Signor Rossini's music, which had been all but banished from Her Majesty's Theatre for a couple of seasons (Mademoiselle Lind not being, apparently, at ease in his operas), returned there this year, in consequence of changes in the company, which rendered performances of the newer refectory not attractive. Signor Verdi's star (as may be seen) had waned—not to brighten in England until his real popularity arrived in “Il Trovatore,” and (more's the discredit!) “La Traviata.”—There was no attempt to promise or to produce any new work. The thing to be done, clearly, was to “keep the theatre going,” in some manner or other.—It was no longer a case of art, but of artists.

The return of Madame Sontag to the stage—as one of the most remarkable events in the biography of singers—claims a separate notice.—Another curious appearance was made in the person of Mademoiselle Parodi.—Of this young lady persons conversant with the theatres across the Alps had been hearing for some years.—It had been told them that she was the tragic singer on whom Madame Pasta had let fall her mantle—that she had been watched, cherished, counselled, approved, by that admirable artist.—The supremacy of the departed Queen of musical tragedy has, by the way, been in nothing more remarkably displayed, than by the manner in which her approval has been fictitiously worked to recommend inferior singers about to cross the Alps, before they have arrived.