ons
in the Duchess' box. But when the first chords on the harps preluded
the hymn of the delivered Israelites, the Prince and Vendramin rose and
stood leaning against the opposite sides of the box, and the Duchess,
resting her elbow on the velvet ledge, supported her head on her left
hand.

The Frenchman, understanding from this little stir, how important this
justly famous chorus was in the opinion of the house, listened with
devout attention.

The audience, with one accord, shouted for its repetition.

"I feel as if I were celebrating the liberation of Italy," thought a
Milanese.

"Such music lifts up bowed heads, and revives hope in the most torpid,"
said a man from the Romagna.

"In this scene," said Massimilla, whose emotion was evident, "science is
set aside. Inspiration, alone, dictated this masterpiece; it rose from
the composer's soul like a cry of love! As to the accompaniment, it
consists of the harps; the orchestra appears only at the last repetition
of that heavenly strain. Rossini can never rise higher than in this
prayer; he will do as good work, no doubt, but never better: the sublime
is always equal to itself; but this hymn is one of the things that will
always be sublime. The only match for such a conception might be found
in the psalms of the great Marcello, a noble Venetian, who was to music
what Giotto was to painting. The majesty of the phrase, unfolding itself
with episodes of inexhaustible melody, is comparable with the finest
things ever invented by religious writers.

"How simple is the structure! Moses opens the attack in G minor, ending
in a cadenza in B flat which allows the chorus to come in, _pianissimo_
at first, in B flat, returning by modulations to G minor. This splendid
treatment of the voices, recurring three times, ends in the last strophe
with a _stretto_ in G major of absolutely overpowering effect. We feel
as though this hymn of a nation released from slavery, as it mounts to
heaven, were met by kindred strains falling from the higher spheres. The
stars respond with joy to the ecstasy of liberated mortals. The rounded
fulness of the rhythm, the deliberate dignity of the graduations leading
up to the outbursts of thanksgiving, and its slow return raise heavenly
images in the soul. Could you not fancy that you saw heaven open, angels
holding sistrums of gold, prostrate seraphs swinging their fragrant
censers, and the archangels leaning on the flaming swords with which
they