She possessed what the Italians call un cantar granito; her execution was articulate and brilliant.  She had a fluent tongue for pronouncing words rapidly and distinctly, and a flexible throat for divisions, with so beautiful a shake that she put it in motion upon short notice, just when she would.  The passages might be smooth, or by leaps, or consisting of iterations of the same note; their execution was equally easy to her as to any instrument whatever.  She was, doubtless, the first who introduced with success a swift repetition of the same note.  She sang adagios with great passion and expression, but was not equally successful if such deep sorrow were to be impressed on the hearer as might require dragging, sliding, or notes of syncopation and tempo rubato.  She had a very happy memory in arbitrary changes and embellishments, and a clear and quick judgment in giving to words their full value and expression.  In her action she was very happy; and as her performance possessed that flexibility of muscles and face-play which constitute expression, she succeeded equally well in furious, tender, and amorous parts.  In short, she was born for singing and acting.”

Faustina’s amiability would have kept her on good terms with a rival; but Cuzzoni’s malice and envy ignored the fact that their respective qualities were rather adapted to complement than to vie with each other.  Handel, who had a world of trouble with his singers, strove to keep them on amicable terms, but without success.  The town was divided into two parties:  the Cuzzoni faction was headed by the Countess of Pembroke, and that of Faustina by the Countess of Burlington and Lady Delawar, while the men most loudly declared for the Venetian beauty.

At last the feud came to a climax.  On the 20th of June, 1727, a brilliant gathering of rank and fashion filled the opera-house to hear the two prime donne, who were to sing together.  On their appearance they were received with a storm of mingled hissing and clapping of hands, which soon augmented into a hurricane of catcalls, shrieking, and stamping.  Even the presence of royalty could not restrain the wild uproar, and accomplished women of the world took part in these discordant sounds.  Dr. Arbuthnot, in alluding to the disgraceful scene, wrote in the “London Journal” this stinging rebuke:  “AEsop’s story of the cat, who, at the petition of her lover, was changed into a fine woman, is pretty well known; notwithstanding which alteration, we find that upon the appearance of a mouse she could not resist the temptation of springing out of his arms, though it was on the very wedding night.  Our English audience have been for some time returning to their cattish nature, of which some particular sounds from the gallery have given us sufficient warning.  And since they have so openly declared themselves, I must only desire that they must not think they can put on the fine woman again just when they please, but content themselves with their skill in caterwauling.”  The following epigram was called out by the proceedings of the evening, which were mostly stimulated by the Pembroke party, who supported Cuzzoni: