We find our seats, and mentally remarking that NIBLO'S
is the one theatre in this city from which it would be possible to
escape with whole bones and coat in case of fire, we await with
contented minds the lifting of the curtain.
In time the opera begins, and a select company of young men who are
standing in the rear of the audience improve every possible opportunity
for breaking into rapturous applause. Their zeal occasionally outruns
their discretion, and they finally ruin the attempt of Miss RICHINGS to
execute a florid cadenza at the end of one of her arias. An intelligent
usher is therefore detailed to curse them into a comprehension of their
duties, after which they applaud with a discretion which produces almost
exactly the effect of spontaneous enthusiasm.
Remarks a young lady near us, who is dressed with much wealth of
contrasting colors:--"This isn't half so nice as the Italian opera. Miss
RICHINGS can't dress half so nicely as Miss KELLOGG, and then you don't
see any fashionable people here. The DAVIDS, the ABRAHAMS, the AARONS,
the NOAHS, that handsome Mr. JACOBS, and that delightful Mr. MOSES,--all
these elegant young men with beautiful eyes and curly hair that dress in
velvet coats and diamond studs--there isn't one of them here. Our best
society never goes to any opera but the real Italian opera.
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