d tribe, the human voice when sound and natural--saying least
themselves, are capable of saying most for others; whereas the trumpet,
the accordion, the harp, the zither, are condemned by their very
expressiveness to a hopeless inferiority; they produce an effect
spontaneously by their mere tone; the artist can produce on them but
that effect, and can scarcely heighten even it. A musical critic of the
beginning of this century, Giuseppe Carpani, wishing to defend Rossini
from the accusation of being unemotional, boldly laid down the principle
that it never is the composer who makes people cry, but the author of
the words and the singer. As to the composer, he can only please, but
not move.

Never (he says) were people more moved than by a certain scene in
Metastasio's _Araserse_, set by Mortellari, and sung by the famous
Pacchierotti (about 1780); and do you think perhaps that it was
Mortellari, who made them cry? Mortellari, the stupidest mediocrity,
_Dio l'abbia in gloria!_ No, it was Metastasio and Pacchierotti, the
verse and the voice.

This was a mere absurd exaggeration, and a mere captious plea for
Rossini, who, had he only had Metastasio to write the words and
Pacchierotti to sing, would doubtless have moved the whole universe to
tears, with "Di tanti palpiti." Yet in this exaggeration, an important
truth has been struck out. This truth is that the writer of the
libretto, having at his disposal the clear, idea-suggesting word, can
bring up a pathetic situation before the mind; that the singer, having
at his command the physical apparatus for producing an effect on the
nerves, can sensuously awaken emotion; while the composer, possessing
neither the arbitrary idea-suggesting word, nor the nerve-moving sound,
but only the artistic form, can please to the utmost, but move only to a
limited degree.

Thus, there is a once popular but now deservedly forgotten air in
the _Romeo e Giulietta_ of Zingarelli, which some seventy years ago
possessed the most miraculous power over what people called the heart,
and especially over the not too sensitive one of Napoleon, who, whenever
it was sung by his favourite Crescentini, invariably burst into tears.
The extraordinary part of the matter is that this air happens to be
peculiarly insipid, without any very definite expression, but, on the
whole, of a sort of feeble cheerfulness, and certainly is the last piece
that we should judge capable of such deeply emotional