AN OPERATIC PUZZLE.

I had been informed that it was no use buying a book of Mireille, as those sold in the house were of a somewhat light and mis-leading character. So I didn't. But I had a programme, and fortunately I was able to recognise most of the singers in spite of their disguise. Also I comforted myself with the official information that the piece was to be performed, "by desire, in French." "Oho!" says I, to myself, "there is some sensible person on the Committee who doesn't understand Italian, and prefers 'French as she is sung.'" However, I recognised but one of the Covent Garden Committee men present, and he was there only in a casual sort of way. DRURIOLANUS wasn't en évidence; probably at home rehearsing various effects with a view to receiving the Imperial Majesty of Germany. These receptions, including "such a getting up (and down) stairs," walking with crab-like action, require a lot of rehearsal, not to mention the management of a sword which is apt to be dangerous only to the wearer, and the carrying of wax-lights, the effect of which on his official Court dress may recall to the mind of the Operatic Manager the celebrated name of GRISI. There was no one in authority to tell me anything about Mireille, and this is what I made out of the plot.

Mireille, Miss EAMES, charming throughout, is a happy peasant in beautiful little patent leather shoes, which, I hope, are as easy as apparently are her circumstances. She is beloved by one Vincent, pronounced Van Song, a peasant of a rather Whitechapelish-costermongerish-out-on-a-Sunday appearance, but picturesque withal. They are engaged; at least, if they are not they ought to be. Then comes a handsome elderly lady, disguised like a fairy godmother in a pantomime before she throws off her hood and announces her real character, and this lady, called Taven in the bill, is Mlle. PASSAMA, who sings a song about a papillon, for what particular reason I do not know, except to please the audience, which it did, being encored, and to puzzle Mireille, in which it also succeeded, if I might judge by Miss EAMES's expressive countenance. And here I must observe that I found my intimate acquaintance with the French language almost useless, for except an occasional "oui," given, as Jeames has it, "in excellent French," and for some allusions to "le papillon" just mentioned, and "et alors"—which didn't help me much, even when given twice most dramatically by M. ISNARDON,—I couldn't catch a single word, and as far as libretto went, it might have been, for me personally, given in double-Dutch, or the dialect of a South-African tribe.

The Wicked Vibrato Peasant with the big Toasting-cum-Tuning-Fork.

On the disappearance of Taven,—[she didn't take off her cloak, and wasn't a fairy, which rather put me off the scent, I admit,]—in comes a gorgeous person, six feet high at least, and stout in proportion, who, as I gathered from the programme, was Ourrias (what a name!), played by Signor CESTE, and sung with a kind of double vibrato stop in his organ, which seemed, when turned on full, to make the upper boxes quiver. Well, in he comes, and tells Mireille something—what, I don't know—but this is how the row began, as, in less than five minutes, two old men, one M. ISNARDON, dramatic and in tune, and the other, not mentioned in my programme, and therefore pardonably somewhat out of tune, enter and commence a rumpus; what the difficulty was all about I am not clear, but the upshot was that the old man in tune cursed his daughter, and the old man out of tune held back his son VINCENT, and prevented him from first assaulting and then being assaulted by the irate Maître Ramon, i.e., M. ISNARDON. The Chorus of Unhappy Villagers forms tableau. End of Act the Second; in Act the First there was no action at all, and everything had gone off as pleasantly as possible.

The Happy Peasant Boy with his Long Pipe.

Then, in Act III., there is a sandy desert—where?—Egypt?—Heaven, AUGUSTUS HARRIS, and the scene-painter, only know—and here comes on a mighty illigant shepherd with a pipe—to play, not to smoke—and one clever person near me was sure it was Miss EAMES in disguise, but it turned out to be Miss REGINA PINKERT, a piper of whom some present would willingly have paid to hear a little more; but she vanished, probably in search of her flock in the desert,—by the way, an excellent place for golf this desert,—and then in came Mireille and Taven, when the latter, I fancy, tells Mireille of the crime she has witnessed in the previous scene, which, I regret to say, I have omitted to mention from motives of delicacy. But alas! I can no longer conceal the fact. In that previous scene Mr. Ourrias had behaved very badly in first losing his temper, and then sticking a dagger into poor Vincent Lubert, who fell down behind a rock, presumably dead.

The golf-ground is cleared off, and we are back again in front of the village church. But at this moment a person, who knew all about it, whispered, "If you want to get your cab, and escape the crush, now's the time, as the Opera is just over." So I hurried off, and to this moment I haven't the faintest idea how it all ended, and I don't quite understand how it began. However, I have recorded my impressions, confused probably, but—the music is very pretty, and Miss EAMES very charming.

PARENTAL AUTHORITY.

Typical British Father (according to the Home Secretary). Now, come, JANE and JIM, bundle up to your work. Look sharp!

Government Inspector. No, Mr. SIKES, I think not. Your youngsters have not touched eleven yet.

Typical British Father. But they're over ten.

Government Inspector. That don't matter. The age is altered. You'll just send your young kids back to the Board School again.

Typical British Father. Well, I call it downright robbery. Why, they supports me, they do; and what more fitter work can you find for the kids, but to support their parients with the sweat of their brow. Why, I thought the 'OME SECRETARY was all on our side.

Government Inspector. Well, he's been beat, that's all. The country don't see the fun of sending children of tender years away from their proper training, to wear out their young bodies and poison their young systems in beastly close, ill-ventilated work-rooms, and all just to bring in an extra bit of money to enable their parents, like you, to laze and loaf at home, and, maybe, spend their hardly-earned wage on drink. However, you'll have to dock it, Mr. SIKES.

Typical British Father. Well, I call it downright bloomin' robbery. It's more. It's a invasion of the sacred rights of the British