Our first Cobbler in _Crispino e la Comare_ ("The Cobbler and the Fairy") was Rovere, a good Italian buffo baritone. He was one of those extraordinary artists whose art grows and increases with time and, by some law of compensation, comes more and more to take the place of mere voice. Rovere was in his prime in 1852 when he sang in America with Mme. Alboni. Later, when he sang with me, a few of the New York critics remembered him and knew his work and agreed that he was "as good as ever." His voice--no. But his art, his method, his delightful manner--these did not deteriorate. On the contrary, they matured and ripened. Our second Cobbler, Ronconi, was even more remarkable. He was, I believe, one of the finest Italian baritones that ever lived, and he succeeded in getting a degree of genuine high comedy out of the part that I have never seen surpassed. He used to tell of himself a story of the time when he was singing in the Royal Opera of Petersburg. The Czar--father of the one who was murdered--said to him once: "Ronconi, I understand that you are so versatile that you can express tragedy with one side of your face when you are singing and comedy with the other. How do you do it?" "Your Majesty," rejoined Ronconi, "when I sing _Maria de Rohan_ to-morrow night I will do myself the honour of showing you." And, accordingly, the next evening he managed to turn one side of his face, grim as the Tragic Mask, to the audience, while the other, which could be seen from only the Imperial Box, was excessively humorous and cheerful. The Czar was greatly amused and delighted with the exhibition. Once in London, Santley was talking with me about this great baritone and said: "Ronconi did something with a phrase in the sextette of _Lucia_ that I have gone to hear many and many a night. I never could manage to catch it or comprehend how he gave so much power and expression to [Illustration: Musical notation; Ah! è mio san-gue, l'ho-tra-di-ta!] Ronconi was deliciously amusing, also, as the Lord in _Fra Diavolo_. He sang it with me the first time it was ever done here in Italian, when Theodor Habelmann was our Diavolo. Though he was a round-faced German, he was so dark of skin and so finely built that he made up excellently as an Italian; and he had been thoroughly trained in the splendid school of German light opera. He was really picturesque, especially in a wonderful fall he made from one precipice to another. We were not accustomed to falls on the stage over here, and had never seen anything like it. Ronconi sang with me some years later, as well, when I gave English opera throughout the country, and I came to know him quite well. He was a man of great elegance and decorum.