a man as it is now for a boy, he ought to do well with it. I must
not continue--it would be more unbecoming in me to praise my compare for
his singing than to praise his sister for her acting.

After the song in _Feudalismo_ there was time also for the second
representation at the Teatro Sicilia. The performance began with the
wounding of Christ. Then Annas and Caiaphas discussed the question of
whether, after all, they might not have made a mistake in treating Christ
as a magician. They had been alarmed by the earthquake, the atmospheric
disturbances and the rising of the dead from their graves. Could these
phenomena signify that he was the Son of God? And something else
troubled them; on consideration they did not like the wording of Pilate's
sentence. They went to his palace, but Pilate was not disposed to listen
to their objections.

"What I have written I have written," said Pilate.

They had brought the sentence with them and pointed out to him that he
had condemned "il Re dei Giudei" the King of the Jews and, inasmuch as
condemning a king is a serious step and might get him into trouble,
suggested that for his own safety he should add the letter "o" to the
word "Re." This would make it that he had condemned "Il Reo dei Giudei,"
the Criminal of the Jews. Pilate was persuaded and agreed to add the
letter. He went away and fetched his pen, which looked like a feather
from the tail of a hawk, and Annas held the paper; but Pilate's pen
refused to write, it was wafted from his hand by a power stronger than
his, it hung in the air before their eyes and fluttered away to heaven.

This miracle was accompanied by music; and, if I had been consulted, I
should not have advised the _Marcia Reale Italiana_, because that
composition, on account of its inherent frivolity, has always seemed to
me unfit for the accompaniment of any manifestation of power. To despise
Bellini because he is not Schubert would be to adopt the attitude of the
buffo's critic who escaped from Paris in the teatrino at Palermo;
nevertheless the countrymen of Schubert have known how to appear before
the world clothed in the solemn splendour of Haydn's majestic Hymn to the
Emperor, while the Italians come mountebanking along in an ill-fitting,
machine-made suit of second-hand flourishes, as though that were the best
they could lay their hands on. They have not done themselves justice.
But this is not the place for a digression; before returnin