinuated that he had gone clean daft, whereupon Mr. Gilmore took his embryonic Jubilee to Boston, and, undaunted by obstacles, and unannoyed by the gibes and jeers of the faithless, he worked in season and out of season, put this wheel and that wheel together, got this man and that man interested in it, melted even the adamantine hearts of the musicians themselves, and at last got his project so far advanced that it became a matter of city pride to put the municipal shoulder to the wheel and help Gilmore out with his mammoth undertaking. And Boston did help him right royally. Once provided with the ducats and with the collaterals, which guaranteed him financial safety, the foundations of the enterprise were laid, and the superstructure grew rapidly. Singers and instruments, big singers and little singers, big fiddles and little fiddles, poured in as fast and as thick as the dogs and cats in Beard's picture. I myself saw, riding on a boat of Commodore Fisk's, from New York to Fall River, en route to the Jubilee, sixty double basses ranged along on the deck, like coffins swathed in green bags, and to-day I saw them again manipulated in the vast orchestra, to show that I do not lie.

The material was, at last, all in his hands, and the material was composed of one thousand instruments—a big organ, ten thousand singers, a Coliseum, and sundry properties by way of appendices, such as a battery of artillery, church bells, and anvils. And the question immediately arose:

What will he do with them?

This is the question which has agitated Boston to-day, from the harbor to the Back Bay, and from Bunker Hill to Jamaica Plain. When Boston woke up this morning, notwithstanding her doubts, she dressed herself in festal garments of streamers, flags and bunting, to do honor to the occasion, and to properly impress the strangers within her borders with the fact that she was out for a holiday, and was bound to enjoy herself. And there were strangers enough within her borders. Every other man you met upon the narrow sidewalks was a carpet-bagger, and every other woman had a roll of music in her hands. Band musicians in all sorts of uniforms, carrying all sorts of odd-looking boxes, met you and jostled you at every turn, for it is impossible for two people to pass each other upon a Boston sidewalk, especially if one has a box or a carpet-bag in his hands. Every train and every boat which has arrived to-day was loaded down with musical freight, and all the morning they filed down Boylston street to the Coliseum, in water-proof cloaks with their rolls of music. The hotels are filled with them. The boarding houses are full, both in the city and in the suburbs, and even some of the public halls have been provided with cots, to accommodate the melodious strangers, who have come here to lift up their voices in the grand chorus.

And it is a grand chorus. In 1836, Mendelssohn, the great master, led 536 performers, and ten years later led his own "Elijah," with a chorus of 700 before him. In 1862 a chorus of 4,000 voices sang together at the Crystal Palace in London; and last year Costa led 4,500 in the same building. It was considered a great event—an episode in the history of music. Julien, that eccentric little conductor, conceived the idea of increasing upon this number, but the very magnitude of his operations turned his brain, and he died in a mad-house—his disordered mind, even in his dying moments, being occupied with an imaginary orchestra. It has been left for Mr. Gilmore to eclipse them all. What was some time a problem is now a fixed fact; and the annals of music can show no grander triumph than that which this daring, hard working man has achieved this day. When Mr. Gilmore's baton closed the final chord of the massive Martin Luther choral, he had done something which was worth living for. He had a right to be proud of his work.

The Coliseum in which the Jubilee is given, is upon the made lands of the Back Bay. Upon its site young Boston has fished in the summer, and skated in the winter. When Boston had filled out to the water's edge, it did what Canute could not do. It commenced to drive back the sea, and each step that the sea receded was filled up and built upon. Aristocracy turned its eyes thitherward, and went there to build its free-stone fronts, and made it the handsomest part of the city. The Coliseum is on the newest of this land, where it has not yet been divided off into lots. Its immediate surroundings, therefore, are not very attractive. The exterior of the building is not remarkably beautiful, and the fine Natural History rooms, and other elegant buildings near by, provoke architectural comparisons not particularly favorable to it. It has a cheerful, pleasant appearance, however, and derives a certain sort of brilliancy from the little flags of divers colors which flutter in the breeze from every salient point. The hucksters and venders of notions, who have improved the occasion to turn an honest or dishonest penny, as the case may be, have not improved the ensemble with their scores of board shanties and canvas tents, which have been dumped down upon the crude ground in every direction. Their name is almost literally legion. There are venders of ice creams, which are mushy and sloppy; of soda water with gaudily colored syrups; of innocent vegetable beer, for the hard hand of the law forbids the sale of anything stronger; of domestic cigars compounded of innocuous herbs; of oranges, and pop corn, and bananas, and photographs, and fans. At this shanty you may get revolving heels placed upon your boots, and at that one you can get key tags stamped. Here the wild men of Borneo are delighting a crowd, and there you may see a two-headed monkey cheap. Blind men are selling ballads. Small girls are vending hot roasted peanuts. Here is a shooting gallery, and there a fandango. The old buxom Irish women of the common, who have been accustomed to drowse away their days under the elms, have suddenly become imbued with the enterprise of the hour, and are driving sharp bargains on the Back Bay in oranges and candy, and puff away at their dhudeens with an air of self congratulation.

Notwithstanding these drawbacks, however, the Coliseum admirably answers the purposes for which it was built. It is large enough to accommodate all who will go. Its ventilation is excellent; its acoustic properties good, and its conveniences perfect as they can be. The interior is beautifully decorated with bunting, streamers, flags, and various paintings and devices. The sub-rooms, especially the reception room, are exquisitely adapted to the purposes for which they were designed. The latter room, this morning, presented a perfect wilderness of flowers, and its walls were hung with elegant paintings. Its seating capacity is, I should judge, between thirty and forty thousand, exclusive of the chorus and orchestra. The roughness and blank appearance of unfinished wood-work, has been concealed by drapery and bunting very gracefully arranged, and from one end of the Coliseum to the other, the eye is attracted by the brightest of colors.

It is now my task to describe to you the opening concert, and I freely confess my inability to do so. As I write you, the deep diapason of that mighty organ, the surging waves of harmony from the largest orchestra and the marvelous sublimity of the largest chorus the world has ever known, are still in my ears, and it seems to me that I can find no words to describe it. I can feel it, but I cannot make you feel it with poor words. It almost seems a profanation to attempt it. To see that multitude alone is electrifying. It makes your blood stir within you, to look upon that great sea of faces stretching off into the distance, and to know that one man holds them in his hand, and with his little baton guides and sways them at his will. One man in that vast throng is only as one drop in the sea—one grain of sand upon the shore. His voice is indistinguishable, but the aggregate, you feel within you, will be as the on-coming of the mighty storm.

Picture to yourself the scene. Immediately before you is the orchestra, one thousand strong, occupying the level platform. The brasses are at the rear, as you may easily perceive, by a strip as of gold, which runs through the sombre black, and right between them is a huge bass drum, looming up like the wheel of a steamboat. From this level platform, on three sides, rises an amphitheatre, which holds the great chorus, ten thousand strong. The sopranos are on the left, the altos on the right, and the tenors and bassos in the centre, and up from their midst rise the open pipes of the great organ, the player of which sits facing the conductor, at some distance from the organ, communicating with him by means of speaking tubes. Sub-conductors are also located near each of the choral parts, who convey the instructions of the main conductors. Just at the right of the conductor there is an electrical battery which communicates with a section of artillery at a distance. The instrumental performers are arranged in the orchestra. The first, the chorus orchestra, is made up as follows:

The grand orchestra is composed of the following instruments, in addition to those specified above:

The players and singers are all in their places. The organ sounds a few chords, and the players tune their instruments therefrom. Ole Bull comes in and takes his seat at the head of the first violinists, amid applause from all parts of the house, and the veteran Norwegian cavalier sits there, with his bow upon his violin, as straight and as lordly as one of his own pines, watching the conductor with flashing eyes. It is Mr. Gilmore who has just followed him, and as he takes the stand, enthusiasm breaks out in every part of the vast building, and the applause is loud and long. When it has subsided, he raises his baton. The chorus rises, and there is something stirring even in the rising of such a vast throng. The audience is hushed, and, for an instant, there is perfect stillness. The baton descends, and chorus, orchestra and organ sound in a mighty chord of harmony the opening note of Martin Luther's grand old choral. As they sweep along through its slow and solemn movement as regularly as the swing of a pendulum, the organ's mighty diapason upholding the whole and keeping them together, it is like the voice of many waters. It is not a chaos of noise, as I had dreamed it would be; not a mere volume of sound without music. The voices come to you blended together as the sounds of nature—the songs of the birds, the blasts of the winds and the rushings of the torrents—blend. The instruments are powerful, but smooth. In that vast array you lose the scrape of the strings and the blare of the brasses. They are toned down into pure harmony, and through all, in all, and about all, come the mighty voices of the organ as the thunders come in the storm. The tears are in your eyes before you know it. The audience before you disappears. You are lifted, as it were, upon the great waves of music into the very presence of the infinite, and the outside world, with all its petty cares and troubles, is forgotten. On the repeat, the choral is commenced pianissimo, and the music comes to you as if from afar over the water. Gradually it approaches you, and, with a superb crescendo, in which the organ carries everything along with it, the cadenza is reached in a burst of harmony you have never heard before. You may never hear it again. The conductor steps down from his stand amid thunders of applause. It is at last proven that the Jubilee will be a musical success.

Such singing and such playing I have never heard before. I do not believe anything like it has ever been heard in the world. At first, it seems to you that the choruses are not in time, for, from first to last, they have not been with the conductor's beat, to one sitting at some distance. Of course, you see the beat before you hear the sound, as you see the wood-chopper's axe descend upon the distant hillside before you hear the blow, and thus the chorus seems to be behind, when, in reality, it is with the conductor.

Julius Eichberg, who wrote the pretty little "Doctor of Alcantara," next takes the baton, and the grand orchestra addresses itself to the unraveling of Wagner's Tannhauser overture. The massing of instruments in the opening of the overture is superb, and the main theme is delivered with remarkable beauty. Soon they are lost in the intricate modulations and chaotic discords of this musician of the future; but when they begin to emerge into the chromatic violin runs, and return once more to something which has a resemblance to melody and a meaning in it, it is with a splendid burst of power; and one is almost compelled to acknowledge that there is method in this Bavarian madman, after all.

Once more, the chorus rises, and Carl Zerrahn takes the baton—the flute-player of the old Germania orchestra, and one of the most accomplished musicians living. He is a great favorite, both for his musical and his gentlemanly qualities, and he is greeted with a very storm of applause. The "Gloria" from Mozart's "Twelfth Mass" is next on the programme. He is a very easy and graceful, and yet forcible leader, and, notwithstanding the intricacy of the accompaniment and the difficulty of the vocal score, under the magical influence of his baton, the sublimity of the "Gloria" finds a graphic illustration.

Gounod's "Ave Maria," so full of suggestions of "Faust," is the next number, and Parepa comes forward to sing it, dressed in pure white. She receives a perfect ovation. In the morning, at rehearsal, she had been very nervous. The vast orchestra and chorus before her almost terrified her, and she was confident she could but make her voice heard for a short distance. The "Ave Maria" is not a fair test of the capabilities of her voice, however, as she has only an accompaniment of two hundred violins to do the obligato. She bows to the audience, and, turning, acknowledges the hearty welcome which the chorus has given her. Every tone of her voice is audible, even in the most distant parts of the hall. Its absolute purity, and the entire absence of woodiness in it, make it heard, and give you confidence that you will also hear it in the "Inflammatus," where she will have a severe test.

The "Star-Spangled Banner" is the next feature. It has been arranged differently for this occasion, which may account for a slight faux pas which happened. The tenors and bassos take the first verse, and the sopranos and altos the second verse in unison, which gives you an excellent opportunity of hearing the various parts of the great chorus by themselves. It would be difficult to say which was the best, although I am inclined to give the palm to the tenors, and yet I think no one who heard them can ever forget the other parts. A serious mistake occurred in the accompaniment. The trumpets are badly out. Some of the other brasses follow, and draw off some of the violins. The chorus begins to waver. There is danger of a disastrous breakdown. Gilmore, who is at the baton, is growing nervous; he fairly jumps up and down in his anxiety. And still it is running away, when suddenly Wilcox opens all the great organ, and with a crash of sound and an obstinately right tempo, brings all the discordant elements together again. The artillery peals in with its thunder in perfect time, and as the last measure closes, the whole audience rise unanimously to their feet at once, and the most intense excitement prevails. Thousands of handkerchiefs are waved by the ladies and flutter in the air like white doves. Men wave their hats and clap their hands, and the air is filled with bravos and cheers, which are kept up until the encore is given.

Parepa has the next number, and it is her favorite number—the "Inflammatus" from the Stabat Mater. Her voice has now a test such as it has never had before; for in the last few measures she has to sing against the full choral accompaniment of ten thousand voices, the thousand instruments, and the organ. She passes through the ordeal bravely. In the most distant part of the house you can hear her voice. The sustaining of the upper C and the trills were superbly done; and as she closed, her sustained high tones were as pure and as beautiful as those of a bird singing in the distance. It was a grand triumph for her, and the audience evidently regarded it in the same manner, for they gave her a very hearty and unmistakable encore, to which she replied with a repetition of the same. The absolute purity of her voice was never better tested than upon this occasion.

Verdi should have been present to have heard his Anvil Chorus performed. He is pre-eminently the great apostle of noise, and ten thousand voices, one thousand instruments, one hundred anvils—pounded by two hundred stalwart firemen in perfect time—and a battery of artillery, adding to the din and marking the time without a break, could not but have delighted him. The effect was simply indescribable. The aggregate of sound was gigantic. The firemen had been well trained, without the orchestra, by Mr. Gilmore himself, and, although the whole affair was more or less sensational and noisy, the effect was very stirring, and the audience insisted upon an encore. Oliver Wendell Holmes' Hymn, set to the music of Keller's "American Hymn;" the overture to "William Tell," which was deliciously given; the Coronation March from the "Prophet," and the national air, "America," completed this remarkable performance.

There were probably few among unprejudiced persons who did not anticipate a musical failure upon this occasion. Many considered it a piece of Boston braggadocio, and others a musical experiment, in which all the chances were unfavorable. The result, however, has proved just the reverse. With the exception, here and there, of slight mistakes, in which some instruments got out of time and occasioned variations which were so trifling that they did not interfere with the effect, the whole affair was a musical success.

June 16, 1869.

The weather yesterday was purely Bostonian: wind from the southeast, drizzling rains, dull, leaden clouds hurrying up from the salt water, a sultry, humid atmosphere, and muddiest of all muddy flag-stones. It was an inauspicious atmospherical commencement for the Jubilee, but to-day the motto of the festival is granted, and we have peace. The skies are bright, the air cool and bracing, and those little green oases in the brick and stone desert, the Common and Public Gardens, are as pleasant to the eye and as grateful to the senses as the gardens of Paradise. The trees are alive with birds, the fountains are glistening in the sunshine, and the cool walks are crowded with pleasure-seekers and curiosity-hunters.

It is a gala day in Boston; for, in view of the arrival of the President, the City Fathers have proclaimed a holiday, and all Boston and the rest of the universe which revolves around it, including Saugus Centre and Newton Four Corners, have turned out to see General Grant and each other, eat popcorn and bananas, hear the great chorus, and get all bedraggled and tired out by sunset. The city is dressed out gaily in the red, white and blue, and, true to the American characteristics, as much business as possible is combined with it in the way of advertising. The American Eagle is made to carry a fearful commercial weight upon his generous back in Boston to-day, from the squat female Hibernian dealer in fly-specked candies, even, to sundry granite-fronted, wholesale, solid men who live in the omnipresent free-stone houses on the Back Bay. The streets are literally crammed with people. Locomotion is a tedious affair upon these ribbons of sidewalks, and the surging crowd sometimes carries you, whether you will or no, into all sorts of alleys and by-ways and serpentine streets, which are sure to land you at somebody's front door. Fourth of July, the Saints' Day of Boston, is in danger of its multitudinous laurels, for it has never witnessed greater crowds than the magic baton of Gilmore has brought here.

Before I tell you of this second day of the Jubilee, I have a few incidents of interest wherewith to prelude it. And first, the organ itself is a noteworthy feature here, for it is the back-bone of the music, which holds the ribs and small bones of the Jubilee, keeps them in place, and prevents fracture. The organ was manufactured by the Messrs. Hook, expressly for the occasion, in the short space of four weeks, and was built with the design in view of combining strength and volume of tone with the least possible space in occupancy. The instrument has a very novel appearance, for the reason that it stands without a case. Above a very slight casing of chestnut and walnut, all the pipes of the "flute a Pavilion" are displayed—a stop which answers to the "Open Diapason." Behind these and others are the pipes of the "Bombarde," a sixteen-feet reed stop, and, still behind these, the vast wooden pipes of the "Grand Sub Bass," which form a double wall across the rear of the organ. On each side are the pipes of the "Pedale Posanne." The grouping of the pipes is very symmetrical, and presents quite as imposing, if not so beautiful an appearance as an elaborate case. The width of the organ across the front is twenty-two feet, and the height thirty feet. The wind-pressure used is at least four times that of ordinary organs, requiring four thousand pounds weight upon the bellows. Notwithstanding its great power, the tone is by no means harsh, but very agreeably rich and pleasant, and combines great intensity and solidity with the most brilliant seriousness conceivable. Its marvelous power and volume were specially manifested yesterday, when the orchestra began to break in the "Star-Spangled Banner." Mr. Wilcox, for a moment, seemed to be gathering up the resources of the organ in his hands, and then let it out in a manner which resembled the rushing of a storm more than anything else; but it had the effect to bring order out of chaos, and when once more he gathered back and restrained its powers, the instruments were playing like a charm.

Individuals count but little in this vast assemblage of singers and players, and yet there are notable people there whose superb solo singing and playing have been familiar to the public in concert rooms and opera for years. Look among the first violinists and you will see Ole Bull, prince of them all, fired with the spirit of the occasion. In the aggregate of sound you cannot hear a tone from his violin, and yet you know from his manner that the old Scandinavian is playing as he never played before. There is Carl Rosa, the petite Hamburger, a boy among them in appearance, wielding his bow with the general enthusiasm of the occasion. There is Schultze, who, years ago—how many leaves have fallen since then—stood at the head of the first violinists in the old Germania Orchestra, and distracted the ladies with the fine tinge of his cheeks and his "Sounds from Home;" and Zerrahn, who stood opposite him in that same organization, playing the flute, is now wielding the baton for his old compatriot. There is Julius Eichberg, who wrote the charming "Doctor of Alcantara" and the "Two Cadis," a most accomplished musician; and there are Grill and Mollenhauer, Besig and Moll, of New York. In the second violins you will find Carl Meisel, of the Mendelssohn Quintette; Eichler, of Boston; Reichardt, Ritter, Conrad and others, of New York. Thomas Ryan has dropped his clarionet and Heindl has dropped his flute, and both have taken violas in the grand orchestra. Wulf Fries and Suck and Henry Mollenhauer have their violoncellos before them, and Muller and Stein their double basses. Koppitz, Zohler and Carlo are blowing their flutes. Among the oboes you will find De Ribas, Mente and Taulwasser. And glorious Arbuckle sends the clarion blasts of his cornet shivering through the music as a flash of lightning cuts through a cloud.

Among the singers also, you will find notable names. Among the sopranos are the matchless Parepa, Mrs. H. M. Smith, Mrs. Sophia Mozart, Miss Gates, Miss Annie Granger, Miss Graziella Ridgway, Mrs. D. C. Hall, Miss S. W. Barton and Mrs. J. W. Weston. Among the altos are Adelaide Phillipps, Mrs. Drake, Miss Addie S. Ryan, Mrs. C. A. Barry, and Mrs. Guilmette. Among the tenors are the two Whitneys, L. W. Wheeler and James P. Draper. There are prominent singers also among the bassos, such names as Rudolphsen, Powers, McLellan, Ardavani, Perkins, Kimball, M. W. Whitney and Dr. Guilmette.

The telegraph will have anticipated me concerning the movements of General Grant. His arrival, and the fact that he would be present at the Coliseum, swelled the crowd about that building and in the vicinity to enormous proportions. The streets were one swaying, surging mass of humanity. Vehicles were jammed together in inextricable confusion. The horse-cars found it impossible to proceed, and, being piled together in long lines, sometimes a mile in length, added to the general distraction. The Hub was in a hubbub. I made the journey from the Coliseum to the State House, ordinarily a five minutes' walk, in exactly one hour by the Park Street Church clock, which never lies. As the time approached for the opening of the concert, the rush was fearful. At every one of the twelve entrances to the Coliseum, thousands of people were jammed together, pushing and fairly trampling upon one another. The efforts of the police, efficient as they have been, were of no avail. Hundreds and hundreds of people who had tickets turned and went away, rather than face that crowd. Women became timid and shrank from it. There were some, however, who resolutely went in, and some of them came out squeezed. Some fainted and were, with difficulty, extricated. Not one of them but had rumpled feathers, smashed paniers, dishevelled hair and flushed, perspiring faces, when they had fairly effected an entrance. For an hour at least this terrible crush continued. It was such a crowd as Boston has never seen before. It is doubtful whether any city has ever witnessed the like. And all this while all the streets, even the spacious Common, were densely packed, so that walking was impossible. The trees bore human fruit in black clusters. The fences were selvedged with humanity. All the doorsteps of the palatial stone fronts stood disgusted with the loads of country cousins they were compelled to bear.

The audience inside the Coliseum was a scene for a lifetime. It gave you an idea of the sublimity of humanity such as is rarely afforded. There must have been, including the performers, 50,000 people inside that building. Far as you could see, and you can see a great way in that building, was one vast sea of human faces. It was a sublime sight, and it was a beautiful sight as well, for the blues and purples of the ladies' apparel catching the sunlight which streamed in through the windows, made it seem like a garden of gorgeous flowers, and shine in splendid contrast with the reds and yellows of the flags and streamers, and when, in a moment of sudden applause, the waving of handkerchiefs fluttered over this vast crowd, it was hard to convince yourself that they were not white-winged birds, flying over the throng. For a time, the rush inside the Coliseum was almost as terrific as that outside.

Some delay was experienced in waiting for the President and his staff, and when they did enter, the whole audience had become seated. Their appearance was the signal for a general uprising. The great organ pealed out above the multitudinous din, "See the Conquering Hero Comes." He advanced to his seat, in the centre of the house, amid a perfect storm of applause, waving of handkerchiefs, bravos and cheers, and standing upon his sofa acknowledged them.

When the President had taken his seat and order was restored, Carl Zerrahn took the conductor's stand to lead the festival overture, based upon the Luther Choral, Ein Feste Berg ist unser Gott, the simple theme of which had been sung the day before. The arrangement is by Nicolai, and is in fugue treatment, opening with the theme for all parts. The fugue is then taken by the orchestra and superbly worked up. The chorus anon takes the same fugue, and closes by returning to the original theme, which was given with immense power and effect. The programme was mainly of an oratorio character, and this school of music probably never before had such a magnificent illustration. The dignity, grandeur and sublimity, and the solemn power of the great oratorio master-pieces could never before have been fully felt. The first selections were the "Glory to God in the Highest," and the chorus, "And the Glory of the Lord shall be Revealed," from the "Messiah," which were given with admirable effect and with better singing than characterized the first day's concert.

The next number on the programme was the recitative and aria, "Non piu di fiori," from Mozart's "La Clemenza di Tito," for Miss Adelaide Phillipps, and as that lady came forward she was received with very hearty applause, but not with that cordiality of greeting I had expected to witness from a Boston audience to a Boston singer. Her selection was a most unfortunate one. It was too florid in character and marred the unity of the oratorio nature of the performance. It would have been in much better taste also to have selected something in English than in Italian. It is but simple truth also to say that her singing was no better than her taste in selection. She was not able to cope with the obstacles of the house and the audience. But one tone of her voice was thoroughly distinct at the rear of the hall. Her singing, at a distance, was so very expressionless that it fell utterly cold and flat, and people talked and turned uneasily in their seats. And perhaps it was worse than all else that she did not sing true, and at one time was almost hopelessly floating along upon a discord. Every advantage was afforded her, for only a handful of instruments accompanied her, and these were toned down to pianissimo. Her fine chest voice, which is so effective on the operatic stage, was almost inaudible beyond the centre of the hall. A flutter of applause ran over the audience when she had finished, and then came Mendelssohn's magnificent chorus from "Elijah"—"He watching over Israel." Zerrahn leaves the orchestra in the hand of another conductor, and takes his place in the centre of the vast chorus with baton in hand. There must be no mistake made in Felix Mendelssohn's music. Its ineffable beauty must not be marred by a single spot or flaw. And it was not. The two conductors' batons moved as if they were in the hands of one, and, from first to last, the chorus and orchestra were together in perfect time and with the most tender regard for light and shade. I could not help wishing that Felix Mendelssohn himself could have been there. How small and feeble would the 500 Birmingham performers have seemed to him in the presence of this vast multitude! How his great heart would have rejoiced within him to have heard this chorus, so full of dignity, and piety, and beauty, sung by such a massing of voices and instruments! What letters he would have written to his sister! To have heard that performance was the event of a lifetime, for it may never be done again. Had I been Carl Zerrahn, it seems to me, I should have been the happiest man in the world. If spirits are allowed to visit this lower world, then certainly the spirit of Mendelssohn must have been in that hall, and must have guided and inspired that baton, for it held the singers, organ and instruments together like magic, and when it had made its last beat, the audience broke out into loud and long continued applause.

Parepa came upon the platform for the next number, "Let the Bright Seraphim," from Handel, and received an ovation which even eclipsed that given to the President. Arbuckle took his place beside her, to play the trumpet obligato, using the cornet as players invariably do. The instrument and voice were twins in time and tone, and the responses of the singer to the trumpet came every time, as truthful as an echo. I have never heard a more marvelously beautiful piece of singing with an instrument, and, when it was finished, the applause was almost deafening in every part of the vast building, the chorus joining in with the audience. The cheers and bravos, which compelled an encore, fairly shook the building.

In the interim, between the two parts, the Star-Spangled Banner and the Anvil Chorus were repeated, for the gratification of the President. In the second part, the C major symphony of Schubert was given. The hour was growing late, and only the Andante and Finale were played. "The Heavens are Telling," sung with immense effect, closed the concert.

June 17, 1869.

The sudden death of Mrs. George L. Dunlap, of Chicago, during the concert yesterday, has caused a widespread feeling of sadness here, even among those who were not acquainted with her; while those who did know her, and were familiar with her many lovely traits of character, deeply feel this sudden bereavement. She passed away in the twinkling of an eye, literally without warning, and expired in the arms of one of her dearest friends, Mrs. Ellis, of Chicago. It was a startling fact in the midst of so much life! Fifty thousand hearts pulsating to the sublime music from the great chorus, and one is suddenly stilled forever! No one among the many thousands who were present yesterday entered with lighter heart, more buoyant spirits, or apparently better health; and if you had been asked to select the one in that great throng whom Death would strike first, she would have been the last you would have selected. I saw her on Tuesday as she sat in her place, her face beaming with delight as she listened to the music, and I saw her again on yesterday, as she suddenly fell into the arms of her brother like a rose snapped from its stem; and I can scarcely yet comprehend that she is dead. She breathed her last breath as Parepa was singing the angelic song, "Let the Bright Seraphim," and she passed from among us and joined those seraphim and continued the song. And it seems to me, if I had been permitted to look into that far country, that I should have seen her sitting by the side of the angelic old master, Handel, telling him of the celestial song which so suddenly died upon her ears in the presence of the vast multitude, whose song was as the voice of many waters, and that I should have seen him bending forward, with a thoughtful look, and listening to her as she told him of the "Messiah," which she had heard on the day before she died. I know that she and the master will be friends through all eternity, and thus the majesty of genius and the beauty of loveliness will be joined together forever.

And to him who sits in bereavement to-day, may there come consolation and the gift of the tender pity of the Great Father, and may the darkened homes in Boston and Chicago be made holy for all his and their coming days, with the recollections of her loveliness and true womanly character.

It is a clear, cloudless day, and had that man Gilmore, with the steam engine inside of him, made special arrangements with the weather-clerk, he could not have secured a more auspicious day. The crowd yesterday was great, but the crowd to-day is greater.

The programme to-day is purely a popular one. There are the overture to Fra Diavolo, a Peace March composed for the occasion by Janotta, whoever he is, which is not original and very tiresome; the inevitable Anvil Chorus, with the artillery and bells; a sensational and rather commonplace overture, built up by C. C. Converse, on "Hail Columbia;" and national airs, which the orchestra flounder through rather than play. Indeed, if you watch Wulf Fries, Rosa, Schultze, or any of the leading players, you see their faces all scowled up as they wade through so much musical swash, so unworthy of the great orchestra. In fact, there is no atmosphere of art here to-day. The only feature of interest in the Fra Diavolo overture is the trumpet solo, which is taken by fifty instruments instead of one, and gives out a clarion blast which might wake the dead. The rest of the overture, however does not go well. The second violins are shocking. Gilmore has not got them well in hand. In the Grand March, done by Janotta for the occasion, there are reminiscences all the way through, of Tannhauser, the Coronation and the Wedding March, and the connecting links are very weak, sometimes almost stupid. The man who writes marches for such an orchestra should be inspired. He should feel the electricity of the great audience tingling through his veins. Heavens! If only Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Handel, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Rossini, anybody, were living to write for this organ and orchestra. We want columbiads and have got pop-guns—a mountain thunder-storm, and we have a silly April rain—a Jeremiah, and we have nothing better than Daniel Pratt. Converse's trivial arrangement of "Hail Columbia" is no better, perhaps not so good. It is profanation to devote a thousand instruments and an organ four times the power of that in the Music Hall to such commonplaces. The old masters would have died contented once to have got the baton in their hands with such a massing of instruments and voices for the production of their works. Then, again, we are treated to Bilse's "Marche Militaire," to the "Star Spangled Banner," the "Harp that Once thro' Tara's Halls," and the overture to "Stradella," all good enough in their way and in their place. But how feeble, how purposeless, how silly they all are in this place! What does Hercules want of a wax doll? Or Samson of a child's grasp to carry off the gates of Gaza?

We have again the "Anvil Chorus." To be sure, it goes well. The artillery is fired with strict precision, because it can't be fired any other way. It emphasizes the initial notes of the bars very grandly and very effectively, but then what is the use of emphasizing such stuff at all? The firemen pound their anvils very precisely, and on the very second of time, and make a very hearty cling-clang; but it would be to more purpose were a hundred horses waiting to be shod. There is no music in all this. It is noisy; it is sensational; it is humbug; it is anything you please—but music. And yet the audience is hugely delighted and they demand the bis each day; and this, too, in Boston, where the purists live—where art is supposed to have its home and flourish like the green bay tree. Tell it not in Gath that a Boston audience has encored Verdi's Anvil Chorus, performed by red-shirted firemen, batteries of artillery, etc., and allowed the grand chorals of Luther and "He Watching Over Israel," which were done as they have never been done before—which were so full of sublimity and majesty and dignity, and so musically excellent in their treatment that it made one's heart fairly stop beating—to go by almost without recognition. It seemed to me that all possibilities of life and all conditions of the hereafter were bound up in that performance of Mendelssohn's chorus. Zerrahn himself approached it with fear and trembling. The organ was silenced. The instruments were toned down. He would not even trust himself upon the conductor's stand, but took his place right in the heart of the vast chorus. How sweetly the sopranos take the opening of the theme, and then come the tenors alone—"Shouldst thou walking in grief." How sublimely that prayer is delivered? Then how part after part rises in splendid climax and finally dies away in a soft piano, with just the faintest ripple of sounding, like the plashing of waves on a beach, stealing across the orchestra! There is a slapping of hands among the audience as if the music had been tolerated, but they will go crazy when the Anvil Chorus comes.

To-day, I have sat within three rows of the conductor's stand. The effect is very grand, but it is more noise than music, and you can put nothing together. If you go to the rear of the hall, you get a better harmonic blending and less noise. Indeed, a thousand performers in Farwell Hall would make just as much noise as the ten thousand performers do in the Coliseum, or, rather, the effect would strike you with equal power. It is probable that no amount of technical skill upon the part of the conductor, or of force and fidelity upon the part of the singers, could change this. It is impossible for such a great body of sound, occupying such a vast space, to reach a single ear with anything like its full force, or even with any degree of regularity; and if you watch the conductor, you will be still more confused, for, apparently, he is beating ahead of time—such is the discrepancy of time between the blow of the baton and the speed with which time travels. The chorus may, and with trivial exceptions does, follow the beat of the conductor with great precision, but the confusion is always noticeable. Again, the distance from those in the rear of the chorus to the front ranks is very large, and, although all may start upon the beat, by the time the sounds reach you, there is a difference, very slight, it is true, but nevertheless perceptible, especially in words ending with "s," "t," or any harsh letter. In the long notes of the chorals which are decidedly the features of the concert, you do not notice it so much, but, in many of the quick choruses, sometimes everything seems at sea to you, when, in reality, it is going very smoothly. With so vast a chorus, also, it is very difficult to preserve the delicate transitions. You can get a fortissimo or a pianissimo, but it is extremely difficult to get the forte and piano. The tendency of this multitude is either to sing too loud or too soft, and there is the same fact noticeable upon the part of the orchestra. With the organ it is different. Mr. Wilcox, at any moment he pleases, has the power in his hands to drown chorus and orchestra both, with its thunder. Its tones fairly pierce through and through the aggregate of sound at times with almost startling effect, and, wherever there is a weak spot, it can be covered up without difficulty. In the chorals, the power is specially manifested. In the hands of a skillful person, one beat of a baton would be all that was necessary to keep the chorus to its work. It could not get away from that organ if it tried—the pedal bass is so immense, so uplifting and so sustaining.

I think there is a universal disappointment in regard to the volume of sound to be produced by this chorus. People have imagined that the sound of ten thousand voices in the Coliseum, for instance, would be ten times as loud as one thousand voices in the Music Hall; but in reality it is no louder. They did not make calculations for the increased size of the building and the obstacles placed in the way of the traveling of sound and grasping it with the ear. My own disappointment has been a happy one. I had thought the noise would be simply noise, but the noise has been music. It has now been thoroughly proved that a chorus and orchestra of this size can be manipulated and not only be made to sing and play together, but to sing and play with expression and even approximate to a certain degree of light and shade. But yet, apart from the magnetism, there is in such a vast human presence, I do not see that the increase in numbers is really an advantage in making effects. It was a splendid experiment to try, however, and it speaks volumes for the skill of Mr. Gilmore, who conceived and organized it, and for Mr. Zerrahn, who has conducted the oratorio and classical parts of the programme.

June 18, 1869.

The crowd is not quite so large as that of yesterday, and yet the building is well filled. The programme was almost exclusively classical, and was opened with Weber's brilliant "Jubilee Overture," with the baton in Eichberg's hands. It was not given very effectively until the national theme in the finale was reached. This was played superbly by the brasses. The Fifth Symphony of Beethoven was only given in part, the Andante and last half of the Finale being played. It was something to be grateful for, to get even a fraction of the symphony, but it seemed almost cruel to cut the work or mar its unity in the least. It is the first time I have seen the orchestra really get down to its work as if they loved it. There was no talking among them, no listlessness. Every man sat in his place as eager for the start as a hound to slip from his leash, one eye upon Zerrahn, and the other upon his score. Two policemen standing in the aisle near the first violinists are talking together, and Carl Rosa and a half dozen others snap at them to stop their gossip. Apropos of Carl Rosa, he has proved himself an artist through this jubilee. He has been in his place every day promptly at the hour, and has played through every note of every programme. I regret that Ole Bull, who has been in the city during the whole week, only appeared on the opening day. It will be a matter of surprise to his admirers that he should so far have lacked enthusiasm as to absent himself upon such an occasion. The two movements of the symphony were played conscientiously and con amore, and there was little to ask for which was not given in its production.

Zerrahn seems to have a partiality for Mendelssohn, for when he came to the "Elijah" chorus, "Thanks be to God, He laveth the thirsty land," his instructions were more than usually explicit. The chorus, however, did not get the beat, and for a moment there was danger of a catastrophe. Zerrahn left his stand as quick as a rocket, and, waving his baton, went down into the chorus. The electricity of his manner fused the discordant elements, and with "The waters gather they rush along," all were together. Zerrahn remained at his post, and Schultze took the orchestra in hand, with his bow for baton, and the two batons moved like magic, and chorus and orchestra played like magic to the end, sweeping through the jubilant number like the march of a storm. If the chorus had never sung any thing else this would have paid for the difficulties of organization and been a rich remuneration for all the labors.

Miss Phillipps made her second appearance of the season, and was cordially greeted. She sang the familiar "Lascia Pianga" of Handel's, which is one of her concert favorites. She appeared to much better advantage than on Tuesday, mainly because the selection was in better taste; but, sitting even as near as I did, her voice seemed hard and cold and she was evidently singing with great effort. At the close, the enthusiasm of the chorus, joined with that of the audience, secured her an encore, which she acknowledged by repeating the air, and singing part of it to the chorus.

The programme was closed with the Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah, the whole chorus, orchestra and audience rising to their feet while it was performed. In spite of its inherent difficulties and broken time, it was carried through superbly, and as the final "Amen" pealed out with majestic power, the Jubilee was at an end, so far as the great chorus was concerned.

June 19, 1869.

The day of Jubilee has gone. The great Peace Festival has passed into the annals of musical history. The outside halo of peace which encircled it shone so dimly that I do not conceive any national significance attaches to it. It is to be judged purely as a musical event, and it will take its place in musical annals as an ambitious and bold experiment, and, in large degree, as a grand success. There were points open to honest criticism, and some of these points I have indicated in these letters; but many of these defects were beyond the remedy either of conductor or chorus. It was a musical success, because it has shown that ten thousand people can sing together and one thousand instruments play together, not only both in time and tune, but also with sufficient expression to make effects. It is not to be denied that some very paltry music has been played—in fact, the whole programme of Thursday was devoted just to this class of music—and that many of the numbers in each day were purely meretricious and sensational. But the bare fact of the organization and manipulation of such a vast chorus and orchestra stands now, and will always stand, as a monument of which the projector and his assistants have a right to be proud.

The great chorus dispersed last evening, having accomplished its arduous work. Exhausted as they must have been with the four days' task, I doubt whether any one of the ten thousand singers closed his or her book without regret. It was something to be proud of to have sung and played at this Jubilee. I can appreciate the feelings of a prominent Chicago bass singer, who had been only a listener during a portion of the programme on Friday. The next number was the grand chorus, "Thanks be to God," from "Elijah." He hurried over to me, and, seizing me by the collar, said: "Tell me how I can get into that chorus. I cannot stand this any longer. I must sing the Elijah piece." I directed him how to get admission, and the next I saw of him he was in the front rank of the bassos, joining his voice with the thousands around him in the grand swelling anthem of praise.

To-day has been given almost exclusively to the school-children. It was a grand sight to look at the adult chorus, but it was a beautiful sight to look at the children. Eight thousand of them were gathered together from the public schools. The girls were clad in white, and filled the wings, the boys occupying the places of the tenors and bassos. The children arrived promptly—do they ever arrive any other way?—and took their places without a particle of disorder. The white dresses of the girls, trimmed with ribbons of varied colors, their fresh young faces, and the eager, enthusiastic faces of the boys, made up a picture of beauty not often looked upon. It was like a huge garden parterre of flowers, and, as great shafts of sunlight shot in through the windows and bathed them with gold, and fans waved in the happy throng like the wings of a multitude of birds, it made a sight which may be the sight of a lifetime. The audience also was an immense one, completely filling the building, and thus the coup d'oeil was fully as beautiful, if not as imposing, as on any day during the week.

The performance commenced with the overture to "William Tell," which was rendered with more animation than on Wednesday. The effects of the cellos, headed by Wulf Fries, were particularly striking. Never before have I heard this noblest of all instruments develop the human voice tones as it has to-day. The applause had hardly subsided when Eichberg rapped the juvenile chorus to attention with his baton. The rising of the children was not like that of the adults. The latter invariably rose slowly and successively, rank after rank. The children, in their impatience, fairly sprang to their feet, and stood, books in hand, eager for the signal. When it was given, they took the beat together grandly, and commenced "Hail Columbia" in unison. As they progressed, however, the instruments were quicker than they, and there was some lagging, but the effect was very novel and striking. Although the girls outnumbered the boys, the latter's voices were much stronger and made themselves most clearly heard. The freshness, purity and clearness of the voices easily rendered them superior to the orchestra, and even the organ seemed to affect them but little. There was no difficulty in hearing them, for each one of the little people was singing for dear life and working with all the zest and enthusiasm of a child's nature. By some process known only to children, they came out together at the end of each stanza, although they sometimes diverged widely in the middle.

Think of children singing Mercadante's music! But they did it, and superbly, too. His chorus, "Now the Twilight Softly Stealing," was given by them admirably. It was arranged as a solo for sopranos and altos, and then taken in unison by the full chorus, and I have no musical memory sweeter than the cadences of that chorus, which were given with such beauty and freshness by these children.

Miss Phillipps is set down for the next number, and, as she advances down through the musicians to the stand, the children give her a handsome ovation, the girls waving their handkerchiefs and the boys cheering as only boys can cheer. She is going to sing the brindisi from Lucrezia Borgia—"II Segreto." Everybody has heard her sing it in the bewitching role of Maffeo Orsini, but we may never hear her sing it again under circumstances like these, for she is now singing it to at least forty thousand people. Eichberg was cool enough with the children, but he is very nervous now, and he gives the tempo so fast to the orchestra that Rosa and half a dozen others look up in surprise. Adelaide herself grows pale and says to him, "Too fast, too fast." The baton moves slower—and how marvelously the instruments obey! It is all right. Adelaide does not look much like Maffeo in her high-necked white dress, but she sings the famous drinking-song in excellent taste, and succeeds in making her voice heard throughout the hall better than she has heretofore. She gets a hearty encore, and repeats the aria, accompanying it this time with a prolonged trill, which was superbly formed.

Again, the children are on their feet. Brinley Richards' solo and chorus "So Merrily over the Ocean Spray," are the numbers. The air is given with a rocking, undulating rhythm, which is admirably preserved by the children, and the effect gains in intensity as the full chorus and organ add their volume of sound.

Almost before the children are in their seats, the tall form of Ole Bull comes down the aisle, and they rise and give him a hearty reception. He chooses his little andante minor melody, the "Mother's Prayer," bends his head over his violin, closes his eyes, and plays away, ravishingly sweet, but so pianissimo that only the orchestra and a few of the front rows can hear him. Those who do hear him have a great treat, and the orchestra is so charmed that it raps lustily upon the backs of its violins.

Parepa, clad in an elegant black moire-antique, receives an enthusiastic ovation. She sings "Let the Glad Seraphim," which she sang the other day when poor Mrs. Dunlap was dying, accompanied by Arbuckle whose cornet needs only a few tricks of tonguing to be superior to Levy's. What superb responses the cornet makes to her, and how perfectly voice and instrument match each other! It is something to remember, this duo. But there is another duo even better. It is Rossini's matchless Quis est Homo. And who is to sing it? Only Parepa and Adelaide Phillipps! Aren't you glad now you came to the Jubilee? I will wager something you will never hear this sung again as these two women sing it. I am afraid hereafter I shall listen to the amateurs practising the great duo with less than my usual patience. I never expect to hear it sung better. I never expected it would be allowed me to hear it sung so well. What expression! What style! What artistic method! What a rare and rich vocal blending! Even the orchestra gets enthusiastic, and some of the old veterans look up in absolute surprise at this alto in white and this soprano in black, as they reach the cadenza in a magnificent burst of melody, which starts people to their feet, wild with enthusiasm, crying bravo, waving handkerchiefs, hats, canes and umbrellas. Of course, they have to repeat it, and of course everybody gets wild again.

And then the children sing Old Hundred, and the audience rising, sings it with them. And they sing well, for there are only 9,000 of the choristers in the audience. Isn't it sublime?

And the Jubilee is over. The music is hushed. The voice of the great organ is silent. The great waves of the chorus have subsided. The singers and the players have gone, but I think, to their latest day, they will not tire of telling their children that they sang and played at the great Peace Jubilee.

There are a few parting incidents in the press room, and among them a very graceful deed upon the part of the orchestra in presenting Mr. Gilmore with an elegant watch and chain. And then everybody gives Gilmore three cheers.

The man who has carried this thing in his head two years, and finally organized it into a success, smilingly says:

"Gentlemen: We propose to repeat this Jubilee as a centennial—one hundred years hence. You are all engaged."

One hundred years hence! Every heart in the great sea of humanity which has surged in and out of the Coliseum this week will be silent then. We shall all be silent then. We shall all be sleeping the sleep of the just, with a stone at our heads and a stone at our feet, where no sound of music can reach us. Other voices will sing above us, and other instruments play, and little shall we reck of it. The record of the Jubilee will outlive us all. But will they have in the music of the future anything better, anything grander, anything sublimer than the music of this week has been?

I think not. And so to the great chorus whose sound has been as the voice of many waters; to the great orchestra which has given us the immortal Fifth Symphony as Beethoven never heard it given; to the mighty pulsation of the great organ heart; to the voices of the children in their sweet, fresh unison; to her that died in the midst of the music, and was translated to the heavens in a chariot of harmony, whose beauty, and loveliness, and true womanliness will be forever sacred to those who knew her; to the Peace Jubilee, with all its pleasant associations and grand accomplishments, hail and farewell.

"Let us have peace."