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.

While her Majesty's Opera Company was having a season at the Academy of Music, New York, two years ago, a newspaper man interviewed Col. Mapleson, the impresario, and took a look at the interior of the establishment, exploring many of its mysteries. In the course of the conversation he asked:—

"How many rehearsals do you give a new opera?"

"Ah, now I can tell you something that the public know nothing of. A man of the crutch-and-toothpick school, after I've put on, let me say 'Aida' at a cost of $10,000, will come to me and say, 'Aw, I've seen "Aida" twice; when are you going to give us something new?' And the poor manager has to smile and mount something equivalent to it immediately. Rehearsals! Par example. This is the sixth full-hand rehearsal for the orchestra alone—drilling for two and three hours—to get the light and shade of the pianissimo and forte. After some more band rehearsals—the slight alterations in the score by Arditi kept four copyists at work all last night and until daybreak—the principal artists rehearse about twenty times with the piano; then comes a full rehearsal with band, the artists seated all around the stage on chairs; then the property-man has to have his rehearsal. The carpenters now come in for their rehearsals, with scene framers, etc. Then comes the first stage rehearsal, with everybody without the scenery, and then another with the scenery; later on again with the properties and the business, and then it is fit for public representation. Then a languid swell will tell me he has seen the opera twice, and will want to know when I am going to give something new."

An attendant here brought the colonel his letters, over which he hastily glanced.

"Here is a letter from the Prince of Wales," he exclaimed, showing me the note, dated Hotel Bristol, Paris, October 22d. "It's in reference to his omnibus box at Her Majesty's. While I am free for a moment from my den, just take a tour of this place. I'll act as guide, philosopher and friend. I'd like you to see what's going on, and to let the public know what a herculean task it is to run old operas, let alone producing new ones."

We strode across the stage and plunged into a cavernous passage, to emerge on a staircase and into a property-room.

"What dummy is this?" demanded the colonel, administering a kick to the decapitated form of a buxomly-proportioned female, "and where's the head?"

It is the "Rigoletto" corpse.

We took a peep into the armory, which, from its aroma of oil, painfully reminded me of my ocean experience. Here the "Talismano" helmets, Oriental of design; here the head-pieces worn in the "Puritani," reminding one of Cromwell's crop-eared knaves; here the Italian so well known in "Trovatore." Morions and breastplates and shields were here, and matchlocks of ancient pattern, with guns of the Martini-Henry design.

"Do you see these guns?" suddenly exclaimed the colonel. "I bought four hundred of them for five shillings a piece at an auction. They had been sold by an English firm to the French government during the Franco-Prussian war at a fabulous price. One night, at Dublin, we were doing 'Der Freischutz,' and poor Titjens was standing at the wing. One of these guns was loaded with a little powder rammed down by a piece of paper only. When fired, the lock blew off, and a piece of it went right through Titjens's dress, sticking in the wall behind her. What chance had the French with such weapons in their hands?"

From the armory we proceeded to the barber shop, where "Mignon," "Aida," "Traviata," and "Lucia" wigs, curls, moustaches and beards showed grizzly on shelves. A French barber was engaged in titifying Campanini's wig for "Linda," and he expatiated on its wonderful approach to nature with all the chic of his very expressive mother tongue.

In one of the wardrobes were the costumes for half a dozen operas, each opera folded away and labelled. Colonel Mapleson has about two thousand costumes with him, and his packing-cases, each the size of a small apartment, number nearly one hundred. We found the Nilsson Hall full of newly painted scenery, and the flies thronged with carpenters. The scene painter's room was devoted to "Aida," while the stage-man's room was choked full of flotsam and jetsam, from the lamp of a Vestal Virgin to the statuette of Cupid in puribus naturalibus, and from a loaded pistol to a roleau of stage gold.

"The stage brass band is rehearsing in the lower regions, the principal artistes doing 'Trovatore' in the first saloon, the chorus rehearsing 'Marta' in the second saloon, the orchestra on their own ground rehearsing 'Aida,' the ballet at work in a large room, and a set of coryphees blazing away in a distant corner. Listen!"

In the first saloon were the "Trovatore" party, lounging around a piano, presided at by Bisaccia, the accompanist to the company. Mlle. Adini, neÉ Chapman, the Leonora, was warbling right under the moustache of her husband, Aramburo, the tenor who was frantic because Mapleson refused £800 to release him from his engagement; while Del Puente was slapping his leg vigorously with his walking-cane, as he occasionally burst in with a superb note in harmony with the score. Madame Lablache leant with her elbows upon the bar, and knowing every square inch of a role she had performed from St. Petersburg to Gotham, turned from the perusal of a newspaper at the right moment in order to discharge the electricity of her Azucena, while her daughter, who is studying for the operatic stage, attended en amateur, a toy black-and-tan terrier in her arms. Having listened to a delicious morceau from "Il Trovatore," we ascended to saloon No. 2, from whence a Niagara of melody was grandly thundering. Here we found the chorus, numbering about eighty, seated hatted and bonneted, with Signor Rialp presiding at the pianoforte. The rehearsal was "Marta." After visiting a dozen different departments, every one of which is presided over by a vigilant chief, we again found ourselves on the stage.

"Now" exclaimed the colonel, "you have some little idea of what I have to look after, and yet when I produce a new opera, a crutch-and-toothpick fellow will coolly ask me, after seeing it twice, when I am going to give something 'new.' Do you know that every one in that chorus you have just seen is an Italian, and selected after considerable trouble and great expense? Do you know what it costs me to operatically rig up each member of that chorus?"

"I cannot tell." "Well, it costs me $600, and it cost me $15,000 to bring the troupe across the Atlantic. Do you know what it costs me every time I ring up my curtain? Two thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, and then add the weekly hotel bills, $2,200. I am doing opera at Her Majesty's at this moment. Here's the bill"—handing me the programme of Her Majesty's—"doing the same operas as here, and that in order to do them here, I am obliged to get a second set of everything, from a drinking-cup to a bootlace, and this costs me £120,000 before I started at all, as this is a distinct and separate undertaking."

"How many operas does your repertoire include?"

"Thirty. I have thirty with me, and I can play any one of them. Another element I have to deal with is the superstition, or whatever you like to call it, of some of my people. They won't go into any room in a hotel with the number thirteen, and an artist won't make his or her debut on the 13th; it is considered unlucky. I once recollect having engaged Mme. Grisi and Signor Mario for a tour in England, commencing the 13th of September. On sending them the programme, Mme. Grisi's attention was drawn to the 'thirteenth;' She thereupon wrote a very kind letter stating that nothing could induce her to appear on the 'thirteenth;' but to show there was nothing mean about her, she would rather commence it on the 'twelfth,' although her pay was to commence on the 'thirteenth.' I amended her programme and commenced on the 'twelfth,' but as that date happened to be a Friday it was again returned to me with a most amiable letter, which I still preserve, in which she stated again that there was nothing mean about the alteration, as she would be the only loser; she therefore desired me to commence it on the 'eleventh,' when both she and Signor Mario would sing without salary until the proper date of the commencement of the contract. One of the artists went to Tiffany's the other day to purchase a bangle. The price was $13. 'Won't you take less?' 'No.' And would you believe it, she paid $14 sooner than pay $13."

We regained the managerial sanctum.

"Here is more of it," cried the impresario, "a letter from Campanini. I'll read it to you. 'Dear Mr. Mapleson: I am very ill, and cannot possibly sing to-night unless you send me—some tickets for family circle, balcony, parquette, and general circle. Campanini.'"

Here the colonel was summoned to hear a young lady sing—an amateur who aspired to the vocal majesty of grand opera. Upon his return, after the lapse of a few minutes, I asked:—

"What opera pays the best, colonel?"

"Oh, there are a dozen trumps."

"Is not 'Carmen' one of them?"

"Yes, 'Carmen' has been one of my best successes."

In conclusion, Colonel Mapleson said:—

"I am nervous as to the future, as nearly every coming artist has the misfortune to be American."

"Misfortune, colonel?"

"Yes. I use the word advisedly. Albani, Valleria, Adini, Van Zandt and Durand, one of the best dramatic prima donne on the stage, who, by the way, has gone to sing at the Grand Opera in Paris instead of coming here, and Emma Novada, a new prima—Candidus, the tenor, too; all the coming talent is American."

The salaries paid prima donne are very high. As far back as 1870, Mme. Patti was paid $50,000 a year, besides being given numerous presents by the Emperor of Russia. Last winter Mr. Henry E. Abbey paid Mme. Patti at the rate of eight times the imperial salary, giving the diva $4,000 for each concert she sang in, and she sang two in each week. Albani was paid at the same rate as Patti in Russia. Nilsson, before her retirement, got $1,000 a night in the provinces. Now, that she is to return to the stage and come to America, she will be paid probably as handsomely as Patti was. Nearly all the foreign singers and artists have London agents through whom American impresarios carry on their negotiations. Gye is one of these agents and H. C. Jarrett, of London, who accompanied Bernhardt, as her agent, and who represents Nilsson, is another.

Singers and dramatic people, too, are fond of diamonds. They have thousands of dollars' worth of them; still they believe in investing in them because they represent so much value in such little space. Sarah Bernhardt had a wonderful wealth of these precious stones, and Neilson was well provided with them. B. Spyer, the St. Louis diamond merchant, with whom theatrical and operatic people deal almost exclusively, and who enjoys the patronage of nearly all foreign artists who visit this country, told me a very funny story about the first diamond he sold Christine Nilsson. He had a splendid stone worth $4,000, and taking it with him he went up to the Lindell Hotel, and knocking at Nilsson's door was told to come in. He opened the door and there on a sofa the great songstress was reclining covered with an old calico gown. He showed her the stone, but she did not want to buy it and would not. Nilsson having left the room for a while, Mr. Spyer approached the dressing-maid, who was an old lady, and showing her a handsome diamond ring told her he would give it to her if she used her influence to induce her mistress to buy the $4,000 diamond. She said she would, and while they were talking in walked a gray-haired old gentleman in common clothes who looked like a servant, and whom Mr. Spyer engaged in conversation. He told the old man of his scheme with the dressing-maid, when the latter said, "Tut, tut, she can do nothing for you; she's got no influence."

"Then can you do anything?" Mr. Spyer asked. "I'll make it all right if you help me to sell the Madame that stone."

"Well," said the old gentleman, "I want a pair of ear-rings for my daughters, who are in England."

"All right" was the diamond broker's answer; "you use your influence and if I make the sale you shall have the ear-rings."

The old gentleman said he would do what he could. Mr. Spyer sold the diamond to Nilsson and in a few days the old gentleman walked into his store and after looking over the stock selected a $650 pair of ear-rings. Spyer was surprised, but his surprise was greater when he learned that the person he had taken for a servant was none other than H.C. Jarrett, then and now Nilsson's confidential agent.

Mr. Spyer told me another story which I may as well bring in here, of how he sold a ring to Adelaide Neilson for $3,000. Mr. Lee, who was then Neilson's husband, was conducting the negotiations, and told Mr. Spyer that he was going to buy some property in Chicago, and would receive a telegram in regard to it, to know whether his offer for the property had been accepted or rejected. If he did not receive a telegram by twelve o'clock noon the following day, he would buy the ring. At noon next day Mr. Spyer was at the Southern Hotel, where Mr. Lee and his wife were stopping. He asked the clerk if he had seen Mr. Lee around the rotunda, and the clerk answered no, that he himself was looking for Mr. Lee, as he had a telegram for him.

"Well now, I'll tell you what to do—" mentioning his first name, for the diamond merchant knew the clerk, "you'll oblige me very much and do me a great favor if you'll keep that telegram down here until I go up stairs and see Lee."

The clerk agreed; Mr. Spyer went up stairs and sold his diamond ring. Himself and Mr. Lee walked down the stairs to get a drink. The clerk called Mr. Lee, handed him the telegram and he opened and read it.

"By Jove, Barney," he said, holding out the telegram, "if I'd gotten this ten minutes sooner I wouldn't have bought that ring."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't get it," Mr. Spyer responded. "Let's go and have some Apollinarius."

One morning during that same week Mr. Spyer was sitting in the store when Neilson came in alone and bought a diamond ring for $175, paid for it and told the merchant to say nothing to Philip about it. There was nothing so very extraordinary in this; but when Mr. Lee came in an hour afterwards and picked out a ring about the same value and paying for it enjoined Mr. Spyer to say nothing to Adelaide about it, he was surprised at the remarkableness of the coincidence. He never heard anything more about either of the rings.