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Rh ect for the composer to alter his excepting in such places as he has piacere for the purpose."

we were sipping our coffee the told us this anecdote: "The ," said she, "is secondary to the in which it is used. I had not a voice at all. It was one of great pass, but thick (velata) and not at exible, and I had great difficulty to it in tune. I was not successful years. I overcame all my  by hard study. Perseverance  wonders for me: it will for any one determines to battle all obstacles conquer them. I had no natural e or trill, and as the music of forty s ago was very elaborate and full hakes, this was a great drawback . For five years I struggled to the much-desired power of trilling.  day it came to me as by inspiration,  shake perfectly. I did not say a  about my victory to any one, being to exhibit it for the first time re the public. I was then at Berga and acting in Niobe, an opera  an aria which suited my voice etly in every respect, but which I  been hitherto obliged to omit in part,  long trill obligato opens the quick ement or cabaletta. I did not ven even to admit the orchestra to the of my secret. I simply told conductor to suspend the instruments passage in question, as I was going a long cadenza. That when I came to the passage in I stood in the middle of the stage commenced a shake in a low key, increasing it in power, and ly diminishing and ending it in a nza which linked it to the aria with ct ease. The orchestra and the ic were so surprised that for a or two there was a dead silence in  theatre, and then the musicians laid their instruments and applauded o the echo. It was one of the lights of my life."

By this time we had finished our repast, and Signora Pasta led us to the saloon, a large and cheerfully furnished apartment. The conversation turned on the subject of Norma and the Sonnambula, two operas with which Pasta's name is for ever linked. "Norma," said she, "was not a success on the first night." (It was produced at the Scala at Milan.) "I was the Norma, and Giulia Grisi, then quite a girl, the Adalgisa. We all acted and sang as well as we could, but there was some cabal or other amongst the Milanese to put the opera down, and it was little applauded. The next night was better, and within the week half the town was singing 'Casta Diva.' The Sonnambula pleased at once, although the part of Amina was scarcely suited to me; still I did it well, and liked it. Of all my characters, the one I preferred was Desdemona. I used to act the last scene famously. You know Othello gets Desdemona out of her bed, and has a struggle with her, and a duet too, before he kills her."

Madame Pasta remarked that most people, when they study a song, never pause to read and study the words, but set to work at once upon the air. This, she observed, was very absurd, and she advised Miss Vaughan, before beginning to learn an aria, to master the full meaning of its words, so as to give them their right expression. "A song," she said, "is a dramatic recitation; only, instead of speaking, you sing it. If it is cheerful, you must contrive, without exaggeration, however, to phrase it mirthfully; if it be sad, sorrowfully; and if tragic, with as much dignity as you can command." She then imitated, to our great amusement, the ordinary young lady's style of singing a sentimental ballad, in a monotone about as expressive as a fishwoman crying "Herrings."

When we were quite at our ease, Madame Pasta invited Miss Vaughan to sing. The young lady sang the contralto cavatina from Semiramide, "A quel giorno!" The great artist was