15th. The influences of the Influenza were strikingly evinced at the Philharmonic Concert this evening. More than a third of the subscribers were absent; and of those present, one half at least, judging from the symptoms they exhibited, would have been better at home. The orchestra, too, lost some of its best performers.
15th. At the rehearsal of the Ancient Concert this morning, Signor Rubini, keeping his seat, and with his hat on, began to sing an aria. Lord Burghersh, the director, hinted that it was usual to treat so many subscribing auditors as were present with rather more respect. The Signor then contrived to rise; but a gentle intimation from the same quarter, that the Signor would be heard to greater advantage without his hat, received no attention whatever. Now this really should not be wondered at in a country where every thing has a money value. Signor Rubini is making 6000l. or 7000l. per annum by his engagements, to which we sensible English largely contribute. Such an income is superior to that of most baronets, nay, of many lords; Signor R.’s rank here, consequently, is equal or superior to theirs, according to the money difference; ergo he has a right, in his Britannic Majesty’s dominions, where wealth is every thing, to rehearse seated, and with his beaver firmly fixed on a head from which issues a voice that commands (O mores!) a revenue which many an English nobleman, many a German prince, will hear of with astonishment and envy.
16th. The daily press is beginning to manifest some reasonable dissatisfaction at the sordid propensities of the Baron of the Single-string. Had it decried his absurdities (absurdities, however, well calculated for the meridian of London) two years ago, it might have prevented his proving ungrateful, and caused a great deal of money to reach the pockets of English performers, who wanted it, instead of flowing into the coffers of a stranger who had no real occasion for it, and did not deserve one-tenth of what he received. The Globe of this evening tells us that ‘the munificent support which M. Paganini met with in London does not appear to have softened his heart towards English artists. He was applied to a short time since to lend the aid of his talents, in union with all the French and Italian performers of eminence in Paris, to support a benefit advertised by Miss Smithson, in the hope of retrieving some of the losses arising from the failure of her speculation there, and her unfortunate accident, which still confines her to her bed. He refused, on the plea of ill-health. This was very well. The benefit was comparatively a failure, being only sufficient to pay one-fifth of the debts due by Miss Smithson to the English actors, who have been in a state little short of starvation, and are even unable to return to England. Another benefit, in which Mars, Duchesnois, and all the other artists came forward in the handsomest manner, is announced for to-morrow. Paganini, who is well enough to play to-morrow night at the Opera [the French Opera] for himself, has been again applied to, and now refuses flatly, saying, that the failure of Miss Smithson’s speculation is nothing to him. This should not be forgotten when he re-visits London.’
But it will be forgotten: the English public have lost those patriotic feelings which once distinguished them, in so far as relates to foreign performers. The Signor, however, will not reap another rich harvest here, he may be assured. Though some futile attempt will be made to deny the truth of the foregoing statement, it will be made in vain; the rage is over; our eyes as well as our ears are now opened; the pretended enthusiasts—for affectation has had much to do with the matter—will no longer be able to cry up the Witches’ Dance, the Friars’ Hymn, &c. as prodigies of art; they will not be listened to if they again endeavour to deafen us with the wonders of sounds almost inaudible, and nearly, if not quite, inappreciable: we are grown a little wiser, and have found out, that in proportion as two legs to a body are preferable to half the number, so four strings to a fiddle are better than one.
22d. In the Revue Musicale, M. Fétis lately, with much apparent justice, severely criticised a new Italian opera by a Sig. Ricci, called Chiara di Rosemberg: he even proceeded so far as to say, that music has declined in Italy, and that there is little hope of its revival in a country where such a work as Ricci’s could meet with success. This has brought upon him the vengeance of the editor of L’ Eco, an Italian literary journal published at Milan, who not very temperately exclaims: ‘It needed all the effrontery that is often met with in the French journals, to deny superiority in an art to a country which claims as its own a Rossini, a Bellini, a Mercadante, a Pacini, a Donizzetti, a Ricci, and many other composers; to a country which has a right to triumph in a Pasta, a Tosi, a Rubini, a Donzelli, a Lablache, a Tamburini, &c. Nothing, in truth, but the most stupid ignorance or the blackest malignity could assert of such a country of artists, that “the decline of music in Italy is complete.”’ M. Fétis has well answered the attack, and shown that the critic who can place Bellini, Mercadante, &c., by the side of Rossini—who can put Pasta on a level with Tosi, must be wholly incapable of discussing a question which requires some knowledge of music, and some power of judging between good and bad performers. The Milan editor may rave as he will, but he may be assured, that M. Fétis speaks the opinion of every real and unbiassed critic.