There is a certain pleasure in seeing a public place gradually filled by its assembly — in watching vacant benches and gloomy corners, one after the other, painted with forms and colours, which turn out to be human beings. Even at the Coronation, the six hours of expectation which elapsed between the time when the public crowded into Westminster Abbey and the Lady of the day appeared, were assuredly not long ones. If there be any who share this taste with me, I would invite them to take stalle or box at L'Académie a quarter of an hour before M. Habeneck makes his appearance; not, however, to watch the bright-looking exquisitely-dressed ladies gliding into the balcon — not to catch snatches of the odd, blithe, vehement dialogue which goes on in the parterre — nor yet to give themselves up to the perusal of the Entr'acte of the evening. That interesting publication I would fain supersede for one night by offering a brief study of the drop-curtain of the Grand Opera.

This is not one of those venerable veils of dingy green baize, the sight of which has awakened such an undefined and thrilling curiosity within many a young playgoer on his first night; nor yet a splendid piece of mock upholstery, like that which has so long swayed to and fro to conceal the Grisis and Rubinis, the machinists and the loungers of our own opera stage.