air on a pyramid of bottles and plates, and in that delectable position blew unheard-of airs on a brass bugle, their delight knew no bounds. From the interesting little quatuor in the royal box, to the smallest of the small beings that peopled the other parts of the house, all appeared intent, absorbed in the changing scenes which, like those of a magic lantern, passed rapidly before their eyes. The selections from "Fra Diavolo," the musical glasses, the Hungarian singers, the graceful Marie Taglioni, the fascinating Rosati, and the various quadrilles, polkas, and fancy dances executed by a corps of youthful ballerine, excited by turns their merriment and admiration; and, no doubt, subsequently animated their innocent slumbers with many a fanciful and pleasurable dream. Et, vraiment, il y avait de quoi! A gastronomic bill of fare, bien rédigé, is a nice thing; but an intellectual menu, when similar taste is shown in the selection and composition, is a "nicerer"—such a one, for instance, as my esteemed and estimable friend, Mr. Mitchell, put forth the other day for his benefit, wherewith to entice fish of every degree, from the triton to the minnow, into his gilded and glittering net. And didn't they bite! Not an irresolute nibble, as if they pulled their money out of their pockets only to put it in again; but a tight, solid grip, as if they were afraid of the seats they had secured being craftily inveigled from under them by some wealthy and unscrupulous Boyard. Et il y en avait, des Boyards! And a right gallant company it was that there met together, to do honour to one of the best and most justly popular managers that ever presided over the destinies of a theatre! In the course of his career as a director, Mr. Mitchell has made many friends, but not a single enemy: before and behind the curtain, there is but one opinion as to his tact, liberality, and gentlemanly consideration. He has invariably succeeded in conciliating the interests of the public and the amour propre of his artists; sincerity and good faith have always formed the basis of his conduct, towards both one and the other; and the consequence is, that if ever man lived whose word was universally considered as good as his bond, that man is John Mitchell.* The presence, therefore, of her Majesty, and of the choicest and fairest flowers of England's nobility, at the St. James's Theatre on this occasion, was a tribute as just as it was gratifying to the bénéficiaire; nor was the readiness with which each individual performer contributed the aid of his or her talents a less significant testimony to managerial worth. After the risible muscles of the audience had been kept in constant play by the humorous acting of Tétard in "La Vendetta," that silvertoned Circe, Mademoiselle Charton, whose expressive, sympathique countenance Dubufe has so inimitably transferred to canvass, seconded by the lively Guichard and the pains-taking Octave, refreshed our memories with those dainty Rossinian melodies which gem the time-honoured score of the "Comte Ory." An air à roulades, and two sweet little On the afternoon preceding his benefit, a large body of the subscribers to the French plays, headed by the Duke of Beaufort, presented Mr. Mitchell with a magnificent silver salver, a silver-gilt candelabrum, and a handsome cup and cover (the latter a private gift from Dr. Daniell). Palmam quam meruit ferat! romances, exquisitely sung by Madame Damoreau, temporarily converted many a well-bred gentleman into an enthusiastic claqueur; but among the hundreds present whose hands and voices vied with each other in applauding the eminent cantatrice, not one, I can affirm from actual observation, did so more warmly or more sincerely than her favourite pupil, the regretted one of the Académie Royale, the dark-eyed syren, Dolores Nau. On Mademoiselle Page's return from Russia, about a year and a half ago, her début at the Variétés took place in "Les Extrêmes se touchent," a piece written expressly for her and Lafont. It then met with a very cold and discouraging reception, and was solely indebted for its occasional reappearance in the bills to the excellent acting of the Chevalier. Whose fault this was, gallantry forbids my saying; but one thing is certain, viz., that however annoyed the author, M. Battu, may have been at the original quasi-failure of his proverbe, he would, had he seen it performed the other evening at the St. James's Theatre by Lafont and Madame Doche, have had every reason to consider himself battu et content. Lafont's merits as a comedian of the highest order are too generally appreciated to render any fresh analysis of his talent necessary; it is sufficient to say that his wit is as pointed, his delivery as irresistibly attractive, and his manner as easy and gentlemanly, as ever. Madame Doche is not an actress to be dismissed with a few words, and it is not at the close of my monthly record that I can, with any proper regard to my limits, trust myself to write about her. I therefore, for the present, merely subjoin a hasty tribute to the fair Comtesse, adapted to the couplet final of " Les Extrêmes se touchent." Que votre présence, Rosine, Nous rend tous joyeux aujourd'hui, Julien vous aime, j'imagine, Devant vos beaux yeux il s'incline, Serons-nous moins galants que lui ? Malgré votre si longue absence Nous n'avons pu vous oublier, Restez! c'est là la récompense I must add one word of hearty congratulation to my old and valued friend, Moriani, whose re-appearance on the English stage in his character of Gennaro recalls to my memory many a pleasant hour passed in the snug little Teatro Alfieri at Florence, while listening to "Di pescator ignobile" and "Guai, se ti sfugge un muoto!" exquisitely rendered by this prince of tenors, Ungher, and Coselli. The bills will have it that Moriani is engaged only for three nights, but we have a better opinion of Mr. Lumley than to believe them. The printer must be the culprit: he has evidently omitted the concluding 0. -Erratum: for 3, read 30. June 23, 1849. HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE. OUR old favourite Mademoiselle Parodi has been retrieving herself lately, and delighted are we to record the fact. Among the many trumpets which sounded in praise of her Norma, ours was certainly not the faintest. We spoke very eloquently-pardon self-commendation-about native energy and genius, and descanted most judiciously on the manifest advantages of a strict discipline, when added to superior gifts of nature. Hence we were a little-let us speak honestly-not a little mortified at such a coup manqué as the Favorita. The Semiramide seemed to set us right again, to a certain extent. We rejoiced to see the fire with which Parodi bullied Assur, but then-but then-the "Giorno d'orrore" took a little discount off our enthusiasm. Alboni is the most tremendously safe singer in the world. She goes to her mark with the most undeviating rectitude; if there is any fault in a duet in which she is concerned, it is known in an instant that she is not the erring party; and in the particular duet whereof we speak, Parodi did not come up to her mark of exactness. But we repeat, the cantatrice of Palermo has been retrieving herself. One would not naturally have looked to a character like that of Carolina in "Il Matrimonio Segreto," as the turning point. Carolina is an unhappy girl in a false social position, with a little of the devil, to be sure, in her temperament, but that devil has been fearfully tamed. It was just one of those parts which, if we had not been convinced to the contrary by experience, we should have said was not at all adapted to the peculiar qualities of Mademoiselle Parodi. Nevertheless she has gone through it admirably, entering as an actress into all the subdued misery of the character, and singing with a firmness and evenness for which we had hardly given her credit in her best early performances. The success of her Carolina has been well followed up by another in "Lucrezia Borgia." The burst of thankfulness with which she clutched at the remembrance of the antidote, when fate seemed ready to pounce on the one thing she cared for in the wide, dismal, hating world, could not be surpassed in passionate intensity. Of sterner excellence was the attitude in which she stood over the corpse of Gennaro, and looked defyingly at her husband. He had come, exulting in a jealous rage; but she could feel that she had been wronged in this instance, and she could look at him with a calm, steady indignation. There is a sublime moral feeling in this terrible creation of Hugo's, this "Lucrèce Borgia;" which the Italian poet has diluted into a libretto, and for that very reason has it been called immoral. The commonplace moralist cuts human nature into large distinct slices of good and evil, just as the Laplander's year is dichotomized into a long summer and a long winter. But a more profound teacher of ethics like Hugo goes to work impressed with the conviction of man's original sanctity; and, thick as may be the crust of evil, he will not believe that all is rotten to the very core, without one healthy place. In "Lucrèce Borgia," the dramatist does not avail himself of the historical doubts as to the real criminality of his terrible heroine, but he brings her forward plainly branded with her atrocities. The feeling of maternal affection is the one contrast to a long series of crime; and this is exhibited with such force, that the spectator is obliged to sympathise with Lucrezia, while the evidences of her guilt are plainly before his eyes. A good-natured way of dealing with criminals is to gloze over their acts, by showing the temptations and provocations to which these owe their origin. This method is scorned by Victor Hugo, who wishes to show that the criminal, with his crimes developed to an extent beyond the reach of palliation, is still a member of the great human family, and probably has some essential point in his character, which is not the less bright because it shines on nothing but the misshapen and the horrible. And let us do the Italian poet the justice of observing, that in the words of the last aria in the opera he has very felicitously expressed the belief of Lucrezia that her son is the only connecting link between herself and heaven: Era desso il figlio mio, La mia speme, il mio conforto Il mio cor con esso è morto; The character for histrionic capability which Alboni acquired in the part of Ninetta, she has more than maintained by her Zerlina, in “Don Giovanni." The character was never represented with such charming rusticity; she was the complete country girl, good-humoured and coquettish, with nothing sophisticated about her. The bounding hilarity with which she first came on the stage and danced with her fellowvillagers, gave a sudden sense of enjoyment to the audience, which was expressed in a rapturous burst of applause. Some people have been famed for their "savoir-vivre." great celebrity for his "savoir-mourir.” Moriani has No one can die like Moriani in Gennaro; he so plainly marks the progress of the Borgia poison on his system, that if your hand is sufficiently ready, you may write little bulletins every half-minute touching the state of his health. All who delight in the Terpsichorean branch of operatic entertainment, must have been deeply grieved at the interruptions to Rosati's performances, occasioned by the indisposition of that admirable danseuse. We have always taken especial delight in watching the advance of Rosati. There is a finish in her dancing, and a sparkling intelligence in her glances, which make her one of the most fascinating creatures of the day. What was particularly to be lamented, she was stopped in her career just after the production of a new ballet, in which she was made to simulate the elder Taglioni. The indefatigable Mr. Lumley has just returned from Berlin, having concluded an engagement with Madame Sontag, who is to appear forthwith, at Her Majesty's Theatre. THE THEATRES. THE theatrical world during the past month has not been very lively. However, two five-act plays stand out amid the general level like two huge pyramids in an Egyptian desert. One, by Mr. Marston, produced at the Haymarket, is a tragedy called "Strathmore;" in which a struggle between love and duty, during the critical period of the Covenanters, is exhibited with a great deal of poetical power, and in which there are two effective parts for Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean. The other, by Mr. Spicer, which is called the "Witch-Wife," and has been produced at Marylebone, is of a much less solemn character. It shows us how a merry Lancashire lass was in great peril of being burned as a witch; and when our readers learn that Mrs. Mowatt represents the damsel, they will not wonder at the danger-for who does not know that Mrs. Mowatt is an enchantress? We have only one more remark to make. Mr. Spicer's drama is not founded on Mr. Ainsworth's "Lancashire Witches." LITERATURE. TOURISTS' COMPANIONS.* WE have here a batch of most seasonable and opportune works. Railroads have effected a great change in the facilities for visiting the beautiful southern coast of England. Lines of railways, with their tributaries, enable the tourist now to reach any part of the coast, almost in one extended line, from the mouth of the Thames to Weymouth Bay; Dorchester, the present termination, 141 miles from London, being only six hours distant. Such a vast increase of means demanded a new order of hand-books, and the first that has come to hand appears to have met the desideratum in a very satisfactory manner. Our guide keeps as much as possible close to the lines of rail; and we are truly gratified to find, that while he gives all necessary information in regard to hotels, inns, and baths, churches, chapels, and public buildings, walks, rides, and railway trips, that he also extends his researches, to suit the enlightened taste of the day, to the architecture of the churches, castles, and mansions, and to the less obtrusive, but equally interesting, remains of Roman, British, and Saxon times. No one, indeed, should think of visiting the southern coast without providing himself with Mr. Nattali's "Hand-book. The "Sea-side Book" meets with, if possible, a still more cordial greeting than the "Hand-Book.” It adapts itself to all coasts and all seasons alike. It lays open to the idle and the thoughtless, wonders of creation that are too often trod regardlessly under foot; it teaches the unreflective to turn from the ever-impressive vastness of the ocean to the study of the minuter details of the life which it supports; and it forces upon the most frivolous, sentiments of respect for infinite wisdom and bounty. Very few are aware of how much that is curious and instructive is to be met with on the sea-shore. We sincerely hope that Dr. Harvey's little book, pleasantly written and nicely illustrated, may materially diminish the number of the ignorant upon this subject. With such a guide, the young, instead of scattering the glittering sands to the winds, may be earnestly searching for rare plants and shells, or examining the curious structure of a Flustra, the nest of a Buccinum, or the egg of a shark. The intelligent of all classes will find an inexhaustible fund of inquiry and amusement; and even the artist will be enabled to correct the details in his sketches of nature in directions which are often little anticipated. "Parry's Railway Companion from Chester to Holyhead," speaks for itself. When it is considered that this most interesting line embraces the ancient city of Chester, the ruined fortress of Flint, St. Winifred's Well, Rhuddlan Castle, the Cathedral Antiquities of St. Asaph's, sea-washed Abergele, the rocks of Llanddulas, Conway, its castle and its suspen A Pic *The Handbook of Travel round the Southern Coast of England. turesque, Antiquarian, and Topographical Description of the Scenery, Towns, and Ancient Remains on that part of the Coast. Illustrated with thirty-five Engravings after Turner, Collins, Prout, Owen, Dewint, and others. M. A. Nattali. The Sea-side Book; being an Introduction to the Natural History of the British Coasts. By W. Harvey, M.D., &c. John Van Voorst.-The Railway Companion from Chester to Holyhead, &c., &c. By Edward Parry. Seventh Thousand. T. Catherall. |