I was carried out of a sick-bed to the Opera on Saturday. The public was in general disappointed. They expected a Giant in Gabrielli & behold! a pigmy. I was more pleased than surprised or disappointed. A little, dapper, short-armed, elegant, appetissante figure, was not likely to have the voice of a Stentor. She had a cold, & was put out of humour by the brutality of John in the Gallery hissing her Sister. But through all clouds & storms I discovered a voice more like Mrs Sheridan's in the clear places, than any one I know of: an execution rapid & neat to a very superior degree. After a very long swell in her cadence which I thought had wholly exhausted her air-pump, she set off with such a Volata as arracher'd des louanges from her greatest enemies. Her Cantabile melted me: and I was ready to pronounce her to be two distinct singers: and in the Duet, her & Rauzzini to be only one, - so delightfully did they breath the first part, which was exquisite, together, - & so admirably contend in the 2nd for preeminence in rapidity & neatness. But all this while power of voice was wanting to stun the Galleries. And then her accustomed nonchalance offended John. G-D-me! was there ever such insolence!- to shew such little respect & fear. In the last scene the witch escaped burning, & every one went home dissatisfied thereat. - & so ends my present account; - the news will be that she's hissed off the Stage, or so insulted that she'll never sing a note more to such maladette bestie! for John often quarrels with his bread & butter, and would much rather fast than not have it entirely to his palate. << less