forlorn, subduing despair, which have never
been reproduced—could never be exceeded. It
was strange that though, night after night, she
was exactly in the same place, with the same
semblance of emotion, the same marvellous treatment
of that husky, defective instrument, her
voice—though we looked out for the moment
and listened for the tone, when the moment and
the tone came, there was a thrill of unexpectedness
in them, which entirely removed the display
from any impression of foresight or mechanism.
She had the marvellous firmness and discretion
to choose what was best and most complete as
expressing her own conceptions: and the choice
grew so real to herself, as to become a part of
herself and her art, and thus to be a spontaneous
manifestation, when the spell was on
her, to call up any among her "beings of the
mind." Madame Giula Grisi (Giuditta Grisi, her
elder sister, was the first Romeo in Bellini's
Shakespeare opera) has passed as having worn
Pasta's mantle: but her attempt at Romeo in
I Montecchi, to the Juliet of Madame
Persiani, was one of those things to be forgiven
and forgotten. In truth, the part is one not
easy to fill; by either man or woma: and the
love-tragedy has yet to be placed on the musical
stage.

The French have an odd constancy about
two works, by strange authors, largely popular.
In music, they have not got far as regards
Handel, beyond his Chantons Victoire, "See the
conquering hero comes," and shake their heads
in the sweet peace of ignorance when his Israel
is mentioned. Oui, c'est sublime! Hallelujah.
And the French Shakespearians of late time,
who saw Miss Smithson, and that more real
artist, Charles Kemble, move Paris to tears,
seem to have clung very fast to the "love, still
love" of Shakespeare's young passion-play.
Such, at least, has been the case with that
singular, clever, paradoxical, unmusical musician,
M. Berlioz. He has symphonised the story,
and in an extraordinary manner. Honest
enthusiasm never took a more amazing form than
in his case, when he tried to make his orchestra
tell the ancient feud betwixt Montagu and
Capulet, the meeting at the masquerade—after
which Rosalind was to be loved no more—the
parting, the poisoning, the death. It is noticeable,
that to give some relief of piquancy, as
well as symphonic variety, to a sentimental story,
it has been found necessary to bring out Queen
Mab, not as in Mercutio's recital, but as part
and parcel of the tale. The odd, orchestral
scherzo, with its harmonic harp effects, is due
to this bright idea. The Nurse, and Peter the
Nurse's fan-bearer, are left out. But in such
wise do the French read Shakespeare, considering
him as a sort of literary Milor Maire, to be
treated with huge respect in their own way.

The pretensions of this extraordinary, most
unmusical piece of music, have not been
altogether advanced in vain. Its length, its
obscurity, the accumulation of useless executive
material  (we have seen it performed with
thirteen harps added to the usual orchestra), its
extreme difficulty, have all had charms for
unmusical people. How should their honest souls
suspect that the whole partakes largely of the
character of solemn nonsense?—how comprehend
that, for the sake of one good quality,
brightness and variety in orchestral sonority,
poverty of idea, and want of grammatical correctness,
were to be accepted? It is a cumbrous
mistake made by a self-willed, self-deceived man,
who conceives scale and size as sufficient for a
work of art, be the beauty, the purpose, the
cohesion, ever so small: an attempt at music
which will never be accepted as an achievement
save within the influences of the very marked
personality of its author.

How a Neapolitan marquis, II Marchese Berio,
stumbled on Othello as the subject for an opera,
it would not be easy to divine. As set by Signor
Rossini, it is his finest tragic musical drama;
a gallery of Paul Veronese pictures (for The
Remorse of Cain, in the Madrid Gallery, reminds us
that Paul Veronese could be simply and intensely
pathetic as well as gorgeous). There is a florid
exuberance in the two first acts of Otello,
whether in the entry of the successful Moor, in
the scene where Desdemona's secret is revealed
—in the garden duet—a most forcible example
of rage and despair thrown into forms of the
wildest brilliancy—in the heroine's heart-broken
suspense over the fate of her lord, and dismay
at being disowned by her father, which reminds
us of the sumptuous Venetian fancy of the
painter, who heaped his brocades, and jewels,
and heavy velvet draperies, even on his martyr
scenes. The third act is of a totally different
character till the catastrophe is reached, and
standing as it does, almost, if not altogether
alone in music, deserves a few words of separate
study.

What Mendelssohn did by the Midsummer
Night's Dream, was done by Signor Rossini
with that last act of Otello. To re-set it would
be simply impossible. Signor Rossini has been,
not unjustly, accused of too great a contempt of
passion and situation, of too implicit a reliance
on the merely sensual allurements of music.
But his third act of Otello is a specimen of
melancholy pathos and frenzy, consistent with
the most lavish display of beauty, with the most
noble simplicity of expressive means, which
places it alone in the world of musical drama.
Desdemona's sad memories—her tearful
misgivings, darkened by presentiment—the gondolier
passing her window with his waft of melancholy
melody—her willow song—her waking up
at last to the frenzied despair and attempt at self-
protection, of one in the face of violent death
(this not Shakespearian)—these things are as
true in their strength to move, and therefore as
permanent, as the great passages in Handel's
Messiah, as the infernal and Elysian scenes in
Gluck's Orphée. How has that third act tempted
and displayed the best of the best singers!
Pasta, first of all; then Malibran, more fervid,
more unequal (there is a portrait of her Desdemona
at the harp, which is the best portrait of