The “old house” then, was fairly beaten out of the field by the new one. And, after all that had been whispered, and asserted, and published in print, the Italian Opera in Covent Garden had entirely superseded the house in the Haymarket, with all its traditional Fashion.—How certain persons had clung to this, with a constancy peculiar to loyal England, can hardly be believed. They had sworn (and, I am convinced, honestly,) that to drive five minutes further towards so vulgar a locality was impossible,—forgetting how the play-houses there had been mobbed by persons of taste, intelligence, and rank, to see John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons.—They had overlooked in their own dear domain the extinction of Fop's Alley,—and such sights in the pit as misbehaviours which would have made a chapter on manners in Mrs. Trollope's American experiences. They had endured bad music—they had defended inferior performances—on the plea that it would not do for any manager to yield to the dictation of a subordinate (the onus of the new establishment having been conveniently laid on Signor Costa's separation from the theatre). They had appealed to this and to the other printed praise of every performer, male or female, who had appeared in turn;—while, also, they had virtually declared that, when “one particular star” had vanished, the entertainment was no longer worth frequenting.—But there was no questioning the fact that, long before 1853 set in, the tide, fashionable and unfashionable, had turned to Covent Garden to hear great musical performances—and that in 1853 “the dear old house” was closed.