Last night a wet, splashy February evening every sense of discomfort was dispelled, and all our interest absorbed in the music, as if we heard it for the first time. A very few moments after the time named on the programme Charles Halle appeared, and the hush of pleased expectation stole over the miscellaneous company assembled at the Free Trade Hall. Glancing over the orchestra, we recognise many familiar faces Seymour in his accustomed place, though the lapse of years has left unmistakable signs on his face and figure, still discourses sweet music on his violin, which he handles as if he loved it ; now he plays seriously, not as in bygone times, when one has seen his gravity disturbed by the frolicsome Jacoby ; the latter has now subsided into a grave middle-aged man. De Jong is still there and Baetens but Richardson is gone, and some few others we miss. From this reverie we are aroused by the sharp tap of the baton, and a flood of music flows around. This dies away a vocalist has the next part then again the instruments have their turn ; all is delicious, but we wait for the treat of the evening, Charles Halle's solo on the piano ; the silence which had previously reigned deepens and becomes intense as we watch his fingers fly over the keys, wooing the music from them. If it did not seem fanciful, I should say the sensation is almost that of playing on one's very heart-strings we almost forbear to breathe. To those who have not heard him I cannot convey any idea of the power and sweetness of Halle's playing; while those who have had that pleasure need no words on the subject from me. << less