suggestion at the very last moment.  “Robert,” “Les Huguenots,” “Le Prophete,” in the forms we have them, are quite different from those in which they were first cast.  These operas have therefore been called “the most magnificent patchwork in the history of art,” though this is a harsh phrasing of the fact, which somewhat outrides justice.  Certain it is, however, that Meyerbeer was largely indebted to the chapter of accidents.

The testimony of Dr. Veron, who was manager of the Grand Opera during the most of the composer’s brilliant career, is of great interest, as illustrating this trait of Meyerbeer’s composition.  He tells us in his “Memoires,” before alluded to, that “Robert” was made and remade before its final production.  The ghastly but effective color of the resuscitation scene in the graveyard of the ruined convent was a change wrought by a stage manager, who was disgusted with the chorus of simpering women in the original.  This led Meyerbeer to compose the weird ballet music which is such a characteristic feature of “Robert le Diable.”  So, too, we are told on the same authority, the fourth act of “Les Huguenots,” which is the most powerful single act in Meyerbeer’s operas, owes its present shape to Nourrit, the most intellectual and creative tenor singer of whom we have record.  It was originally designed that the St. Bartholomew massacre should be organized by Queen Marguerite, but Nourrit pointed out that the interest centering in the heroine, Valentine, as an involuntary and horrified witness, would be impaired by the predominance of another female character.  So the plot was largely reconstructed, and fresh music written.  Another still more striking attraction was the addition of the great duet with which the act now closes—­a duet which critics have cited as an evidence of unequaled power, coming as it does at the very heels of such an astounding chorus as “The Blessing of the Swords.”  Nourrit felt that the parting of the two lovers at such a time and place demanded such an outburst and confession as would be wrung from them by the agony of the situation.  Meyerbeer acted on the suggestion with such felicity and force as to make it the crowning beauty of the work.  Similar changes are understood to have been made in “Le Prophete” by advice of Nourrit, whose poetical insight seems to have been unerring.  It was left to Duprez, Nourrit’s successor, however, to be the first exponent of John of Leyden.

These instances suffice to show how uncertain and unequal was the grasp of Meyerbeer’s genius, and to explain in part why he was so prone to gorgeous effects, aside from that tendency of the Israelitish nature which delights in show and glitter.  We see something in it akin to the trick of the rhetorician, who seeks to hide poverty of thought under glittering phrases.  Yet Meyerbeer rose to occasions with a force that was something gigantic.  Once his work was clearly defined in a mind not powerfully