The Berlin Opera-house is a marvel of discomfort. Not the slightest provision is made by its directors for the comfort of the public, which is expected to contribute its money gratefully for inferior performances and wretched accommodation. There is no foyer, no tabagie, no ventilation. For the privilege of being slowly boiled and listening to third-rate singing you have to pay from six to nine shillings, if you select the stalls — into which officers are forbidden to enter — as your abiding-place for the evening, and the prices of seats in the other parts of the house vary between one and five marks. The temperature, about ninety degrees Fahrenheit when the overture begins, rises to one hundred and ten degrees or so by the time the performance is ended. The only concession made to public convenience by the directors of this torture-chamber is a regulation by which the evening's entertainment is punctually brought to a close at half-past nine, ten o'clock being the supper time of the eminently respectable class that delights to mortify its flesh at the Opera house.