hurries to a thrilling climax. One glittering pageant treads on the
heels of another, each more gorgeous and resplendent than the last,
until the stage, set to represent a fantastical hall with a
bewildering vista of carved columns, golden lions, and rich
draperies, is filled with such a kaleidoscopic mass of colors and
groupings as only an Oriental mind could conceive. Finally all the
preceding strokes are eclipsed by the coming of the Queen. But no
time is lost; the spectacle does not make the action halt for a
moment. Sheba makes her gifts and uncovers her face, and at once we
are confronted by the tragical element, and the action rushes on
toward its legitimate and mournful end.

In this ingenious blending of play and spectacle one rare
opportunity after another is presented to the composer. Sulamith's
epithalamium, Assad's narrative, the choral greeting to the Queen,
the fateful recognition--all these things are made for music of the
inspiring, swelling, passionate kind. In the second act, the
Queen's monologue, her duet with Assad, and, most striking of all,
the unaccompanied bit of singing with which Astaroth lures Assad
into the presence of the Queen, who is hiding in the shadow of
broad-leaved palms behind a running fountain--a melodic phrase
saturated with the mystical color of the East--these are gifts of
the rarest kind to the composer, which he has enriched to give them
in turn to the public. That relief from their stress of passion is
necessary is not forgotten, but is provided in the ballet music and
the solemn ceremonial in the temple, which takes place amid
surroundings that call into active operation one's childhood
fancies touching the sacred fane on Mount Moriah and the pompous
liturgical functions of which it was the theatre.