s of this great singer, these words are found:

"Madame Malibran's voice was a mezzo-soprano of great volume and purity,
and had been brought to absolute perfection by the severe training of
her father. Her private character was irreproachable. Few women have
been more beloved for their amiability, generosity, and professional
enthusiasm. Her intellect was of a high order, and the charms of her
conversation fascinated all who were admitted into the circle of her
intimate friends. Her benefactions amounted to such considerable sums
that her friends were frequently obliged to interfere for the purpose of
regulating her finances."

Many stories are told, which show her kindness of heart. The following
is one of pathetic interest:

In a humble room in one of the poorest streets of London, Pierre, a
faithful French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother.
There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not
tasted food. Yet he sat humming to keep up his spirits. Still at times
he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely keep the
tears from his eyes; for he knew that nothing would be so grateful to
his poor invalid mother as a good, sweet orange, and yet he had not a
penny in the world.

The little song he was singing was his own--one he had composed, both
air and words--for the child was a genius.

He went to the window, and, looking out, saw a man putting up a great
bill with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing
that night in public.

"O, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then pausing a
moment, he clasped his hands, his eyes lighted with a new hope.

Running to the little stand, he smoothed his yellow curls, and taking
from a little box some old, stained paper, gave one eager glance at his
mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.

"Who did you say was waiting for me?" said the madame to her servant; "I
am already worn out with company."

"It's only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who said if he
can just see you he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep
you a moment."

"O, well, let him come in!" said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "I
can never refuse children."

Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his hand a little
roll of paper. With manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to
the lady, and, bowing, said:

"I came to see you because my mother is very sick, and we