MINNIE MADDERN.
There are no manifestations of applause, no cat-calls or signs of impatience. In the places visited by even the poorest, where the accommodations are of the rudest, perfect order is observed, and every one seems to be possessed of a patient quietness that is amazing. They exhibit a deference for the comfort of their fellows that is worthy of imitation. One great reason, perhaps, that the people are so gentle and accommodating, one to the other, may be found in their complete sobriety. No exhibition of drunken rowdyism is to be seen, and yet the entire people, women as well as men, drink of the national beverage, "sake," a liquor distilled from rice. As there is no "tarantula juice" in its composition, its inebriating quality is rather mild. Its effect upon the brain is not lasting, neither is it injurious.
CHAPTER XXV.
OPERA AND OPERA SINGERS.
Ferdinand Palmo, who died in New York in September, 1869, as poor as the proverbial church mouse, was the father of Italian opera in this country. He was born in Naples in 1785 and came to America when twenty-five years old, settling in Richmond, Virginia. After remaining there six years he moved to New York, but not proving successful in a business venture returned to Virginia. After paying two visits to Europe he again tried New York and built a café, which he run until 1835 when he opened a saloon chamber, which was afterwards converted by him into Palmo's Opera House, and in which Italian opera was for the first time presented to the American people on February 2, 1844. The opening opera was "Il Puritani," and during the season the best operas of the day were produced. The venture, however, did not prove a financial success. Palmo was reduced to poverty. With the assistance of friends he opened a small hotel, and after nine months became cook for a Broadway restaurant "where," says a writer, "he might often have been seen wearing his white apron and square cap and engaged in preparing the delectable dishes for which that establishment was noted." The death of his employer threw Palmo out of work and reduced him to straitened circumstances. As he was too old to do anything, members of the dramatic and musical professions met and organized a Palmo Fund, each person in the organization agreeing to pay $13 per year toward the old man's relief, and he lived comfortably on this fund until the day of his death. It is a curious fact that no musical or theatrical celebrities attended his funeral.
Forty years have effected a great change in the taste of the people of the United States. Italian opera now is one of the best paying things in the musical or dramatic market. Announce a season of grand opera in any city, and from that time on until the date of opening the manager of the theatre in which the season is to be held will be bothered by applicants for places. Double and treble the ordinary price of admission is asked, but that makes no difference; everybody seems desirous of patronizing Italian opera, and the extra price is paid without grumbling. These high prices of admission must be paid because it costs a vast amount of money to run Italian opera, transporting large companies long distances, paying immense salaries, and shouldering the enormous expenses of equipping an opera organization and mounting the pieces.
It is a great sight to see an opera company travelling. The principal singers must have their sleeping-cars and dining coaches, those beneath them put up with sleeping berths merely, while the members of the chorus are crowded like emigrants into an ordinary coach, from out which roll odors of fried garlic and Italian sausage. When their destination is reached the prima donne find carriages in waiting to drive them to the best hotel in the place. The secondary artists may also have carriages, but they go to minor hotels, while the chorus people are left to themselves to seek cheap boarding-houses and do the best they can. Wagon loads of trunks follow the carriages and wagon loads go to the theatre. Sometimes there is scenery. For instance, Mapleson always carries the scenery for "Aida," even to big cities where there are first-class theatres. Hundreds of pieces of baggage are left at the hotels, and hundreds at the theatre. Immediately the troupe arrives the principal artists fall into the hands of the interviewer, and as the tenor and the prima donna and the others, too, are tired, the newspaper man gets very little to write about unless he runs across such a good fellow as Campanini, or happens to meet Charles Mapleson, if it is Her Majesty's Company.
Then on the following morning comes the rehearsal. The triumph is the usual sequel. All the young ladies are immediately "mashed" on the tenor, and would willingly follow the example of some New York beauties, who went as a committee of the whole behind the scenes one night to place a wreath of bay leaves on the head of their favorite warbler, only they have amateur tenors of their own by their sides who might not relish such a display of their appreciation of good music.
