exceptionally brilliant cast. First, Madame ALBANI for the heroine Valentina, superb alike in singing and in acting; GIULIA RAVOGLI as Urbano, the page, a memorable page in operatic history; Conte di San Bris, by M. LASSALLE, not to be bettered, as may be also said of Signor MIRANDA (by kind permission of SHAKSPEARE's Tempest, probably a descendant) as De Retz, afterwards converted, and appearing as Il Padre Basso, Superior of a Theatrical Order, one of the exceptional Orders admitted after seven. Then M. MAUREL, with his highly Maurel tone, cannot be beaten as the high-minded Conte de Nevers; and EDOUARD DE RESZKÉ, taken altogether—and there's a lot of him—is quite the best Marcello that has been heard and seen for some considerable time. Herr FORMES and MABINI were the rugged Huguenot soldier to the life, but they weren't the Harmonious Blacksmith that NED DE RESZKÉ is. JEAN DE RESZKÉ methinks lacketh impassioned tenderness in the great duet scene, where ALBANI is inimitable; otherwise JEAN is a gallant Raoul. Ensemble as already said, which term includes chorus, mise-en-scène, and orchestra under the energetic rule of Signor BEVIGNANI, simply perfect. Those who this season miss seeing Les Huguenots with this unexampled cast, will be justly upbraided by their children and grandchildren. Mr. COVENT-GARDENIA HALL with the Gladstone flower in his button-hole, almost weeps to think that his much-loved leader is unable to come from Dollis Hill and bestow his liberal praise upon Les Huguenots. DRURIOLANUS may well beam upon the crammed house, viewing a portion of it with his nose over the ledge of the stall gangway portal; well may he smile, hum the melodies to himself (what better audience can he have for the performance!) expand in full bloom and speak joyously out of the very fulness of his heart and pocket; nay, for the moment he may even look upon the sheriffship and all its glory as a mere vanity of vanities, in comparison with the proud position of being DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS MAGNIFICISSIMUS, who has given opera-goers this new and rare edition of Les Huguenots. The gloved hand and the lorgnette of H.R.H. are visible in the omnibus-box, where our music-loving Prince is happily congratulating himself on another little FIFE being added to the harmonious Royal Band, while the loyal public is mightily pleased thus to have it proved to ocular demonstration, that the subtle villain, Influenza, has been baulked in his traitorous attempt on the Royal Personage, and they sincerely hope that the insidious poisoner, being thus arrested in his course, may, with all his treacherous bacilli, be for ever banished this happy and generally healthy realm.

COMPETITION IN THE FUTURE.

SCENE—A Barrack-Room. PRESENT—President and Members of a Board of Examiners, sitting to pass Candidates for Commissions in the Line.

President. Now, Gentlemen, I think we are agreed that cramming is to be discouraged. We want an officer who can command a company, and not a scholar who can floor a paper for high-class honours—that is the general idea, Gentlemen, isn't it?

Chorus of Members. Quite so.

Pres. Exactly. Orderly, pass the word that we will see Mr. MUGGER. (The word is passed, when enter First Candidate.) Glad to see you, Sir. Pray sit down. I think you were at school?

First Candidate (nervously). Yes, Sir, at Eton.

Pres. Humph! (Aside, to his Colleagues.) Rather an unpromising commencement. However, he may have devoted more of his time to cricket or football in the Playing Fields than to anything else. (Aloud.) I hope you have not been to the University?

First Can. (almost moved to tears). Alas, Gentlemen, my father would send me to Christchurch, and I am sorry to say I took a Double First!

Pres. (courteous, but sad). I am afraid that will do. (Exit First Candidate, striving in vain to suppress a burst of unmanly emotion.) I am deeply grieved, Gentlemen, but I fear that we can do nothing further in this matter?

Chorus of Members. Utterly impossible!

Pres. Exactly. Orderly, call Mr. SHIRKWORKS. (Second Candidate enters.) Glad to see you, Sir. Pray sit down. I think you were at school?

Second Can. (with confidence). Never, Sir, and allow me to add that I can scarcely read, don't know how to spell, and have a firm impression that two and two make either three or five—I forget which.

Pres. (beaming). Excellent! (After a brief consultation with his colleagues.) Mr. SHIRKWORKS, I have much pleasure in informing you that we shall be glad to recommend you for a Commission. (Curtain.)

A RARE CHANCE.

Mr. Snobbin hiring a Hack to ride down to the Derby.
Horse-Owner. "I'LL CHARGE YOU THIRTY BOB FOR THE DAY, GUV'NOR; OR—LOOK HERE!—GIMME TWO POUND, AND YOU MAY KEEP HIM!"

CODLINGSBY JUNIOR;

OR, A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.

Being Fragments of a Forthcoming Political Prize Novel.

[In a letter to The Times on "Party Organisation," Mr. CONINGSBY DISRAELI vigorously rallies the Tory Party on their "eternal and infernal apathy." He says, "Since we have borrowed some Liberal principles, let us borrow some Liberal tactics, and introduce what I would call the Schnadhorstian methods into our councils of war. They, at least, have the merit of success."]

It was CODLINGSBY JUNIOR, who saved the Vraibleusian Party after the battle of Bahborough. By sending a stern and staccato epistle to the "Jupiter Tonans"; by praising (and imitating) Colonel DE CAUCUSINE, the real inspiring spirit in the camp of the victorious GRANDOLMAN, the march of the Hubbabub army was stopped—the menaced empire of Vraibleusia was saved from the flowing tide of Radical ruin; the Marquis of STROKEFOGIES appeared in a blaze of triumph that outblazed even the Berlin "Peace with Honour" business, and CODLINGSBY JUNIOR "took the cake."

The dinner over, the young men rushed from their Club (White's), flushed, full fed, and eager for battle. If the Blues were angry, the Buffs were also on the alert.

"I can have a dinner at any hour," said CODLINGSBY JUNIOR; "but a Blue and Buff row"—(a shillelagh here flying through the window crashed "the cake" from CODLINGSBY's hand)—"a Blue and Buff row is a novelty to me. The Buffs have the best of it, clearly, though; the Cads outnumber the Swells. Ha! a good blow! How that burly Caucusite went down before yonder slim young fellow in the primrose pants!"

"That is the Lord TIDDLEMPOPS," said a companion. "A light weight, but a pretty fighter," CODLINGSBY remarked. "Well hit with your left, Lord TIDDLEMPOPS; well parried, Lord TIDDLEMPOPS; claret drawn, by Jingo!"

"He never can be going to match himself against that Wirepuller!" CODLINGSBY exclaimed, as an enormous Caucusite—no other than SCHNADDY, indeed, the famous ex-Brummagem bruiser, before whose fists the Blues went down like ninepins—fought his way up to the spot where, pluckily, but a little too negligently, TIDDLEMPOPS and one or two of his young friends were bringing aristocratic laissez faire to bear against the fortiter in re of the fighting Caucusite Cads.

The young noble faced the huge champion with the languid gallantry of his race, but was no