THE FINE ARTS.

The Opera.—Strange, that Philadelphia, with so much musical taste and cultivation, cannot have an Opera. Once in a while an Operatic troupe wanders along, and rests, for a short time, in our sober town, gives a few representations, then away it goes. Our neighbors of New York manage this thing better—an Opera they will have, even if they run in debt for it. And yet it seems that one, properly managed, might succeed in this concert-loving town of Penn. It must be a moderate one, however; that is, moderate in price. A serious old merchant, well to do in the world, will hesitate at taking even two tickets, at a dollar a-piece, but he would not mind taking a half dozen tickets if they cost only half that sum. The principle is the thing.

Brother Jonathan likes a show of economy, at least. Every politician in Congress, who wishes to be popular in Bunkum, invariably makes speeches against appropriations, mileage, &c., in order to prove that he is anxious to save Uncle Sam’s purse; but, at the same time, this same politician will have his pet appropriations, and not refuse his mileage either.

The small circle of fashionable people may subscribe and talk, but they can do little in this opera matter, without the support of the plain, unpretending portion of the inhabitants, who, after all, make up the audience, and bring in the money; and they have made up their minds to give only a moderate sum, and they will not give any more.

Then the Troupe must be a good one; or, if only a slender one, it must not attempt too much. The Seguins always drew well, because they only attempted Operettes and Vaudevilles. Not that the Philadelphians do not like a higher order of music, but they are fastidious, and know when a good Opera is badly given. They will not go to hear the rich, full music of Norma murdered by a poor Troupe, with worn-out voices, and meagre choruses. Whatever they listen to must be well sung.

We wish that inimitable knight of the Baton—the white cravated Max Maretzek—would think a little of this. But if he does, there is one hint that it would be well to whisper in his ear, or in the ear of any other venturesome Opera proprietor, who is bold enough to undertake the establishing of an Opera here. There must be no cliques—no donnas of different schools in the Troupe. We can all remember how weary we all were of the Biscaccianti and Truffi feud; and then, again, of the Truffi and Laborde cliques. The real lovers of music, who went for the love of the Opera, and not in a spirit of pedantic fashionable affectation, were ready to exclaim, with Mercutio,

A plague o’ both your houses.

Let the Opera be of either the French or Italian School, so that it be of one, alone. There is sufficient love for music with us, to make us liberal to either school, so that it be well represented. So far as our own taste is concerned, the Italian school is the more pleasing. The French vocalization is too exaggerated, we think. It is a mere matter of taste, however, and we will be content to listen to either, so that we have an Opera.

In the early part of the summer of ’47, an Italian Opera Troupe, from Havana, tarried a few weeks in Philadelphia. Most of the townsfolk, especially the wealthier class, had left the town, and were at different watering places; and, yet, we remember this company drew good houses.

It was one of the best Troupes we have ever had in Philadelphia. Its Donnas were Tedesco and Caranti Vita, and Marini. Tedesco, with her rich, mellow, mezzo-soprano voice, and the timid petite Vita, with a delicate sympathetic soprano, that warbled like a bird—it was a treat indeed. Then Marini—the only true Contr’alto we ever heard—how she startled the audience with her fulness and depth of tone. She was awkward as an actress, and her voice, though rich, was rough; but there was so much melody in it that it touched us, and we could not, if we would, criticise.

Of the Operas sung by this Troupe we speak of, Saffo and Sonnambula were our favorites. True, the Choruses in Norma were beautifully done—for the Choruses of this well-balanced Troupe were full, and well trained—but the chaste, simple music of Saffo, suited Tedesco’s fresh, young voice; and the delicate, melodious caroling of Amina, was the very character of Caranti Vita.

Perelli—the popular Perelli, without whose instructions no lady in Philadelphia, with any pretensions to a voice, can possibly get along—was the Tenore in this Troupe, and its Maestro. In Verdi’s Hernani, his voice produced a fine effect and, every thing he sung, gave evidence of high culture and good taste.

The Opera of Saffo pleased us, particularly—the music was so pure and chaste. Such compositions are the sculpture of Music; a simple, classic plot—clear, decided harmony—pure melody. This is enough—scenic illusions and orchestral effects are of secondary importance.

This style of music belongs to a good, old school—the story also is effective. Schlegel it is, we think, who says, that there is a fanciful freedom in the handling of mythological materials, or subjects taken from chivalrous or pastoral romances, which always produces a fine effect in Opera. That so soon as the Heroic Opera chains itself down to History, after the manner of Tragedy, Dullness, with a leaden sceptre, presides over it.

There is another Opera of this school, the music of which we have heard, but we have never seen the opera represented—Niobe. Every instrumental performer will recal, with something like a loving memory, the beautiful melody from this Opera, “I tuoi frequenti palpiti,” which has been arranged, in “all sorts of ways,” for different instruments.

Good Reader, we will have a chat once in a while, on this subject of Music. We will talk together of Concerts, sometimes, both professional and amateur—and we will give some good-natured hints to our amateur prima donnas, about the difference between stage-singing and chamber singing. But you must join with us in all we say, and though we play spokesman and you listener, you must agree with us, and while we talk, you stand behind us, and make the gestures—then we shall succeed in interesting others as well as ourselves.

Spohr has completed his ninth orchestral symphony, which he has entitled “The Seasons.”

Madame Frezzolini, after an absence of eight years from London, has returned to her Majesty’s Theatre, which she opened with great success as Lucrezia.

“The Philosopher’s Stone” is the title of a new burletta, produced in London, having for its subject of ridicule the gold and California mania.