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Tuesday.—Faust. Always a safe draw. Same cast as before. Worth noting, that Gounod has given Wagner very little to do in this Opera, and that little not of his best. Evidently Gounod does not possess a strong sense of humour, or he wouldn't have lost such a chance as this. In the Kermesse Scene Wagner should have commenced one of his own Wagnerian strains, in the Wagnerian style, and been immediately stopped by the student's applause.

Wednesday.—Le Nozze di Figaro. Always charming. Should like to see examination paper on the plot of Le Nozze, questions to be answered without any reference to book.

1. Give succinct and clear account of the plot.

2. What connection with plot have Figaro's father and mother?

3. What social position among the Count's guests are the ladies of the ballet supposed to hold?

4. Having stated this, account for their costumes.

5. Why does Mlle. Palladino, the chief dancing guest, take no sort of notice of Il Conte and La Contessa? Are they not on speaking terms? If not, why not?

6. Why is Don Bartolo always made up and costumed as a superior Pantaloon?

Delighted again to see Ella Russell as Susanna. To think that only the other evening she was the graceful and stately Queen Marguerite in Les Huguenots, and now she is a soubrette très piquante. There are other pages in Madame Scalchi's history—the page in the Huguenots, for example, and his twin brother in Lucrezia Borgia—which like me more than her Cherubino. Vocally Dan Drady the Dramatic is all right; but he is too severe for Figaro the barber. Good house considering it is Ascot week, and on this night when such sad rumours are in the air, everyone sincerely delighted at seeing the Marchioness of Lorne in the Royal Box.

Thursday.—Cup Day, Ascot. Roméo et Juliette. Most appropriate: Juliette takes the Cup.

Friday, Don Giovanni; and Saturday, Lucia. This deponent sings, "Not there, not there, my child!" "Eye hath not seen,"—I mean, "I have not seen" these two on these two particular occasions; but I believe that, in consequence of my absence, the Opera went on as usual, and Druriolanus did not have to come before the Curtain and make an apology.

IN THE KNOW.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)

The crass and pernicious dulness of some people exceeds belief. There exists at the office of this paper a person—he is absolutely unworthy of any other designation—who presumed last week to abstain from inserting in these columns the article to which the sporting millions of his fellow countrymen were looking for information with reference to the Ascot doings. I have no doubt whatever that he himself used the hints which that article contained, for I have since seen him in a brand-new hat and a gold watch-chain, the result of his ill-gotten gains. For my own sake I am forced to explain this sinister business, lest the preposterous suet-headed Mr. J. should triumph, and my readers should suppose for a moment that I would willingly disappoint them. I have kept a copy of what I wrote, and I here transcribe some of it in self-defence.

"With regard to the Royal Hunt Cup," I observed, "only a bat-eyed bargee, with the brains of a molluscous monkey, could fail to see the merits of Morion. Morion, it is well known, is an open helmet, but it doesn't follow from that that the Hunt Cup is an open event. Far from it. Visor, or no visor, those who elect to stand on Morion, need anticipate no trouble from anything else, for Morion is as certain to win the race as Mr. J. is to make a green-gooseberry fool of himself before another week is out." There was accuracy. No silly beating about the bush, but a straightforward piece of information, which not even the great band of boozy Bedlamites and buffoons who dance attendance on Mr. J. could have mistaken. But, as I said, no blame attaches to me in the matter.

Now then with regard to the Gold Cup. I said: "In the Gold Cup the old adage holds, Medio tutissimus ibis. The Ibis, I may mention, though he was an Egyptian bird, cannot be termed a flyer. However, take the three words The Gold Cup, select the middle word, open your mouth, bung up the eyes of anyone who impedes you, and wire to your Commissioner." The middle word was "Gold," and Gold, of course, won the Cup that was of, or belonging to him. Ask Prince Soltykoff if am right or wrong. And for the rest, if any fuddling, bolus-brained, bran-faced, turnip-tongued, hippopotamus-headed moon-calf doubts my word, let him remember that there are pistols for two—and coffee for one, in Belgium, and let him tremble.

THE WAY WE SHALL LIVE SOON.

(From the Diary of the Automatically Conducted.)

7 A.M.—Turned out of automatically constructed bed and deposited on the floor. Am picked up and hurled into an automatic dressing, washing, and shaving chair, after which, being dressed by self-acting machinery, descend by switchback lift to dining-room, where I am fed by an "automatic private breakfast supplier" while listening to last night's speeches in the House, and the latest gossip, furnished by one of the "Phonographic Association's Parliamentary and Social Scandal Machines."

10 A.M.—Take automatic horse exercise, and am thrown twice, being picked up each time automatically by a self-registering and revolving automatic policeman.

Noon.—Attend the marriage of a favourite niece, assisting at the subsequent social entertainment which is supplied to the assembled guests on the platform of a West-End terminus from one of the "Twopenny Wedding Breakfast Company's Automatic Machines," the Bridegroom at the same time presenting the Bridesmaids with a handsome Penny Piece of Jewellery from a similar source.

4 P.M.—Hair cut automatically, but, owing to some want of nice adjustment in the machinery, having managed to get ears clipped smartly at the same time, put penny into slot and consult an automatic pillar-post. Eventually get my head (and my hat too, by mistake) strapped up by patent automatic binder in the ward of an automatically conducted Hospital.

8 P.M.—Dine automatically with automatic halfpenny appetite, listening to Phonographic Italian Opera at one of Metropolitan District Underground Stations.

10 P.M.—Dragged up-stairs mechanically by switch-back lift, and have my boots pulled off by machinery, being automatically flung into a hot bath, turned out, scrubbed, lifted out, dried by a revolving towel, and eventually thrown into bed and tucked up, and finally sent to sleep by Phonograph repeating good things said by funny man at previous day's evening-party.