especially, understand the full force of the above stated axiom.  Hence, those who are deficient in voice avoid the English stage.  Miss KELLOGG, for example, never attempted English opera, because she knew that people who had heard ROSE HERSEE or CAROLINE RICHINGS would laugh at her claim to be “the greatest living Prima Donna,” should she compete with those birds of English song.  Wherefore, she wisely confined herself to the Italian stage, sure of pleasing a public that knows nothing of music, but is confident that a lady who enjoys the friendship of Madison avenue must be a great singer.  PAREPA, on the contrary, turned from the Italian to the English stage,—­but then PAREPA had a voice.

How many years is it since CAROLINE RICHINGS first sung in English opera?  It is an ungallant question, but the answer would be still more ungallant were it not that Miss RICHINGS is an artist; and with artists the crown of youth never loses the brightness of its laurel leaves.  At any rate, she has sung long enough to compel the recognition of her claims to our gratitude and admiration.  She is not faultless in her method, but she differs from other great American prime donne in the important particular of possessing voice enough to fill an auditorium larger than the average minstrel hall.

At present she is filling NIBLO’S GARDEN with her voice and its admirers.  We go to hear her.  PALMER and ZIMMERMANN, clad in velvet and fine linen, flit gorgeously about the lobby, and are mistaken, by rural visitors, for JIM FISK and HORACE GREELEY—­concerning whom the tradition prevails in rural districts that they are clothed in a style materially different from that affected by King Solomon at the period of his greatest glory.  We find our seats, and mentally remarking that NIBLO’S is the one theatre in this city from which it would be possible to escape with whole bones and coat in case of fire, we await with contented minds the lifting of the curtain.

In time the opera begins, and a select company of young men who are standing in the rear of the audience improve every possible opportunity for breaking into rapturous applause.  Their zeal occasionally outruns their discretion, and they finally ruin the attempt of Miss RICHINGS to execute a florid cadenza at the end of one of her arias.  An intelligent usher is therefore detailed to curse them into a comprehension of their duties, after which they applaud with a discretion which produces almost exactly the effect of spontaneous enthusiasm.

Remarks a young lady near us, who is dressed with much wealth of contrasting colors:—­“This isn’t half so nice as the Italian opera.  Miss RICHINGS can’t dress half so nicely as Miss KELLOGG, and then you don’t see any fashionable people here.  The DAVIDS, the ABRAHAMS, the AARONS, the NOAHS, that handsome Mr. JACOBS, and that delightful Mr. MOSES,—­all these elegant young men with beautiful eyes and curly hair that dress in velvet coats and diamond studs—­there isn’t one of them here.  Our best society never goes to any opera but the real Italian opera.”