coming known as pianist, betook himself to the
stage, wandered across the Alps from Germany
into the Italian theatres (then great theatres),
there produced opera after opera, only one of
which—"Le Crociato"—survives even in name,
and not till he was aged forty asserted any right
to catch and to hold the ear of Europe, by the
production at Paris of his "Robert le Diable."

It may be "calm and classical," as one Mrs.
Jarley put it, to decry the five operas written
by Meyerbeer for Paris—nevertheless, they have
held Paris fast during thirty years—and before
Paris had Meyerbeer Paris had Auber, and had
Rossini, with his stupendous second act of
"Guillaume Tell." There can be no doubt
that "Robert" is one of the most popular
operas of modern times; and yet it is tedious
in places—in places chargeable with a desperate
frivolity—in places spoiled by unnatural affectation.
It cannot be said that it is the mere show
of the drama—the delicious device of the
dancing dead nuns, which has kept the work
alive, and the great cathedral scene in the
last act. I have seen it relished in the tiny,
barn–like theatres of small German towns; and
a curious recollection rises of a performance of
this kind at Freiburg, in the Breisgau, on
a sweltering summer evening, where the hero,
heroine, and Fiend–Father were so fat,
besides being very old, that it would have been
hardly possible to niche in a fourth character
among them, had a quartet been the desideratum,
—so narrow was the stage.—The sound
of their crying–out on that breathless evening
was to be heard half way up the hill behind the
exquisite lace–work spire of the cathedral. Yet
never was opera better welcome anywhere, even
when the prima donna happens to be called a
Lind or a Grisi. The public believed and
trembled—believed and shouted—cared nothing for
the haggard scenery and the rubbishing faded
dresses, but went into the tale of the Devil, the
Evil One, and the saintly girl (I have some idea
that the Princess was left out of the legend—
as has happened in London at Her Majesty's),
with an honest credulity and rapture which I
have never seen exceeded.

Not one of the least curious facts which can
be put on record in regard to this popular
opera, is, that it has, probably, never been
adequately cast, save by the four first artists, Cinti–
Damoureau, Falcon, Nourrit, and Levasseur,
who were brought together for its first personation.
—I have never heard a tenor sing the music
precisely as it was written: neither Duprez the
magnificent, nor Mario the fascinating, nor
Tamberlik the vigorous. It was Meyerbeer's habit to
load his artists with responsibilities beyond their
powers. He would exact the very highest and the
very lowest note from every given woman and
man. He delighted in combinations of the utmost
eccentricity and difficulty (witness the triple
cadenza in the unaccompanied trio from this
very "Robert"),—he would heap instrument on
instrument in accompaniment, as though he had
set himself to crush and not to support the
voice. I have never heard any performance of
"Robert" without that most tantalising of
impressions that "something was all but going
wrong."

With all this, the vitality of the work is intense,
and has kept it, and will keep it, on the stage.
What alternate luxury, brilliancy, and piquancy
are in the ballet music—how striking is the
organ effect in the last act (Meyerbeer's best
last act)!—Who needs to be reminded of the
amount of vigorous passion in the well–known
song "Grace" (the delight of excruciating
amateurs, who, were they wise as a race, would
avoid the Princess Isabella's almost frantic pleading
—as a deadly snare by no means to be stumbled
into in quiet Christian drawing–rooms).
—The Waltz of the Demons sounds somewhat
old already, it is true, and the scene of the Saint
and the Fiend, below the foot of the crucifix, is
forced and hysterical, if it be measured against
any of Signer Rossini's combinations of emotion
(as, for instance, those in "Otello"), but that
"Robert," as an opera, stands, and will stand,
I believe, as I believe (with a difference) in the
consummate beauty of Gluck's "Orpheus," or in
the delicious melodious comicality showered
over " Il Barbière" and " La Cenerentola."

What has been said, applies still more closely
to "Les Huguenots." Curiously enough,
Meyerbeer seemed to follow the same instincts
as those which moved his old fellow–pupil under
Voget—Weber.—After Weber's "Der
Freischutz" came his "Euryanthe." After Meyerbeer's
weird "Robert" came the chivalresque
French story of St. Bartholomew's Night,
by much the grandest historical opera in
being. How a man so timid, a Hebrew to
boot, could pitch on a subject so wide, so elaborate,
and so difficult, as he is among the anomalies
of genius.—"Les Huguenots" has never
been seen in all its pomp and pleasure (as
Coleridge hath it), since its first few years in Paris,
beginning with 1836. The unwieldy length of
the whole five hours and a half on its first
representations has rendered compression and
sacrifice of its earlier portions inevitable; save
those could be presented point–device. Yet,
so presented, how delightful they were! The
opening scene in the Hôtel de Nevers, with
its gallants and its chess–players, and the
Huguenot chevalier entrapped into the midst of
this good–for–little, yet altogether delightful
society;—the exquisite chorus "L'aventure est
singulière," when the young Catholic nobles
try to penetrate the mystery of the masked
lady, make up as fine and perfect picture–
music (French picture–music, to boot) as exists.
They are as clear and brilliant as if one of
Watteau's most richly–finished groups could be
put into sound. So, too, are the scenes at the
court of Chenonceaux, in the second act of
"Les Huguenots," wonderfully exciting the
attention, and charming the sense, by their spirit
and luxury—before the tragic passion of the
story has begun to stir itself. Yet three–fourths
of these two acts are now of necessity
suppressed, if only out of consideration to the
performers. In no other opera that I know, is the