ing characters in both with _eclat_.

II.

In January, 1824, Mme. Pasta gave to the world what by all concurrent
accounts must have been the grandest lyric impersonation in the
records of art, the character of _Medea_ in Simon May-er's opera.
This masterpiece was composed musically and dramatically by the artist
herself on the weak foundation of a wretched play and correct but
commonplace music. In a more literal and truthful sense than that in
which the term is so often travestied by operatic singers, the part
was _created_ by Pasta, reconstructed in form and meaning, as well as
inspired by a matchless executive genius. In the language of one writer,
whose enthusiasm seems not to have been excessive: "It was a triumph of
histrionic art, and afforded every opportunity for the display of all
the resources of her genius--the varied powers which had been called
forth and combined in _Medea_, the passionate tenderness of _Romeo_, the
spirit and animation of _Tancredi_, the majesty of _Semi-ramide_, the
mournful beauty of _Nina_, the dignity and sweetness of _Desdemona_.
It is difficult to conceive a character more highly dramatic or more
intensely impassioned than that of _Medea_; and in the successive scenes
Pasta appeared as if torn by the conflict of contending passions, until
at last her anguish rose to sublimity. The conflict of human affection
and supernatural power, the tenderness of the wife, the agonies of the
mother, and the rage of the woman scorned, were portrayed with a truth,
a power, a grandeur of effect unequaled before or since by any actress
or singer. Every attitude, each movement and look, became a study for a
painter; for in the storm of furious passion the grace and beauty of her
gestures were never marred by extravagance. Indeed, her impersonation
of _Medea_ was one of the finest illustrations of classic grandeur
the stage has ever presented. In the scene where _Medea_ murders her
children, the acting of Pasta rose to the sublime. Her self-abandonment,
her horror at the contemplation of the deed she is about to perpetrate,
the irrepressible affection which comes welling up in her breast, were
pictured with a magnificent power, yet with such natural pathos, that
the agony of the distracted mother was never lost sight of in the fury
of the priestess. Folding her arms across her bosom, she contracted her
form, as, cowering, she shrunk from the approach of her children; then
grief, love, despair, rage,