PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

July 2, 1892.

OPERATIC NOTES.

Ancient Brass-Work, in memory of Wagner the Great Worker in Brass.

Wednesday.—WAGNER. Vainly the Daughters of the River, representing the floating capital of the Banks of the Rhine, cry "Woa! Woa!" The orchestra, under the direction of Herr MAHLER, takes no notice of them, but goes on Wagnerianly, inexorably. Thus swimmingly we reach Walhall—where the fire-god Loge has a logement with very heavy insurance. Wotan and Loge in search of the gold. Then we meet the Nibelungs and the Nibelights, all livers under a water-cure system; and then—it's like a musical nightmare—Alberich changes himself into a toad and is towed off as a prisoner. Fafner settles Fasolt by a drum-head Court Martial, so that Fafner gets the golden honey, and Fasolt gets the whacks—and—please, Sir, I don't know any more—but some of the music is running river-like and lovely, more is puzzling, and much of it must remind Sir DRURIOLANUS of the rum-tum-tiddy-iddy-iddy-um-bang-whack of a great Drury Pantomime. House full; Duke and Duchess of EDINBURGH, with Princess MARIE and Crown Prince of ROUMANIA, enjoying themselves Wagnerially and Rou-manically.

Saturday.—Le Prophète. JOHN DE RESZKÉ not up to his usual form as the Sporting Prophet; but his little Brother EDWARD, and Messieurs MONTARIOL and CASTELMARY, first-rate as the three conspiring undertakers. Madame DESCHAMPS-JÉHIN, as Fides, very fine. "House," also, very fine, and large.

THE BONES OF JOSEPH.

Dear Mr. Punch,—When writing to a Journal of light and leaders—or misleaders—last Friday, I kept "a little bit up my sleeve," so to speak, for the Brightest, Lightest, and Leadingest of all papers yclept the one, Sir, that bears your honoured name. After quoting from Mr. CHAMBERLAIN at Holloway (not in Holloway) on June 17, 1885, as a gentle reminder to Mr. GOSCHEN—their "Mr. G."—I observed, "Perhaps, however, there are reasons why the 'Egyptian Skeleton' prefers to forget the speeches of Mr. CHAMBERLAIN in 1885." It struck me that, having already an Egyptian Skeleton, we might have as its companion a Brummagem Skeleton, which everyone can see through, and this sketch I beg to submit to you, pro bono publico. Always, Mr. Punch, your most obedient "subject" (artistically),

W.V. H-RC-RT.

THE FÊTE OF FLORA.

First Prize—Love among the Roses.

Were it not that the salutation were infelicitous, we should have said, "Hail, all hail!" to the Fête at the Botanical Gardens, Regent's Park, last Wednesday. Besides, they have always an Aquarius of the name of WATERER on the premises, whose Rhododendrons are magnificent. So we didn't say "All hail!" and there was not a single drop, of rain, or in the attendance, to damage a charming show which has so often been spoilt by the drop too much that has floored many a Fête of Flora. Nothing could have been prettier. Flowers of speech are inadequate to describe the scene. "Simply lovely!" is the best epitome of praise.

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

The Look-out, Sheepsdoor, Kent.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Ascot has been too much for me! What with the excitement of racing all day, and bézique half the night—(another sign of the times; women no longer "play for love," but "love to play!")—to say nothing of the constant strain on one's nerves as to what the weather was going to do to one's gowns, I have had a severe attack of overwork, with complicating symptoms of my old enemy, idleness!—so that, on my return to town, my Doctor—(he's a dear man, and prescribes just what I suggest)—insisted that I should at once run down to the Seaside to recuperate. Hence my retirement to the little fishing village of Sheepsdoor in Kent, "far from the gadding crowd;" a most delightfully rural and little-known resort, where we all go about in brown canvas-shoes—(russia-leather undreamt of!)—and wear out all our old things, utterly regardless of whether we look "en suite" or not. The only precaution I take is to carry in my pocket a thick veil, which I pop on if I see anybody with evidences of "style" about them coming my way; fortunately, this has only happened once, when I met a certain well-known "Merry Duchess" and her charming little daughter, who both failed to penetrate my disguise!

I am sorry that my selected horse for the Windsor June Handicap did not run—though the word of command was given, "Macready!"—he was not told to be "present!"—being presumably short of a gallop or two, and therefore lacking "fire!" This little series of jokes is proudly dedicated to the Military, and Civilians are "warned off!"—which is another turf expression. The much-needed rain has come at last, and the Heath should be in fine condition, which was more than its namesake at Ascot was, and all for want of a little attention—I am told that the far end was all in lumps, which caused the "Lover" to come down in his race—though that was hardly a surprise, as we know that "the course of true love never did run smooth!"

Now—dear Mr. Punch, if you want a few hours' fresh air, command the special train, which I am told, is kept in readiness for you at every London Terminus, to transport you—(not for your country's good, but your own)—to Sheepsdoor, Kent, where you shall receive a hearty welcome—Lord ARTHUR is not with me, but my French maid will chaperon us—if necessary.

Yours devotedly,
LADY GAY.

STUD PRODUCE SELECTION.

THE TWO SARAS OF THE SEASON.—SARA BERNHARDT and SARA SATE.

[Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, in his Election Address, explains how he has co-operated with the Conservative Government in order to maintain the Union between Great Britain and Ireland.]