of them, and at every opportunity he manifested to the maestro his good-will and approbation.  But one day this commendation of Paesiello was changed to the most stinging censure.  It was on the occasion of the first representation of Paesiello’s Zingari in Fiera.  The first consul and his wife were in their loge, and to show to the public how much he honored and esteemed the composer, he had invited Paesiello to attend the performance in his loge.

Bonaparte followed the performance with the most enthusiastic demonstrations of gratification; he heartily applauded each part, and paid to Paesiello compliments which were the more flattering since every one knew that the lips which uttered them were not profuse in their use.  A tenor part had just ended, and its effect had been remarkable.  The audience was full of enthusiasm.  Bonaparte, who by his hearty applause had given the signal to a storm of cheers, turned toward Paesiello, and, offering him his hand, exclaimed: 

“Truly, my dear friend, the man who has composed this melody can boast of being the first composer in Europe!”

Paesiello became pale, his whole body trembled, and, with stammering voice, he said: 

“General, this melody is from Cimarosa.  I have placed it in my opera merely to please the singers.”

The first consul shrugged his shoulders.

“I am sorry, my dear sir,” said he, “but I cannot recall what I have said.”

The next day, however, he sent to the composer of the opera, as an acknowledgment of his esteem, a magnificent present, with which he no doubt wished to heal the pain which he had unwittingly caused the maestro.  But Paesiello possessed a temper easily wounded, and the more so since he considered himself as the first and greatest composer in the world, and was sincere in the opinion that others could compose good music, but that his alone was grand and distinguished.

Bonaparte’s present could not, therefore, heal the wound which the praise of Cimarosa’s melody had inflicted, and this wound was soon to be probed deeper, and become fatal to Paesiello.  Another new opera from Paesiello, Proserpina, was to be represented.  The first consul, who was anxious to secure for his protege a brilliant success, had given orders to bring it out in the most splendid style; the most beautiful decorations and the richest costumes had been provided, and a stage erected for a ballet, on which the favorite ballet-leaders of Paris were to practise their art.

The mighty first consul was, on the evening of the first performance of the opera of Proserpina, to learn the lesson, that there exists a power which will not be bound in fetters, and which is stronger and more influential than the dictates of the mighty—­the power of public opinion.  This stood in direct opposition to the first consul, by the voiceless, cold silence with which it received Paesiello’s piece.  Bonaparte might applaud as heartily as