KING’s THEATRE.

AFTER nearly a season has passed away, in which nothing but old, mostly feeble, operas, filled by second and third-rate performers, have been given to the subscribers—for the public have been too wise to pay their money for nothing,—we all at once find the theatre so crowded with singers that they actually jostle each other in the lobby. When the house stood in need of attraction, when the best management, the utmost activity, would hardly have enabled the lessee to pay his expenses, he furnished neither opera nor singer, ballet nor dancer, that drew enough to meet the rent. When Easter was turned—when that season had arrived in which, if the doors are opened, the house is lighted, and a set of puppets are placed on the stage, multitudes will go to see them—at that season we find a double troupe, and fragments of different operas given on the same night, in order that the performers may have some employment, and not lose their voices for want of use!

On the 27th of April La Cenerentola, one of ROSSINI’s most insipid operas, was performed, Mad. CINTI as Angelina, whose musical and flexible though not strong voice, and refined taste, the result of a perfect knowledge of her art, imparted a charm to what was originally weak and has been hacked for years. DONZELLI was Ramiro,TAMBURINI Dandino, and ZUCHELLI the Magnifico, all of whom sustained their parts well; but the two sisters very nearly spoiled the whole, by the contrast they formed with the rest, and TAMBURINI only reconciled us to his excessive flourishing by the beauty of his voice and intonation.

On Thursday the 2nd of May, Madame PASTA reappeared, after an absence of two seasons, in Anna Bolena, an opera indebted for its continued existence solely to her performance: in ordinary hands it could not have survived one night in London. This admirable performer is just what she was, in person, voice, and action; and we have only to refer our readers to the opinions we have formerly given on the subject, for those entertained by us now. She was received by a crowded house in the warm manner that her great and yet unabated talents gave her a right to expect.

Tancredi was the second opera got up for Madame PASTA, and in this she afforded even more pleasure to real connoisseurs than in the part of Anna Bolena, for the music is not only goad, but to be reckoned among ROSSINI’s best. Her entrata was splendid; the recitative ‘Oh! Patria!’ and aria, ‘Tu che accendi,’ with its popular second movement, were perfect. Madame CINTI’s Amenaide was, as regards singing, not less excellent; and her very different voice, so far from being a disadvantage on the present occasion, operated favourably, by giving a greater individuality to each character. RUBINI’s Argirio was a continued series of roulades, except when, by sudden bursts of his voice, he made those near him start, and by pianos alternating with these, he became inaudible to all but such as he had alarmed by his sforzatos. We have never entertained but one opinion of this singer, who has been so vaunted in the French journals, and find that an able contemporary agrees with us. The Spectator says of this performer, that—

‘Of true feeling he has not a particle. Per esempio—when he visits his daughter in prison and in chains, and she asks—

his reply was delivered with as much indifference and flippancy as if the question had related to the weather, or the last new bonnet; and yet the words are these—

The truth is, that with singers like Rubini, the art of dramatic singing is a mere effort of the muscles; with Pasta, one of the mind.’

ZUCHELLI had but little to do, but did that well. Many changes were made in the opera; original pieces were left out, strange and not appropriate ones put in, just as the caprice of the singers dictated; and the choruses were wretched. Il Pirata, another old opera, is getting up, and this is certainly Bellini’s best work; indeed the only one of his known to this theatre that has the smallest merit.

DRURY LANE THEATRE.

WHAT properly is called the English stage is at its last gasp. Covent Garden is closed except to foreign performers: its company has been obliged to seek refuge in a theatre which most of our provincial towns would scoff at. Mr. Arnold has prudently withdrawn from the Adelphi, and his performers are doing what they can for themselves; that is, just keeping that small house open three times a week. Mr. Morris feels the necessity of closing his doors when the two national theatres, the legitimate, the patent theatres, are opened by foreigners, and nothing but German, or Italian, or French productions heard therein. A Sunday paper of the 5th ult. well observes, speaking of the banishment of the English drama from Covent Garden theatre,—‘This feared event has, at length come to pass. What Laporte means to do with Covent Garden we have not heard; but he is in treaty with Paganini, and we suppose that he will resort to some other foreign performances. It is a singular fact, and it can hardly fail to produce its effect, that OUR NATIONAL DRAMA was finally expelled from one of our great theatres, while “a native of France was its lessee.” What would have been said by the French, if an English actor had been director of the ThÉÂtre Francais, and had adopted measures by which the plays of Corneille, Racine, and Moliere were driven to the Port St. Martin?’ And with what show of reason do certain writers in our journals exclaim against the salaries of English stars, as they are called, when they know, but are silent, that Madame Devrient receives nearly three times as much per night, and Madame Malibran more than seven times, what our first and best performers could ever obtain? Farren, Braham, and Liston, it is said, have, or had, twenty pounds a night: Madame Devrient has at least fifty; and Madame Malibran one hundred and fifty, though she does draw enough to pay her own salary!

On the 1st of May, the Italian opera of BELLINI, La Sonnambula, with English words adapted to it, was produced at this theatre, for the debut of Mad. MALIBRAN. The drama is well known to our readers; the music is of the most flimsy kind, and worthless in every sense of the word, whether as relates to art, or to the theatre. Our English operatic composers have not much distinguished themselves of late, and the undoubted superiority of the German and French schools has generated a taste among all classes in London for foreign music; but this is no reason why anything so feeble as the work now under notice should be patiently listened to, nay applauded. However, we will not waste our reader’s time by further notice of so inferior a production. The acting of Mad. MALIBRAN as the somnambulist, is of a very mixed kind; sometimes she surprises by traits of extraordinary genius, and occasionally she exhibits extravagancies that prove a want of any real knowledge of the first principles of the histrionic art. As a singer, she certainly is much more perfect. Nature has bestowed on her a voice rarely equalled, and education has made her an excellent musician. Her natural taste we believe to be good, but, following the fashion of the day, it has become vitiated, and her ornaments are so redundant as often to be ridiculous. These however, are so nicely executed, that they seduce even the best critics, and lead them to applaud what in their sober senses they could not but disapprove.

Mad. MALIBRAN has since appeared in the English opera The Devil’s Bridge, as Count Belino, and if her roulades, her admirably performed freaks, are absurd in Italian arias, how much more so in English songs! She entirely failed in this attempt, and though the opera was performed a second time, the public, prejudiced though they now are in favour of foreigners, whatever their pretensions, could not be brought to witness another such performance.

Beethoven’s Fidelio has been produced here, Mad. SCHRŒDER DEVRIENT and M. HAITZINGER in the characters they sustained so well last year at the King’s Theatre. The number of subscription and benefit concerts which we feel it a duty to attend, have prevented our yet being present at the performance of this opera at Drury Lane.