O tempora! O mores! Zucchelli, that prince of delicious baritones! However, as I said, the man has a good bass voice; there was also a sufficiently good Pompolino. Montresor banged himself about, broke his time, and made some execrable flourishes in the Prince, whereat the enlightened New Yorkians applauded mightily. But the Prima Donna! but the Cenerentola! Cospetto di Venere, what a figure, and what a face! Indeed she was the very thing for a lower housemaid, and I think the Prince was highly to blame for removing her from the station nature had evidently intended her for. She was old and ugly, and worse than ugly, unpardonably common-looking, with a cast in her eye, and a foot that, as Mr. ---- observed, it would require a _pretty considerable_ large glass slipper to fit. Then she sang--discords and dismay, how she did sing! I could not forbear stealing a glance at ----: he applauded the sestett vehemently; but when it came to that most touching "_nacqui al' affanno_," he wisely interposed his handkerchief between the stage and his gracious countenance. I thought of poor dear ----, and her sweet voice, and her refined taste, and shuddered to hear this favourite of hers bedevilled by such a Squalini. Now is it possible that people can be such fools as to fancy this good in spite of their senses, or such earless asses (that's a bull I suppose), as to suffer themselves to be persuaded that it is? Though why do I ask it? Oh yes, "very easily possible." Do not half the people in London spend money and time without end, enduring nightly penances--listening to what they can't understand, and couldn't appreciate if they did? I suppose if I shall allow a hundred out of the whole King's Theatre audience to know any thing whatever about music, I am wide in my grant of comprehension. There was that virtuous youth, Mr. ----, who evidently ranks as one of the cognoscenti here, who exclaimed triumphantly at the end of one of the perpetrations, "Well, after all, there's nothing like Rossini." Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber, are _not_, that is certain.[22] I wish I could have seen Mr. ---- during that finale. Coming out, were joined by Mr. ----: brought him home in the carriage with us. Gave him "Ye mariners of Spain," and some cold tongue, to take the taste of the Cenerentola out of his mouth. He stayed some time. I like him enough: he is evidently a clever man, though he does murder the King's English. (By the by, does _English_, the tongue, belong, in America, to the King or the President--I wonder? I should rather think, from my limited observations, that it was the individual property of every freeborn citizen of the United States.) Now, what on earth can I say to the worthy citizens, if they ask me what I thought of the Italian opera? That it was very amusing--yes, that will do nicely; that will be true, and not too direct a condemnation of their good taste. _Sunday, 7th._