I went in the evening to the Opera Comique, Rue Féydeau. It is the prettiest salon imaginable. Large pillars of marble, or what seems to be marble, support the boxes; the pit rises in a species of amphitheatre; and the drop curtain is the handsomest I ever saw: it is painted in imitation of blue velvet, covered with golden fleurs de lis; the crown on a ball, which seems embossed in the middle, and the drapery very grand and simple in its folds. I never saw anything in better taste than the whole of this theatre. The performances were Le Caliph de Bagdad, L'Habit du Comte De Grammont, and Le Nouveau Seigneur du Village. I came in at the end of the first piece; the two latter were very entertaining, and the music was exceedingly good; the people all singing in time and tune, but louder than my ears are accustomed to; indeed, they seem to vie with one another, who shall make most noise. The principal actor and actress were excellent performers, but the whole corps executed their parts uniformly well, and perhaps this has more power upon the general effect of the performance, than one transcendant actor could possibly convey. No vulgar misconception or defect, in any of the subordinate players, broke the charm of the illusion. There was an exquisite duet in the last piece. << less