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legal rights, but it was not conducted with any judgment, nor had the man who exercised those rights sufficient force of character to impose upon public opinion, or to resist the outery which his proceedings called forth. But it is quite possible that a Head-Master with an equally tyrannical impulse, but less shrill, more circumspect and rendered impervious by nature to external criticism, might clear his school of every independent agent, and reduce his Assistants to mere slaves and copyists. A man who is not rich and who has a family to support will stretch a good many points of compliance, and bear a great deal of mortification before he will consent to be ruined; while the younger men who have more heart to resist can be plucked out or wedged out by the exercise of a little skill and care. Such a state of affairs is surely beyond all apology or defence, and that it should be kept up to the detriment of an entire profession, sapping their independence, their spirit and courage, for the sake of that imaginary man of genius who may some time arise and be able to bear heroically this wonderful burden of honour, is a solemn folly, which only the seriousness of the harm it may do keeps from absurdity. Even the man of genius himself might not conjoin wisdom with his other great qualities. And what if it was the Assistant and not the Head-Master who was the man of genius-a chance which does not seem to have occurred to any one concerned? In such a case, who can doubt that it would be he, and no other, who must inevitably be the chosen victim?

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La Scala.

IN the golden age of Italian opera, Milan might fairly have laid claim to the title of musical capital of Italy. The Fenice at Venice, the

Apollo at Rome, and the San Carlo of Naples, could each reckon up its memorable "long runs" and famous premières, but for number and brilliancy of operatic triumphs not one of these could compete with La Scala of Milan, the subject of this paper.

Milan's musical reputation is more than fourteen centuries older than the Scala Theatre; St. Ambrose established it by bringing thither his chant, which soon after on the Empress Justina's deciding that singing should be generally introduced into the churches, "so it might keep up the spirits of the people in troublous times"-was copied or imitated throughout Italy, and in this way became the prototype of all Christian church music. St. Augustine heard it when at Milan, and said that as he listened he was constrained to "weep sweet tears of joy." Even to this day, musical amateurs visit the Duomo with no little curiosity, there to take note of its correct and traditional rendering. With church music, however, we have not here to deal. But it is a mistake, though one common to many writers, to suppose that all even of the operatic associations of Milan are centred in the Scala. The old Royal Ducal Theatre had quite a store of interesting memories attached to it. It was a fine house, fitted up in a style of almost unheard-of luxury-in those days; facing every box, on the other side of the gallery, was an elegant sitting-room, with a fire-place and card-tables: the stage was celebrated for the splendour of its mise en scène, a characteristic far from common at that period. The performances took place all the week round excepting Fridays, and with this continued strain on their exertions it is not to be wondered that the principal artists fell ill now and then, and were obliged to disappoint their patrons. On one occasion, in 1770, the audience were informed that their favourite Garibaldi, an excellent tenor singer, would not be forthcoming that evening. His part had to be cut out, and the opera was proceeding flatly enough, when the baritone who played the querulous "heavy father," and whose business it was to soundly rate his son (the absent tenor), hit upon the expedient of vigorously admonishing the prompter instead, which so pleased the simple-minded audience that they went away quite consoled for Garibaldi's non-appearance.

It was for the Royal Ducal Theatre, as we have ascertained by inves- . tigations made on the spot, that Mozart composed his two operas,

Mitridate and Lucio Silla, which Henry Beyle (de Stendahl) states to have been written for the Scala. There is no more delightful episode in all musical history than that of these fledgeling flights of the composer of the Zauberflöte. When old Luitpold Mozart took Wolfgang Amadeo to Milan, the musical world was already cognisant of the existence of the wonderful child who at six years old had written a full scored concerto, the only objection to which was, that it was so difficult nobody could play it, but his operatic genius had yet to be revealed. At this time he was a merry joyous boy, brimming over with fun and drollery-somewhat of an enfant terrible, who told his mind to kings and princes, more especially if they played the violin out of tune in his hearing-but the most loving and loveable little soul on earth. An entire child, revelling in the Arabian Nights, toiling over his sums, jumping and capering from one end of the room to the other, sending millions of kisses to his "dear manima," and tender inquiries after "Mr. Canary" to his "Cara sorella," but already a splendid performer on the clavier, an exquisite composer, and an acute musical critic! Such letters were never written as those despatched by the brother at Milan to the sister at Salzburg. With what charming naïveté the boy speaks of his compositions and of his successes, seeming to have not the slightest suspicion that he is the extraordinary phenomenon every one else considers him. What exuberance of gladness is shown in the multifarious little jokes and mystifications bandied to and fro between Nannerl and Wolfgang. He writes to his sister after one of these playful sallies: "I immediately said to papa, 'Oh! how I do wish I was as clever and witty as she is!' Then papa answered, 'Indeed, that is true enough;' on which I rejoined, 'Oh! I am so sleepy!' so he merely replied, 'Then stop writing.' Addio! pray to God that my opera may be successful. I am, your brother, W. M., whose fingers are weary from writing." It is to be feared that this was very often the case just at that time, for little Wolfgang was working tremendously hard at the opera Mitridate, Rè di Ponte, for which he had been scritturato at the Royal Ducal Theatre in the year 1770. Indeed, his father seemed rather anxious about the too serious look which appeared on the bright child-face as the result of this severe application, and begged kind friends at home to put a little mirth into their letters so as to make Wolfgang laugh. The boy amused himself in odd moments by talking on his fingers to the deaf and dumb son of the people with whom they lodged; he was exceedingly proud of his proficiency in this art.

When Mitridate was nearly finished, a terrible panic occurred-the prima donna expressed her doubts about the arias she had to sing. How was it possible that the small boy of fourteen should have composed a part worthy of being interpreted by the Signorina Antonia Bernasconi She asked to see her music. Wolfgang desired nothing better. He handed her one, two, three arias. The cantatrice eagerly tried them over, and then retired, completely bewildered with the genius of the marvellous child! Not only was the music lovely in itself, but it suited her

voice and style to a nicety. She rehearsed the airs with her maestro, Signor Lanpugnani, and the two could find no words for their joy in Wolfgang's compositions. But envious tongues were not wanting; someone went secretly to the Signorina and did his best, or worst, to turn little Wolfgang into ridicule; he had armed himself with a whole set of new airs to the same words by a Turinese Abbé, and he would fain have dissuaded the artist from singing a single note of the original music. However, La Antonia remained staunch and proof against all temptations, and the first stage rehearsal went off so well that the whole array of spiteful folk was completely discomfited. At last the great day arrived the festa of San Stefano, November 26, 1770. "Maestro Don Amadeo," as old Luitpold Mozart laughingly calls him, took his place at the clavier. The Royal Ducal Theatre was crammed to the ceiling; the opera was a magnificent success. All over the house were heard ringing cries of "Evviva il Maestrino!" intermingled with salvoes of applause. What must have been Luitpold Mozart's feelings when he looked out from his box and beheld Wolfgang making his best bow to the vast and delighted audience?

The year after that, Wolfgang brought out at Milan a dramatic serenata, which the Empress Maria Theresa had deputed him to compose for the nuptials of the Archduke Ferdinand with a Modenean princess. The veteran Hasse had to write an opera in honour of the same event, but the Milanese quite forgot to applaud "Il Divino," as they used to call him, in their enthusiasm for "Il Cavaliere Filamonico." Old Mozart declared that he was "quite sorry" that Wolfgang's serenata had so utterly knocked Hasse's opera on the head. But the veteran composer seems to have borne no enmity towards his young rival, for he said when he heard the music of Ascanio in Alba (the festal serenata), "This boy will cause us all to be forgotten"-a prophecy which the sequel almost pathetically verified. In the following year Mozart, then sixteen, wrote Lucio Silla, the last work he produced in Italy. During the preparations for its performance he had to undergo numberless annoyances" through the mismanagement of the blessed theatrical people," old Luitpold wrote--nor did these cease on the night of the first representation (November 26, 1772), for the whole audience was kept waiting in the theatre three hours after the proper time before the performance began. Moreover, the tenor had fallen ill, and a cathedral singer who was hastily put in his place, being quite unaccustomed to the boards, and having in one part to upbraid the prima donna, appeared so painfully in earnest that he looked as if he was going to box her ears. Of course the audience laughed, and it tells much in favour of the discrimination of these Milanese opera-goers that, notwithstanding all attendant mishaps, the opera came off triumphant, and ran some thirty nights. "Wolfgang is well," wrote Luitpold Mozart just at this time, "and while I am writing is making caprioles about the room." Mozart was the same mercurial being to the last; he was always passionately fond of

dancing, in which art he used to say his true taste lay rather than in music.

The Royal Ducal Theatre went the way of all its kind in 1776, when it was destroyed by fire. Two years later a new and magnificent house had been raised upon the site of the church of Santa Maria della Scala, its façade looking on the piazza of the same name, which then had its chief outlet into the Via del Giardino, but is now brought into connection with the Piazza del Duomo by the beautiful Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. The erection of the theatre was the undertaking of Count Ercole di Castelbarco, Prince Menafoglio di Rocca Sinibalda, and one or two other Lombard noblemen, who for the first season retained the management in their own hands. The celebrated Piermarini had drawn the designs after which it was built, and its size was such as enabled it to hold nearly four thousand people; while the great depth of the stage behind the curtain facilitated the attainment of a hitherto undreamt of perfection in scenic and spectacular effect. Salieri-who later became Mozart's bitter enemy-was commissioned to write an opera entitled Europa riconosciuta for the opening night, August 3, 1778.

So commenced the first period in the history of La Scala, about which not a little might be said were not musical antiquarianism too rare a taste for details to be much relished relating to the hopes and fears, the failures and successes of Alessandri and Anfossi, of Guglielmi (creator of the opera buffa) and Mosca (inventor of the crescendo), or even of Paer, Mayer, and Zingarelli. Cimarosa, who produced an opera at the Scala, is indeed still known-or, alas! should we not say known of?—but in this he stands almost alone. It is really melancholy to read over the names of the scores of composers who lived and wrote and gained the suffrages of their generation, and died and passed into everlasting oblivion, not so much because they were intrinsically unworthy of the laurel crowns of posterior fame as in obedience to the inevitable law by which the sun eclipses the twinkling stars of morning. "Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien" in more senses than that usually implied when using the French proverb; and the glory of these men was summarily extinguished by the full glare of Rossini's reputation. Therefore, leaving their forgotten ghosts in undisturbed repose, we will pass on to the days of him who was not inaptly styled Helios of Italy.

The circumstances which immediately preceded Rossini's advent in Milan read like a scene in a comedy. Off and on for two or three years he had been engaged in writing operas for the little Teatro San Mosè in Venice, the impresario of which doubtless considered him in the light of a very humble protégé, and imagined he could behave as he choose to a maestro in his teens. Rossini did not by any means fall in with this view of their mutual relationship, and his roguish humour at length suggested to him a ready and delightful revenge. He secretly put on paper all the ludicrous and outrageous orchestral combinations his fertile brain could furnish and introduced them into the score of the

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