Of all the public diversions of Banza, none supported itself but the opera. Utmiutsol and Utremifasolasiututut, two celebrated musicians, one of whom was growing old, and the other was but just new-fledged, alternately occupied the lyric scene. Each of these two original authors had his partisans. The ignorant and the grey-bearded dotards stood up for Utmiutsol; the smart young fellows and the Virtuosi were for Utremifasolasiututut: and the people of taste, as well young as old, held them both in high esteem. Utremifasolasiututut, said the latter, is excellent when he is good, but he sleeps at times; and, pray, to whom does not that happen? Utmiutsol holds up better, and is more uniform. He is full of beauties; yet he has not one, of which there are not examples to be found, and even more striking, in his rival; in whom there are strokes to be observed, which are entirely his own, and are not to be met with anywhere but in his works. Old Utmiutsol is simple, natural, smooth, sometimes too smooth, and that is his fault. Young Utremifasolasiututut is singular, brilliant, composed, learned, sometimes too learned: but perhaps that is his hearer’s fault. The one has but one opening, beautiful indeed, but repeated at the head of all his pieces.