In the evening I went to the Grand Theatre, or Opera House. The salle is, on the whole, good, but, like all others abroad, badly lit up, and the audience dressed more fit for the diligence than the boxes. As, however, only fools think about dress, I merely remark this because it detracts from the good effect which is produced by the more graceful appearance of a London audience. We had first a vile opera called ‘Le Tresor Supposé,’ and then Voltaire's tragedy of ‘Mahomet,’ in which Talma, whom I had before seen in Paris, performed.