Punch (41.1861)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[July 6, 1861.

A SUGGESTION.

Bow to make the Crystal Palace Concerts •pay.—Hint to the Directors: Verbum sap. (N.B. The Conductor is higher up, on a Flying Trapeze.)

OUR DRAMATIC CORRESPONDENT.

“ Mu. Punch,

“ ‘ Have you heard Patti ? ’ ‘ What do you think of Patti ?’
These two questions one is asked at every party that one goes to;
and as operatic ignorance is not always bliss, I am glad I now can
answer the first in the affirmative. ’When I hear the second query,
I am rather cautious in wording my reply, and am apt to sound my
hearers and ascertain their bias somewhat, lest they misunderstand me.
In speaking of a young debutante like Adelina Patti, one cannot be
too careful in expressing what one thinks of her. If language was
invented to conceal one’s real thoughts, in no way is this notion more
easy to be acted on than in venting an opinion on some musical moot
point. One may speak in general terms such as convey no special
meaning, and may murmur forth mild adjectives like ‘ charming ’ and
‘ delightful,’ which, now that critics have recourse to such superlative
laudation, may be accepted as amounting to faint damnatory praise.
Or if one wishes more completely to mystify the questioner and keep
secret what one thinks, it is easy to resort to musical slangology, ana
talk scientific nonsense about‘ quality of tone,’ and ‘ breadth oi vocal
colouring,’ terms which none but connoisseurs affect to comprehend.

“ After but one hearing who can form a fair opinion of a singer F and
who will blame me if I hesitate in telling what I think P Enough to
say that I was pleased, though perhaps not quite so much so as the
newspapers in general had led me to expect. That a mere girl of
eighteen at once should take first rank among Italian prima donnas,
and be regarded as the equal of Lind, Malibran, and Grisi, was a
tale that might find credence t’ other side of the Atlantic, but which
would meet with few believers in our cooler-blooded clime. Yet our
critics followed suit_ in singing almost unmixed praises ; and some of
them have poured forth such exuberance of eulogy as makes one fear
they are leaf-taking from the Transatlantic press. No one who has
heard her, and who has not Bottom's ears, can dispute that Ma’amselle
Patti is a wonderfully clever and highly accomplished singer—con-
sidering her age : indeed, with this consideration, if one said too highly
accomplished, it would not be far from truth. Over-cultivation may be
fatal to young voices, just as over-training is destructive to a horse;

and though I would not say that Patti has been over-taught, I think
her voice shows traces of having been too early somewhat over-worked.
Clear and sweet it is, and may grow more full and strong: a girl of
eighteen scarcely has come to her full strength. But it lacks that
thrilling sympathy and tenderness of tone winch is a gift of nature
rather thanof art, and I almost doubt if a too early education may not
be destructive of this nature-gift. The joyous cry of Malibran when
waking in the last act in Somambula was certainly not singing, but it
was something better; and however excellent Patti’s style may be
(and I give her special praise for discarding the vibrato, which is now
so fashionable, and I think so foolish), I would willingly lose hearing of
her most finished phrases to catch but one of those outbursting nature-
notes of Jenny Lind, that stirred one’s soul within one, and, not
pleasing the ear merely, went straight to the heart.

“Eoreigners are fond of saying that we English have no taste for
music, ana the truth of this remark is most abundantly made manifest
by the fact that all this season the Times has daily had two columns of
musical announcements, and the Opera has been open four or five nights
every week. Even this, it seems, has failed to satisfy our wants, and
the Lyceum has been furnished with an operatic company to catch the
overflowings from the house that Gye built. Whatever be its faults,
the rival management is quick in the performance of its promises ; and
taking into thought the scratch way in which it started, I think it
should be posted as the winner of some praise. I saw Martha t’other
evening very creditably played. Titiens and Giuglini were both in
glorious voice, and have rarely pleased me more than in this English,
Irish, Polish, and Italian opera, as it may, I think, be not unfairly called,
for the scene is laid near London, the chief air came from Ireland, the
words are all Italian, and the composer was a Pole.

“ Reflecting upon things in general, the philosopher remarked,
‘There’s nothin’ new, and there’s nothin’ true, and what there is don’t
signify.’ Now these wise words might now find echo in our theatres,
for except that the Lyceum has been turned into an Opera-house, and
that a fairish squad of Erenchmen may be seen at the St. James’s,
nothing new of consequence has since my last been visible. Without
the aid of splendid scenery and gorgeous gettings up, Mr. Eechter
still succeeds in filling the Princess’s as fully as was done by his great