My dearest Father, I am getting quite into the world again—I took Effie to the opera last night.... The opera was intensely disagreeable—bad singing—bad dancing and plot at once tragic and absurd. It is difficult to express the degree of degradation into which the operatic amusement is sinking the European mind—First you have every possible means of excitement—music—passion—acting of the coarsest and most violent kind—glaring scenery— everything that can excite in the highest degree—then, the people, who are rich and idle—take this excitement every night—till it ceases to be an excitement any [more?]. But they still go, because it is fashionable—and— not caring to look or to listen—open their boxes as drawingrooms—and receive their company in the theatre instead of at home. No conversation except of the lightest kind is possible in such a place of course—but every body talks—and nobody listens—Thus the tone of all conversation is rendered habitually frivolous—the ear loses its refinement from talking in the midst of an orchestra—the actors—unable to draw attention by just or quiet play—seek for it by rant—and only obtain it—momentarily—by shrieking or performing miracles of pirouettes—so the entire school of dramatic writing, music—and dancing, is degraded lower and lower—and—one evil reacting on another, the final result of the general corruption is still unseen—and to come. << less