From that time, in spite of lets and hindrances innumerable, which too generally beset the English gentlewoman undertaking a foreign artistic career, Miss Kemble has slowly and steadily advanced towards her present high position. At Venice she was applauded to the echo for her execution of Pasta's grand _cavatina_ in "_Niobe_,"--at Mantua made a _furore_, as an actress who was "_simpatica_" (there is a good deal in the word, as all Italians know); later still at the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, rising to such a height of popularity, that upon her contracting an engagement for Palermo, Barbaja, "_le bourru bienfaisant_" broke the contract, and paid the forfeit to retain her. Her chief parts have been in the operas of "_Lucia di Lammermoor_," "_Norma_," "_Elena da Feltre_," "_Gemma di Vergy_," "_La Sonnambula_," and "_Beatrice di Tenda_." But lest the English fancy that their favourite is but a _signora_ in disguise, be it known to them that the subject of our notice is as fine a linguist in music as the most universal of her contemporaries. We have heard her applauded to the echo by the Rhinelanders for her singing of Schubert and Beethoven:--We believe that she possesses a _cahier_ of French romances, which she can _say_ as well as sing, with _finesse_ enough to charm the fastidious ears of the Panserons and Adams who compose such dainty ware; and we know that she can do worthy homage--to Handel. The oratorio-goers may look for _the_ Miriam in her, and will not be disappointed. What more remains?--save to record, that after having made her mature talent heard at the never-to-be-forgotten Polish _matinée_ at Stafford House, and at a private concert, Miss Kemble made a second German journey this autumn, as we said, to the infinite delight of the Rhinelanders, who are not easy to please;--and lastly, to give the second of this month as the date of her commencing a career among her own countrymen, which, for Art's sake, as well as her own, we fervently hope will be as long as it _must_ be brilliant. R. O. D. What more remains? By way of postscript to our dull prose, the world will, we think, be glad of half-a-dozen verses from a most accomplished pen (we would not for the world reveal its owner!) dropped by mistake in an _Omnibus_, on the morning after Miss Kemble's first appearance. 'Twas not Pasta--'twas not e'en Thy greater name, That in charms of voice and mien To fancy came-- As thy wild impassioned lays Enthralled our ears, And the eyes that fain would gaze Were blind with tears! Whence the ray, that could impart Each subtle trace That defines the mother's heart, The matron's grace? Whence the throes of jealousy That struggling rise, Big with mimic agony To those young eyes? Love and Joy, thy gentle brow In turn caressing; Hate, with scorn or vengeance, now Its lines possessing: