one of her bond slaves.  Gabrielli was wont to use her admirers for artistic advantage, and she learned certain invaluable lessons in the delivery of recitative and the higher graces of her art from one whose experience and knowledge were infinitely higher and more suggestive than those of a mere singing-master.  The courtly poet, the pet of rank and beauty for nearly fifty years, sighed in vain at the feet of this inexorable coquette, and shared his disappointment with a host of other distinguished suitors, who showered costly gifts at the shrine of beauty, and were compelled to content themselves with kissing her hand as a reward.

Metastasio’s interest, unchecked by the disdain of the capricious beauty, succeeded in obtaining for her the position of court singer at Vienna, where the Emperor, Francis I., was one of her admirers.  She soon created as great a furor among the gallants of the Austrian capital as she had in Italy.  Swords were drawn freely in the quarrels which she delighted to foster, and dueling became a mania with those who aspired to her favor.  The passions she instigated sometimes took eccentric courses.  The French Ambassador, who loved her madly, suspected the Portuguese Minister of being more successful than himself with the lovely Gabrielli.  His suspicions being confirmed at one of his visits, he drew his sword in a transport of rage, and all that saved the operatic stage one of its most brilliant lights was the whalebone bodice, which broke the point of the furious Frenchman’s rapier.  The sight of the bleeding beauty—­for she received a slight scratch—­brought the diplomat to his senses.  Falling on his knees, he poured forth his remorse in passionate self-reproaches, but only received his pardon on the most humiliating terms, namely, that he should present her with the weapon which had so nearly pierced her heart, on which was to be inscribed this memento of the jealous madness of its owner:  “Epee de M------, qui osa frapper La Gabrielli.”  Only Metastasio’s persuasions (for Gabrielli prized his friendship and advice as much as she trifled with him in a different role) persuaded her to spare the Frenchman the insufferable ridicule which her retention of the telltale sword would have imposed on one whose rank and station could ill afford to be made the laughing-stock of his times.

The siren’s infinite caprices furnished the most interesting chronique scandaleuse of Vienna.  Brydone in his “Tour” tells us that it was fortunate for humanity that the fair cantatrice had so many faults; for, had she been more perfect, “she must have made dreadful havoc in the world; though, with all her deficiencies,” he says, “she was supposed to have achieved more conquests than any one woman breathing.”  Her caprice was so stubborn, that neither interest, nor threats, nor punishment had the least power over it; she herself declared that she could not command it, but that it for the most part commanded her.  The best expedient