New York Daily Tribune

OPENING OF THE METROPOLITAN THEATER.

The erection or destruction of a large public building in New-York excites less attention than in any other place in the world. It seems to be a matter of course that either should take place. The other day the Metropolitan Hall, a finer concert-room than any in Europe, went up with no fuss: the other day it was burnt down, and had its loss been traced to an incendiary, he would not have enjoyed the fame of an Erostratus for nine days, so transient is the glory of the destroyer in this kaleidoscopic-changing New-York. Indeed, hardly an ancient or modern reputation, for good or evil, subjected to the tests and trials of New-York daily scene-shifting, could be formed. A Washington now as a youth might go from New-York to a new Fort Pitt amid savages and nobody care about it: and a Franklin draw new lightnings from the clouds to Hoboken Heights, and it would hardly be considered worth more than a paragraph. The rush of business, the crash of triumphs or disappointments in speculation, the daily surge of immigration that beats against our shores, washing away the old land-marks of personal and family reputations and antecedents—these all seem to deny the ordinary chances of fame to individual men and individual things, and turn to rubbish the old proverbial wisdom based on the idea of the steadiness and slow growth of communities.

We felt all the force of these peculiarly local truths as we entered the splendid new Metropolitan Theater just raised on the site of the lately destroyed Metropolitan Hall. Here is built—and everybody takes it as a matter of course—on the ruins of the former hall an edifice, in comparison with whose splendors the world-renowned "Old Drury" of Garrick, Johnson, Sheridan and Goldsmith, are those of a Newcastle coal-shallop compared with a North River steamer. And yet what a mere thing of course all the New-Yorkers seemed to consider it! They came in crowds—theatricals being brisk just now;—they filled to the number of 3,000 or more, the pit, first, second, and third tiers of boxes,—they gazed at the vast extent of the house:—at the flood of gas lights,—at the proud delicacies—of the iron pillars, Atlantean fairies supporting worlds of weight—at the Raphael-esque varieties of the box decorations, where multitudinous Cupids, wreaths, festoons, and coronals, coursed like artistic fire round the gay circle—at the grand Versailles-like ceiling, where the immortalities of Greece painted by Italian hands, yet are chosen to typify Poetry, Music, and the Drama—at the little temples of the stage-boxes, beautiful enough for some dainty demi-god's shrine—at the vast stage over which was pendant the vast curtain—and having so gazed at this, the audience seemed as much at home as if such a building and all its decorations were matters of course, instead of being novelties approaching that of an imperial palace, in this latitude. The idea that America is entitled to everything—that all is possible here—that we are bound to jump to conclusions—is the secret of this nonchalance on the part of the public.

The Metropolitan Theater (we shall call it "Opera-House," according to the advertisement, when it presents some claims to that title, and not before) is the largest dramatic establishment yet opened to this public. It is more capacious than Niblo's. The height of the ceiling is sufficiently elevated for a theater having four tiers of boxes: it has but three. The liberal use of iron in its construction gives it an aerial lightness, which might cause the admirer of visible solidity to doubt its strength: it is, however, strong. The shape of the house is an improvement on the old horse-shoe. Of late years our theaters have been approaching a logical form: that is, a section of a circle with diverging sides. This house, though not the best as to shape, is an improvement on the ancient form, which combined the disadvantage of removing the persons in the central boxes as far as possible from the stage and preventing those on the side boxes from seeing at all. All can see the stage in this theater. As regards the extra height of the second and third tiers, there is certainly a loss of several feet, but the compensation lies in the increased ventilation gained. The boxes are all democratically open, save those on the avant-scene, which literally are on the avant-scene, and do not encroach on the stage proper.

The decorations in fresco by Signors Guidicini and Dorigo are of the Elizabethan style. The dome is divided into eight lunettes or niches, four of which contain medallions, with portraits in bas relief of the great dramatic poets—Shakspere, Moliere, Racine and Alfieri. On each side of the medallions reclines a female figure, holding in her hand the olive and palm, emblems of peace, under whose auspices prosper art and science. The other four niches contain medallions, with portraits in bas relief of the great musical composers—Mozart, Beethoven, Rossini and Bellini—surrounded by emblems of music. Between the niches, on a gold ground in imitation of mosaic, stand eight figures of Fame in bas relief, holding in each hand a wreath of laurel. In the center of the dome a picture fifteen feet in diameter represents Apollo, with three of the Muses—Terpsichore, Melpomene and Calliope—presiding deities of the dance, tragedy and heroic poetry. By the side of Terpsichore recline a wreath and mask, emblems of comedy. On the ceiling below the dome are two medallions in which are figures of children, symbolical of tragedy and comedy. The center-piece of the ceiling, under the proscenium, is a figure representing America. The dome is certainly the finest thing of the kind thus far made public in the United States. It is from the pencil of Signor Dorigo, and will command the admiration of all connoisseurs. The painting in fresco will bear examination through lorgnettes, so carefully is it executed.

The painting of the scenery on the stage appears to have been hurried: It is bad, and quite unworthy the theater.

The inauguration took place amid a good deal of cheering. Mr. Eytinge delivered a poetical address, and suddenly a scene revealed the whole company, who sang The Star-Spangled Banner, and then there was some nice dancing by the sisters Ronsset. The chief piece of the evening, The Lady of Lyons, afforded room for the talents of two favorites—Mr. Eddy and Miss Julia Dean—the latter never looking more charming and displaying to greater advantage her feminine graces and acting capabilities.