who was to have been the very key-stone of the operatic arch, was pronounced, for the nonce, as unworthy of her hastily-gathered reputation. The Donna del Lago, however, fortunately followed, and in the character of Malcolm Græme, Alboni asserted her just claim to be considered as the greatest living contr'alto. Then came the Cenerentola, with its charming fireside romance and its dazzling "Non piu mesta," and the public, blushing for its wavering judgment and its capricious fancy, like a lover who had frowned and pouted, embraced her fervently, and strove to bury the memory of its injustice. But the damaging report had gone forth that the Alboni of the past season was not the Alboni of the present season, and so, instead of the gifted songstress being the load-star to attract mines of gold to the treasury, she became a merely charming artiste, who never fails to delight by the beauty of her voice and the marvels of her execution, but who assuredly does not command the million. The fates were adverse,-and who may command the fates? In Alboni the dramatic estro is entirely wanting; the singing is "the be-all and the end-all;" theatrical feeling there is none, nor poetical appreciation, nor variety, nor reflection of the passing phases of the scene. All is voluptuous ease, and Sybaritish repose. The faintest sigh of passion would disturb the calm, the warmest western breeze the surface. She is the incarnated Genius of the Castle of Indolence.

Donna del Lago may be cited as the opera that has approached nearer to the promised ensemble than any by which it was preceded. The cast included Grisi, Alboni, Tamburini, and Mario; of Marini we make little account. Though a similar distribution had appeared in the Lucrezia Borgia, and other works, yet in no one was

means the theatre ably made The was appropriate, the costumes of the various clans critically correct, the meeting of the bards picturesque, and everything that might impart a vraisemblance to the scene of the drama was liberally and tastefully employed. The character of Roderic Dhu, acted by Tamburini, having been written for a tenor voice, the effect of the concerted music was of necessity seriously damaged, and the just balance of sound destroyed. The Donna del Lago was produced last season at Paris, with the title of Robert Bruce. Under this cognomen it had undergone a rifaccimento by the original composer, the great enchanter, Rossini. It was given forth as an edition corrected, augmented, and improved. It became the most important affair of musical Europe. Intense were the commentaries, and universal the conversation. The public mind of the Continent was not then absorbed in politics; then the discharge of musketry and the firing of cannon drowned not all other music. The last effort of the greatest living composer proved vain, although that effort was but to adapt and improve an opera which had in other days rejoiced in a great reputation and popularity. In this new attempt of exchanging old lamps for new ones, Rossini had the collaboration of the celebrated composer Neidermayer, and the new libretto was the joint labour of the renowned Monsieur Scribe and his junior, Gustavus Vaes. The excitement in Paris was lashed into a perfect fury-the most fabulous sums were demanded and received for places. The result was singular as was the failure unexpected. It proved the wisdom of Rossini in retiring from the scene of his past triumphs.

Donizetti's tragic opera of La Favorita has been added to the repertory, though no singing, however beautiful-no acting, were it ever so perfect-no scenery, however distinguished its pictorial merit-can ever secure for this work even a partial popularity. The story is hideous, and the music, where it is original, lugubrious and noisy, and is only agreeable where it has been borrowed. The direction has, we think, very unwisely lavished an enormous sum upon its production; but the vocal ensemble is weak where it might have been strong, and with the exception of the last act, which takes place in the monastery--superbly acted and sung by Grisi and Mario-was heavy and gloomy. To Corradi Setti, a recent importation, was confided the part of the King, and to Marini that of the Prior. It would seem that in the first instance Ronconi, one of the greatest living artists, had been selected as the representative of royalty, but the character was, from some unexplained policy, finally given to Corradi Setti. Olympus to a mole-hill! Although a moiety of the season be not yet expired, fifteen operas have already been produced. This fact bespeaks unceasing activity, though we do not so readily agree in the merits of the selection. We wait anxiously the appearance of Guillaume Tell, The Huguenots, Robert the Devil, Fidelio, and the Iphigenia.

At Her Majesty's Theatre, with the exception of Verdi's wretched Attila, there has been no novelty. The old repertory has afforded means for the introduction of the new talents, Cruvelli and Belletti, both admirable artists, and invaluable to the management. But then Jenny Lind has been restored to us, reinvigorated in health, and, if such a thing were within the limits of belief, improved in voice. The perennial Amina, and the heart-cheering Marie, the Daughter of the Regiment, carols her inspiring lays with

the freshness of a bird. Shall we repeat the raptured eulogiums, the honeyed words of praise, the extacies which have been poured forth at her feet; or enter into a cold and critical analysis of her portraitures? The labour, though a true labour of love, would fail to reflect her powers. Each character she has delineated has its special individuality, and is distinguished by such minute and unseizable traits of truthfulness and beauty, that we might as well attempt to describe the fragrance of flowers, or define the prismatic rays of light. With Jenny Lind, we are denied the critic's stronghold, that of instituting comparisons or drawing parallels with other artists. We admit the tragic sublimity and gorgeous vocalisation of Grisi, the marvellous fancy and exuberant ornateness of Persiani, the rich and ripe and voluptuous organ of Alboni, the dramatic energy and the scientific accomplishments of Viardot Garcia, but these admitted celebrities do not and cannot interfere with the supremacy of Jenny Lind. She is a creature distinct, apart→→→ untainted with the stage conventionality, formed upon no preceding model-she is herself alone, seeking her inspirations from the deep recesses of the human heart, and elaborating them for the dramatic purpose, by reflecting upon the truthful workings of nature. Her vocalising, marvellous though it be-her musical science, her great knowledge of the stage mechanism, are all made subsidiary to the great result-the perfect embodiment of the particular heroine which for the time being she becomes, without in the slightest degree destroying its ideality or its poetical beauty.

The last great triumph of the Lind has been her impersonation of Lucy Ashton. In this she has "moulted no feather" of her fame; it is marked by the same truthfulness of conception, the same originality of embodiment, the same vocal splendour as distinguished her former efforts. The enthusiasm of the public, on Thursday evening, seemed, if possible, to have increased in intensity. We hear that Desdemona, and Annette, in La Gazza Ladra, are in preparation.

THE ROYAL COLOSSEUM.

In no city in the world can such sights be seen as are here concentrated. The multiplicity and the variety, combined with the rare excellence, is astonishing. Statuary and painting in all their phases are here presented, and the eye wanders around almost bewildered with the rich collections placed for its delectation. There is nothing little or mean to detract from the nobleness of the proportions, and each object is so artistically placed as to assist the general design. There is something, too, very soothing in its quietude-there is no talking automaton to destroy our pleasure by spouting a monotonous description of the various objects. This perfect freedom from all official annoyance is most commendable, and might be adopted with great profit at other Metropolitan exhibitions. We ramble through the hall of statues, and are feasted with the finest forms of beauty conceived and realised by the gifted sculptors of antique Greece, and the master-pieces of the modern chisel. The imagination unwittingly takes a backward flight to the classic days of Pericles and Praxitiles. A few seconds, and we are transported to Switzerland, and we behold its rugged alps, and its glaciers, and believe for the nonce that we hear the plash of its waterfalls, and feel the sharp mountain air. Then there are conservatories filled with exotics culled from far-off lands, rejoicing in brilliant hues and intoxicating odours; but the great attraction is the new panorama depicting "Paris by Moonlight." Thousands will heave a sigh at the removal of the former picture; but, to use the burthen of an old ditty,

"London now is out of town,
And taken flight to Paris”—

where, no doubt, myriads will rush to see to what amazing skill and perfection British pictorial art can attain. But the present picture, if possible, exceeds the innumerable excellencies of its predecessor. When the vast space and amount of labour be considered, the artistic completion of so colossal a picture excites wonder and admiration. The view spread before us is magnificent, and no oral or written description can do justice to its abounding merits. The spectator is supposed to be elevated in a balloon above the Tuileries; from his ærial ship he beholds Paris, with its streets and shops, and palaces, and public buildings, and bridges and gardens; its Louvre and Palais Royal, its Invalides, and Place de la Concorde, and all the thousand objects for which the city of the republic is world-famous. The bright full moon is shining, and casting

its rays equally upon the regal palace and the beggar's hut. The smallest object is clearly defined. But majestic as is the scene extended before us, the narrow Seine is but a poor doubliure for our broad Thames. The Chamber of Deputies is quite extraordinary, and stands out in as bold relief as though it were built up. Indeed, it is with difficulty we persuade ourselves that all is not real-the idea that all those various objects are painted on a flat surface seems to be absurd. The objects in the foreground are painted with extraordinary vigour, and the perspective is so admirably managed that the eye is made the fool of the other senses. There is no approach to exaggeration in the colouring-there is feeling of strength manifested in every part. Nothing can exceed the effect of the moon's rays upon the water; it copies nature so closely that we can with difficulty persuade ourselves that it is illusion. There is a perfect union of dioramic, theatrical, and purely pictorial effects. One of the most esteemed critics on art has eloquently remarked that the enjoyment derived from the recollection of the scene is not inferior to that the spectacle affords. While present, the sense of pleasure blinds us to the merit of the persons by whom it has been provided. The spirit of the undertaking, the genius of the inventor, and the skill of the artists, are beyond all praise. All should witness the Colosseum-it is the most extraordinary as it is the cheapest exhibition in the Metropolis.

VAUXHALL GARDENS.

This old and favourite place of fashionable resort was opened to the public on Monday evening. Since last season very considerable alterations and improvements have been made, and we have every reason to expect that they will prove more than usually attractive. On the Waterloo-ground a splendid view of Constantinople, from the Golden Horn, has been erected. The design is by Battie, and the view is painted in the first style of scenic art. To the right and left there are seen large buildings in the true Oriental style, partially enclosing the slave-market; in the foreground, groups of figures, variously occupied, are congregated; through an opening at the back, looking over the rampart of the Golden Horn, you have a view of the Bosphorus, studded with the gailycoloured boats, with their graceful latteen sails, characteristic of the East. The background is covered with the various public and other buildings, surmounted by the beautiful domes, towers, and minarets for which this city is so celebrated; the extreme distance is closed in by the mountainous country bordering on the Dardanelles. The appearance given to the distance is very deceptive, and when illuminated by the pyrotechnic skill of Darby, the general effect excels anything of the kind ever before produced. A large troop of equestrians, with a highly-trained stud, under the direction of M. Charles Gauthier, has been engaged, and went through their feats in a most masterly manner. The vocal and instrumental concert gave very great satisfaction, the orchestra having been considerably strengthened. The decorations generally throughout the gardens have been renewed, and in several instances altered in design; and no expense has been spared in catering for the amusement and comfort of the visitors.

SURREY ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

All that good taste and liberality conjoined can effect in producing an agreeable result has been done by the proprietor of this charming spot. The gardens have been laid out with remarkable ingenuity, and now that the season is sufficiently advanced, the shrubs and plants have put on their holiday gear, and rejoice in their best looks. The small lake dimples and shines like a young bride; the Chinese pagoda might create envy in the breast of the yellow mandarin, while the roars of the zoologicals carry the mind to the jungles of the East and the wide-spreading prairie of the far West. Here is food both for contemplation and pleasure the mind is instructed while the eye is amused. The grand coup is, however, the magnificent painting by Danson: its extraordinary dioramic and atmospheric effects, its perspective and light and shade, are, we think, superior to any of his former efforts. The fireworks are splendid, and their reflection in the lake forms a scene of extraordinary brilliancy. The band is admirable, and the selection of the music excellent.

Where is Turner? What has become of Turner ?-is a cry that meets us from the entrance to Trafalgar-square, and follows us yet at our exit. Nor does the inquiry cease there. Wherever the refining influence of art is acknowledged, and has a place, there the same question is put. Does this proceed from a sense of Turner's loss, or is it mere idle curiosity to know something more of one whose works have so long been familiar to us? It is strange, the much-abused and enthusiastically-idolized imageries of this master's pencil should be so necessary to form a complete Royal Academy exhibition. The critic and the artist both feel his absence, and, indeed, so does the merest glimpser and hastiest galloper through these rooms. Now that he has withdrawn his works all miss the brilliant light that they once diffused. As memory recals the wonder working of his magic pencil, and looks around in vain for their presence, mental gloom becomes tangible. "The lyre, whose cords are hues," is not there to charm the soul with its thrilling melody, made manifest to our better nature through the portals of the eye. The most harmonious blender of stubborn colour into the choicest music, has withdrawn from the banquet of the arts in the severity of anger caused, alas, by those who best should have appreciated his excellence, and commanded the hushful silence of the more boisterous revellers. For this year, at least, the exhibition has lost its effulgence-let us be thankful for the twilight which is yet left.

Taking the order of the catalogue, we were first caught by

The Sisters (8), E. U. Eddis, who is classic in outline as usual-weak and inharmonious in colour, and faulty in the drawing of his hands; more particularly in that of the elder girl.

Sunset (9), T. S. Cooper, A. With but few of Mr. Cooper's beauties and more than usual of his faults. Here is labour indicative of great industry, but not a touch suggest tive of poetry or art. Mr. Cooper has, however, put all his beauties into another picture, that of 551, In the White-hall Meadows, Canterbury, which is painted with great power of feeling. The effect of heat is most admirably achieved.

Mr. Cooper's picture of Cardinal Wolsey (11), requires more attention from us than we have had opportunity of bestowing.

No. 12, Mont Blanc, by G. A. Fripp, reminds us much of Mr. Oliver's works. The former is far superior; a grand breadth, both in colour and composition, being kept up, which no allurement of trick appears to have the power to conquer, is the meritorious characteristic of Mr. Fripp's work.

No. 19, The Greenwood Stream-T. Creswick-is a most refreshing picture. The water could be dabbled in, and

"the shady pool,

Where trouts leap when the day is cool."

Glides silently under the eye with a truthful movement.

I a

No. 20, A Summer Afternoon on the Lido, near Venice-by R. McInnes Is a clever composition, in which every figure and accessory has evidently been well studied. No. 25, The Morning Prayer. One of Etty's bouquet, glistening and gladdening the eye like the sportive winged dance of fire-flies.

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No. 36, The Vintage, T. Uwins, R.A. This picture has been purchased by Mr. Ver non, to be added to the already munificent gift of his gallery to the nation. We have seen many pictures of Mr. Uwins' which we liked better than this. Indeed, we have seen few that pleased us less. The colouring is out of all tone, and the unhappy, not to say unnatural, hue he has chosen for his grapes, spots the picture all over in a disorder far from admired. The figures are likewise destitute of action. As they stand, kneel, or lie, so will they remain, not only in fact, but to the imagination, fixed.

No. 37, Scene in a Wood, by A. Gilbert, is a charming bit of nature, reminding us, by its fidelity and treatment, of some of the best Dutch schools.

No. 47, A Young Goatherd of the Campagna of Rome, by Penry Williams. Mr. Williams may safely rest his fame upon this production. It is at once rich, broad, and

singularly-beautifully drawn. Although high in finish, we are not reminded of labour The easy and graceful attitude-like the reality, withal-in which the figure is poised is exquisitely fine. This figure does move; you will have to run after him if you do not hasten to catch a look at once.

Mr. A. Cooper is a Royal Academician, and during his time has painted many things of high merit. Anything worse than (58), Ariadne after her desertion by Theseus, it would be scarcely possible for one of the students to effect. Without ideality, the figure is perfectly gross; and to add to the objectionable nature of this tawdry production, the left leg is that of a cripple-so distorted and out of drawing is it. It was a shame to permit of its reception. It is not too late to take it from the walls.

Fruit (64), by G. G. Bullock, is a positive imposition upon the senses. The grapes and melons are grapes and melons, and after being in these hot rooms for some two or three hours, a second look at them caused a precipate retreat into Farrance's. The hanging committee have paid Mr. Bullock a deserved compliment by placing the picture, 73, A Study of Colour in objects of Still Life, by Etty, pendant to this juicy production.

The Harvest Field (66), W. F. Witherington, R.A. This gentleman's subjects of late years have become so remarkably clean that we suspect nature must sit ever in holiday guise e to him. The raggedest garments are as free from soil as can be; and the corn grows in his picture without the aid of dirty earth. The whole face of nature is washed as bright as soap and water could make it; while even the tools, which might find apology for a little dirt, are as polished as on the day they came from their maker.

In compliance with our promise we renew our notice of this exhibition; and after another most careful view, we see nothing to alter the opinion in which the last month found us. Although, however, there is much upon the walls of the late Chinese Exhibition to commend, there is likewise that which appertains to its management upon which we must make a brief and kindly comment. The original intention-at least that which was generally set forth, or generally understood-was, that this gallery should be, to all intents and purposes, a FREE one. The reasons for a departure from this implied determination are far from satisfactory, far from politic, either in a mercantile sense, or in the higher significations appertaining to art. To "give and take" is childish. The gallery was given to the public-it has been snatched away from it: free it was to have been in the fullest definitive rendering of the term, and it is idle to say that it is so now in any one particular-yes, in one particular the management have made free, very free, with the public. An attempt at apology has been hazarded in an opening address appended to a late edition of the catalogue, and the management therein beckons to justification; but justification is too far out of sight to see its futile contortions for assistance. The whole affair looks as if the term free had been enlisted as a draw-a catchy, tricky draw -like the gratuitous admissions for minor theatres, not admissible after seven, while a clock does duty in the vestibule five minutes too fast. We say it looks like it, for we feel confident it does not arise from design, and we are as earnestly solicitous that the public should be of a similar opinion.

We are told that artists are not men of business, and that such stumbling, at the very threshold of prospective success, might naturally have been looked for. We are fully conscious of the want of business tact in artists, and, sooth to say, we do not desire to find jobbing and trading, exchange and haggling, amongst the sublimer portions of their natures; but we do look for an adherence to promises, and expect the fruition of a compact honourably entered into by artists with a greater confidence than from any other class of mankind. Business strikes out a straight line, undeviating and exact, with the station of integrity at its commencement and terminus. The liberal artistic rail possess these termini and others for generosity and mind to attend to the points, that should it be desirable to diverge, the train may never leave the broad for the narrow guage-the high and more lofty track, where the course is clear and open, for the confined cutting or dark and bewildering tunnel.

Mr. H. K. Browne's (Phiz) Little Paul (No. 1), although an unfinished picture, is replete with excellence. His touch in some degree reminds us of Boxall, but it is better in one respect, because it does not affect the masterly. The mouth of the darling boy is a little too small (an error this with Phiz), but the quiet, innocent beauty of the child is