Afterwards I tried to put my bets, as far as I could remember them, down on a large sheet of paper, and I think I got it very nearly right. But I left the paper lying about in the library in a very interesting first edition of Plotinus, I believe, and either the housemaid burned it, or my host threw it into the waste-paper basket. At all events, it was lost, and I have no head for figures, and things got mixed somehow. The book-maker's recollection of the circumstances was not the same as mine. But I began quite a fresh book, on imaginative principles, on the course. I had not a good Ascot. And as Racing gives me a headache, and I seldom meet any people on the Turf who are at all interested in the same things as myself, I have given it up for good. They say I am a good deal regretted by the Ring. It is always pleasant to remember having made a favourable impression.

THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.

Monday, May 16.—Sound the trumpets, Beat the drums! All Hail to Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS, the most successful Knight of the Season! A brilliant audience in a brilliant house lighted by thousands of additional electric lights, acclaimed with rapture the awakening of Opera. Philémon et Baucis began it, a work by GOUNOD (which is not intended for swearing) of great sweetness and light; and this was followed by PIETRO MASCAGNI's Cavalleria Rusticana, "Rustic Chivalry," which might be epigrammatically described as a "Clod-hoppera." Philémon et Baucis is charming. M. MONTARIOL was a capital Philémon, and Mlle. SIGRID ARNOLDSEN as Baucis, a sort of classical Little Bo-peep, received a hearty welcome on her return to the Covent Garden House and Home. M. PLANÇON was the thoroughly French Jupin, and M. CASTELMARY an amiable Vulcan; both most accomplished Divines. Altogether, a perfect quartette. The graceful intermezzo only escaped an encore because the knowing ones among the gods and groundlings felt that too much enthusiasm at first might do serious damage to the subsequent reception of the great intermezzo of the evening. All on qui vive for great intermezzo. Anticipations of event heard in the lobbies. Anxiety depicted on some countenances, but most features looking happy and hopeful. The members of what was once known as "the Organising Committee" nod encouragingly to one another as they pass to and fro; the officials and habitués exchange greetings without any expression of opinion. Sir DRURIOLANUS does not issue forth until the right moment, when he can shut up his opera-glass with a click, and give the word to Field-Marshal MANCINELLI to lead his men to the attack. For the present, "Wait" is the mot d'ordre, "and this," quoth a jig-maker, "is the only weight in the entire entertainment."

The Good and Great Archbishop Druriolanus Coventgardenus giving his Chorus Flock permission to use Palms on Easter Sunday. Quite "the palmy days" of the Opera.

Up goes the Curtain, and those who remember the Cavalleria as it was put on "in another place," to use parliamentary language, see at the first glance that this representation is going to be quite another pair of shoes. The stage management is admirable: not a second without movement, and every movement with a motive—musical or dramatic, or both. Madame CALVÉ's Santuzza is operatically and histrionically—but especially the latter—a triumph; and "this is the verdict of us all." GIULIA RAVOGLI makes a great part of Lola; the many-talented little Mlle. BAUERMEISTER's Lucia is not quite up to her own Marta in Faust. As for the men, the singing and the acting of Signor DE LUCIA as Turiddu (ye gods! what a name!), and of Mons. DUFRICHE as Alfio cannot be surpassed.

But—stop—the tremendous row (a quarrel quite representative of Whitechapel in Italy, and suggesting to some of us what Signor Coster CHEVALIER might do if this Opera were Londonised) between Turiddu-de-Lucia and Santuzza-Calvé is over, the latter has denounced her former lover, there is thunder in the air—the atmosphere is heavy with fate—and the stage is clear. Then comes the intermezzo, foreboding ill, presaging tragedy,—magnificent! And as MANCINELLI bows from his seat, acknowledges the thunder of applause—this was the thunder in the atmosphere—and pulls his forces together again to repeat and emphasize the triumph—DRURIOLANUS shuts up his lorgnette, beams on the world around, and murmurs to himself, "Waterloo is won!" Decides thereupon to give the same performance on Thursday, and does so, with repetition of triumph.

Now one word as to a picturesque detail. The action takes place on Easter Sunday, not on Palm Sunday; but Archbishop DRURIOLANUS has issued a pastoral melody dispensing his flock from the usual custom, and allowing them to have the palms distributed on Easter Sunday, for the sake of the show. "Palmam qui meruit ferat,"—and well does each one of the Chorus deserve his or her palm. And do not those in front who are nervous as to splitting their glove-seams, also bare their palms to applaud this Opera? Why certainly. Truly, Sir DRURIOLANUS ARCHIEPISCOPUS DISPENSATOR, well hast thou inaugurated the palmy days of this Opera Season.

Friday.—Faust selected because alliteration in Faust and Friday. A trifle, but as DRURIOLANUS says, "The world is governed by trifles." Wise saw this, with practical modern instance. VAN DYCK looking like a Rembrandt, a Faust-rate Faust, and Miss EMMA EAMES a charming Marguerite, Mons. PLANÇON's Mephistopheles à la Française. Mons. CESTE good as Valentine. À propos of Valentine and his soldiers, why do the army and their friends who come to welcome them, invariably turn their backs on the triumphal procession, taking no sort of interest in it whatever? Also, why is that banner persistently and purposelessly waved during the whole of the great Soldiers' Chorus? Is this the reason why nowadays the ever-popular Soldiers' Chorus is seldom encored? As this monotonous action on the part of the Bannerman (not CAMPBELL of that ilk, but the ensign-bearing supernumerary) suggests "flagging interest," hadn't it better be abolished altogether?

Saturday.—Great excitement in outer Hall. Everybody buzzing about. What has happened? Has dynamite been found? Has some eminent vocalist "gone up to see," and can't come down again in time? Sir DRURIOLANUS is present, explaining matters to the critics, and repeating explanation in various tongues to eager foreign inquirers. The sentinels eye the moving scene with determination and bayonets fixed. At a word from Sir DRURIOLANUS, they will give an extra charge, and rout the crowd. "What is it all about?" asks little PETERKIN. Sir DRURIOLANUS can tell him. Madame CALVÉ is indisposed, and L'Amico Fritz cannot be performed. So GLUCK's Orfeo is substituted in a happy-g'lucky sort of way. The two RAVOGLI are excellent, and Box and Stall are satisfied.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"MRS. HENNIKER," my Baronite writes, "dedicates to her brother, Lord HOUGHTON, her first essay in fiction, on the ground that he will be the most kindly critic. Bid me Good-bye (BENTLEY) does not stand in need of the adventitious aid of fraternal kindliness to recommend it to the reader. The story of woman's sacrifice to a sense of duty has been told before; but Mrs. HENNIKER endows her version with a charm of simplicity under which, here and there, glows the fire of passion. Moreover, she writes excellent English, which ladies who make books do sometimes. It is a pity the story is so sad. Colonel St.