London. Tilt & Bogue, 86, Fleet Street.
From that time, in spite of lets and hindrances innumerable, which too generally beset the English gentlewoman undertaking a foreign artistic career, Miss Kemble has slowly and steadily advanced towards her present high position. At Venice she was applauded to the echo for her execution of Pasta's grand cavatina in "Niobe,"—at Mantua made a furore, as an actress who was "simpatica" (there is a good deal in the word, as all Italians know); later still at the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, rising to such a height of popularity, that upon her contracting an engagement for Palermo, Barbaja, "le bourru bienfaisant" broke the contract, and paid the forfeit to retain her. Her chief parts have been in the operas of "Lucia di Lammermoor," "Norma," "Elena da Feltre," "Gemma di Vergy," "La Sonnambula," and "Beatrice di Tenda." But lest the English fancy that their favourite is but a signora in disguise, be it known to them that the subject of our notice is as fine a linguist in music as the most universal of her contemporaries. We have heard her applauded to the echo by the Rhinelanders for her singing of Schubert and Beethoven:—We believe that she possesses a cahier of French romances, which she can say as well as sing, with finesse enough to charm the fastidious ears of the Panserons and Adams who compose such dainty ware; and we know that she can do worthy homage—to Handel. The oratorio-goers may look for the Miriam in her, and will not be disappointed.
What more remains?—save to record, that after having made her mature talent heard at the never-to-be-forgotten Polish matinée at Stafford House, and at a private concert, Miss Kemble made a second German journey this autumn, as we said, to the infinite delight of the Rhinelanders, who are not easy to please;—and lastly, to give the second of this month as the date of her commencing a career among her own countrymen, which, for Art's sake, as well as her own, we fervently hope will be as long as it must be brilliant.
R. O. D.
What more remains? By way of postscript to our dull prose, the world will, we think, be glad of half-a-dozen verses from a most accomplished pen (we would not for the world reveal its owner!) dropped by mistake in an Omnibus, on the morning after Miss Kemble's first appearance.
'Twas not Pasta—'twas not e'en
Thy greater name,
That in charms of voice and mien
To fancy came—
As thy wild impassioned lays