The Press. — London, England, 1858-06-12 00:00:00

Tl4t PRESS, JUNE 12, 1858. 562 artist, whose exquisite groups of birds are well known in England, and who has been for many years Rosa's most intimate companion—resides with her, relieving her of every material responsibility, and leaving her free to devote her self exclusively to her favourite pursuit. Every summer the two lady artiati repair to some mountain-district to sketch. Arrived at the regions inhabited only by the Chamois, the ladies exchange their feminine habiliments for masculine attire, and spend a couple of months in ex ploring the wildest recesses of the hills, courting the ac• qusintance of their shy and swift-footed truants ; end harvest. ing " effects" of storm, rain, and vapour, is assiduously as those of sunshine. Though Rosa is fully alive to the beauties of wood and meadow—as we know from the Lovell tress she has transferred from them to her canvas— mountain scenery is her especial delight. Hitherto her explorations had been confined to the French chains, and the Pyrenees, but in the autumn of fifty-six she vi<ited Scotia/id and made numerous sketches, in the neighbour. hood of Glenfallock, Glencoe, and Ralloculish ; and struck by the beauty of the Highland cattle selected some choice specimens off' these, which she had sent down to Wexhain Rectory, near Windsor, where she resided, and spent two months in making numerous studien, front which she has already produced two pictures,—" The Denizens of the Mountains," and " Morning in the Highlands." The Alps sl'ie has not yet visited, though c.mstatitly intending to do so. Her preference being for the stern, the abrupt, and the majestic, instead of the soft, the smiling, and the fair; Italy, with all its glories, has hitherto attracted her less powerfully than the ruder magnificence of the Pyrenees and the north. Among mountains, the great artist is completely in her element ; out of doors from morning till night, lodging in the humblest and remotest of roadside hotels, or in the huts of wa,d•cutters, ',and chamois-hunters, and living contentedly on whatever fare can be obtained. Two years ago, being furnished by families of distinction in the Bearnais and the Basque provinces with intro ductions to the rare inhabitants of the region, the party pushed their adventurous wanderings to the little station of Peyronere, the last inhabited point within the French frontier, and thence up the romantic defiles of the Vallee d'Urtlos, across the summit of the Pyrenees. Thanks to the letters they carried, the travellers were hospitably received at each halting-place, and furnished with a trusty guide for the next march. In this way they crossed the mountains, and gained the lonely pusada of Canfan, the first on the Spanish side of the ridge, where, for six weeks, they saw no living souls but the bourriquairos (muleteers) with their strings of mules, who would halt for the night at the little inn, setting out at the earliest ray of morning for their descent on the opposite side of the mountains. The people of the posada lived entirely on curdled sheep's milk; the sole article of food the party could obtain on their arrival. At one time, by an early fail of snow, they were shut out of all communication with the valley. Their threatened starvation was averted by the exertions of Mlle. Micas, who managed to procure a quantity of frogs, the hind legs of which she enveloped in leaves, sad toasted on sticks over a fire on the hearth. On these frogs they lived for two days, when the hostess was induced to attempt the making of butter from the milk of her sheep, and even to allow the conversion of one of these animals into mutton for their benefit. Their larder thus supplied, and black bread being brought for them by the bourriquairos, from Rome village a very long way off, the party gave themselves up to the plea sure of their wild life, and the business of ake:ching. The arrival of the muleteers, with their embroidered shirts, their pointed hats, velvet jackets, and leathern breeches and sandals, was always a welcome event. Rosa paid for wine for them, and they, in return, performed their national dances for her: after which they would throw themselves down for the night upon sheepskins before the fire, furnishing subjects fur many picturesque croquia. As the posada was a police station, established there as a terror to smugglers, the little party felt perfectly safe, notwithstanding its loneliness. With her Scotch tour Rosa was so much pleased, that she will probably revisit a district from which she has brought away many agreeable associations, and a wonder. ful little Skye terrier, named " Wasp," of the purest breed, and remarkably intelligent, which she holds in great affection, and for whose benefit she has learned several English phrases, to which " Wasp " responds with appreciative and grateful waggings of the tail. The Train has this month come to a conclusion. Perhaps if it had contained more such excellent articles as the opening one of the present number, the catastrophe would not have occurred. This periodical, though distinguished by considerable smartness, has addressed itself all along to too limited an audience. We allude rather to its tone than to its subTcts. The latter have been varied enough ; but the former has smacked so uninter ruptedly of the London Funny Man, a being un known beyond a very small area, that we cannot say we are surprised at the fate that has befallen the magazine. The individual contributors are, doubt less, clever men, but they are too much alike. They resemble a salad that is all mustard and cress. We should admire them a great deal interspersed with other materials. We hope to meet them again, as they have afforded us a goo :I deal of real pleasure ; and we hope also that, when we do, it will be with more permanent prospects. Ma. DICKENS read the life of Paul Dombey, jun., on Thursday evening t., a somewhat thinner and less enthusiastic audience than usually assembles to listen to him. His performance was meritorious, but, perhaps from the nature of the subject, not altogether s4oC9tAllp Mrs, Pipchin was good, and ilia Toots capital. Paul too, if his voice was a little husky, was in other respects as childish and as old fashioned as could be expected. But perhaps the story itself is somewhat weak, and the pathos some• what maudlin, or perhaps, in Mr. Dickens' own phrase, we were somewhat " too grown•up" to relish it. At any rate, as we came away the conviction was strong on our minds that Mr. Dickens cannot write a thoroughly good story of a child. his attempts nt such a story contrast strangely with countless German masterpieces in the same line. Yet the story of Little Dombey does no doubt abound in cleverness and pathos, and the closing scene in par ticular has all the music and sweetness of *lyric poem. In this last scene, however, the reader seemed to us to be wanting to his own composition. We missed something of the melody. The last sentence is particular, though Mr. Dickens took es pecial pains with it, seemed to us so weakly delivered that we could scarcely believe that we were listening to the author himself. 6 U S I C. HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE. A. MORNING representation of Don Giovanni on Monday, and the first ono of Luisa Miller on Tuesday, have been the principal "doings" at Her Majesty's Theatre during this week. With reference to the former, there can be no doubt but that it afforded a great treat to many persons who, living in the country, are unable to attend an evening performance without much extra expense and inconvenience. The facilities afforded by railways are so great, that per sons living within fifty miles (or even more) of London, have it in their power to breakfast at home, reach London in time to have two or three hours for business, go to the opera from 1 to 4.30, and return home to a late dinner. For these reasons we should be glad if it were found practicable and desirable by the managers of both Opera-houses to have a morn ing representation every Monday. In the event of this ever being brought about, it would, perhaps, be worth while to make arrangements for admitting an ample supply of daylight to the stage during morning scenes, and totally excluding it during night scenes. At all events, it would be very advantageous if the neutral light which pre• veiled on Monday—neither sun nor gas—were replaced by either one of its components. We are quite prepared for the objections that are supposed to surround theatrical performances by daylight. Foremost amongst them are to be found, first, that much of the scenery and accessories which pass muster very well when seen under artificial illumi• nation would look frightfully shabby when seen by sunlight; and, secondly, that full-dress toilette is not becoming before sunset. We reply to the former (arguing on the assumption that the means were provided for throwing at will either kind of light on the stage), that in our opinion the advantages derived from the greater naturalness acquired in day scenes, and the striking contrast that would be obtained between them and night scenes, would much more than compensate for any loss sustained by the diminished brilliancy of the scenery, tfrc. ; and to the latter we have only to remark, that though Court etiquette prescribes an evening costume for royal morning receptions, we see no reason why, under such an arrangement as above, theatrical costume should not be adapted to the supposed hour of the day. We would also suggest, as a means of increasing the popularity of morning operas, that on such occasions a portion (say half) of the stalls should be thrown open at pit prices, or somewhat higher. We offer this opinion, having regard to the class of persons who would probably always compose the majority of the audience—a class less wealthy than are found at evening represents. Lions—as well as to the actual distribution of those present on Monday. The pit was crowded to over• flowing—many ladies having to stand up throughout the performance—whilst more than half the stalls were unoccupied. Of the performance itself, we have little to say. There was a general appearance of langour through out, if we except Mme. Titiens, who has certainly improved on her original Donna Anna, and greatly diminished the magnitude of the few defects that have been pointed out in her singing. If Signor Belletti would content himself with the truthful interpreta tion of the parts assigned to him, he would do more credit to himself, and give greater pieasure to his audience, than he can ever do, whatever he may hope, by misapplied buffoonery, such as he, more than once, indulged in on Monday. This error has been already noticed several times by our contempo• runes, and Signor Belletti will do well to heed re marks in which every one agrees. We fear it is hopeless to look for more fire in the present cast of Donna Elvira and Don Ottavio ; but the representa tion of this opera loses much of its force from the unimpassioned acting of Mile. Ortolani and Signor • Luisa Miller, by Verdi, an opera of which the music is very little known in this country, but in which Mlle. Pic.lolomini is reported to have " created a sensation " in Italy, may be said to have obtained, on the whole, all the success that could have been anticipated. The story and the dramatis persclue are, with some variation, from the Cabale tend Litbe of Schiller, a play in fits acts. Luisa, the heroines forms an attachment .with who passes himself off as a peasant s Carlo. in truth, he is the son of a great man s Count W a lt er , * h oe , castle is near the cottage in which L u i sa res id es with her father (a retired old soldier, in the opera, but the town-musician in Schiller's play). Wurm, the seneschal and confidant of Count Walter, is also in love with Luisa, and his suit seems to have found favour with her father, conditionally on her recipto eating the tender feeling. Count Walter has made up his mind that his eon shall marry his niece; a young duchess, Frederica, widow of the Duke d'Ostheim, whom he has invited to the castle for this purpose unknown to Rodolfo, but after due explanation and arrangement with her. Rodolfo and the duchess were brought up together, and she assures him that her earliest affections were fixed on him, and that she married the Duke d'Ostheim only under compulsion. Warm, failing to win the affec tions of Luisa, wishes her father to exercise his authority, and to compel her to become his wife. This the old soldier indignantly refuses to do, and then learns from Warm's lips that the pretended peasant, Carlo, is the " figlio del tuo Signor." After wards, Wurm having made known to the count the attachment of his son to Luisa, Walter sends for Rodolfo and insists that he shall abandon his beloved Luisa for the wealthy duchess, into whose presence he then leads him. Rodolfo determines at once to unbosom himself to her, and tells her that his vows and heart are plighted to another. Meanwhile, Miller breathes vengeance against Rodolfo, who, he imagines, has improperly deceived his daughter. Luisa declares her lover to be incapable of a base action. Whilst she and her father are discussing the value of his honour, Rodolfo comes into the cot tage. Explanations follow, and the quondam pea sant testifies to the honesty of his intentions by kneeling along with Luisa before the old man, sad exclaiming with tender vehemence, and clasping her hand in his— Sono Tuo sposo ! II padre testimone a Dio Chiamo del giuramento. This sentimental scene is scarcely terminated when Walter comes into the cottage, and immediately oom mences loading Luisa with opprobrium. This of course rouses tha indignation of Rodolfo, and the old man, Miller, who threatens violence to the Count, when a body of archers rush in at a signal from their lord, and seize the old soldier and his daughter. Rodolfo, seeing no other chance of saving Luisa, warns his father that he will reveal to the world by what means he became Count Walter. The deed of darkness alluded to is the murder of his predecessor by himself and Wurm—a deed with which Rodolfo had accidentally become acquainted. This threat has the desired effect ; Walter, in the greatest tre• pidation, orders Luisa to be released. Miller having been cast into priroa by the order of Walter, Wurm comes to his cottage and persuades Luisa that, unless she writes a letter at his dictation, her father will be put to death. In order to save her father's life she consents, and writes, as though o Wurm, to the effect that she had never felt any real affection for Rodolfo, but had always loved Wurm, whom she invites to come at nightfall and fly with her. This letter is made to fall into the hands of Rodolfo, who, maddened by the apparent treachery of his affianced bride, consents to marry the duchess. Meanwhile he goes to Miller's cottage, and, unknown to Luisa, who is on her knees engaged in prayer when he enters, he pours poison into a cup of milk that is on the table. He then produces the fatal letter, and asks if she wrote it. Having been compelled by NVurro, as part of the condition of her father's re lease, to swear that she would not tell Rodolfo under what circumstances she had written it, poor Luisa is obliged to confess what she had done, without ex planation. In utter despair, and upbraiding her for her faithlessness, Rodolfo swallows the poisoned draught, of which she also is in ignorance induced to partake. Informed at length that her end is approaching, and feeling thereby released from her promise, she explains all to Rodolfo, who utters a cry of despair that brings Miller to their side. But the hour fixed for the nuptials of Rodolfo and the duchess is now arrived, and the bridal procession reaches the chapel adjoining Miller's cottage, where the bridegroom had promised to await his father. Attracted by the mournful accents of the lovers and Miller, the party approach the cottage, which they enter just as Luisa has breathed her last. Rodolfo, seeing Wurm amongst those who have come into the cottage, gathers up his remaining strength, and, rushing forward, passes his sword through the sena schal'e body, and then falls down, in struggle, beside I.uisa, his own death: V