e the
entrance of Mr. JOEY GRIMALDI, in full Clown's costume, with "Here
we are again!" Of the music, as there was very little to catch and
take away, one had to leave it. Of course this seriously comic or
comically serious Opera is drawing--["_Music_," observes Mr. WAGG,
parenthetically, "cannot be _drawing_"]--and will continue to do
so for some little time, long enough at all events to reimburse
Mr. D'OYLY CARTE for his more than usually lavish outlay on the
_mise-en-scene._

[Illustration:"Christmas is comin'!"
The McClown of McClown dancing.
The Reel Hit of the Opera.

In the Second Act, the mechanical change from the exterior of Haddon
Hall to the interior, must be reckoned as among the most effective
transformations ever seen on any stage. It would be still more so if
the time occupied in making it were reduced one-half, and the storm
in the orchestra, and the lightning seen through black gauze on stage
were omitted. The lightning frightens nobody, only amuses a few,
and in itself is no very great attraction. Even if these flashes
were a very striking performance; no danger to the audience need
be apprehended from it, seeing that Mr. CELLIER is in front as
"Conductor." Perhaps Mr. D'OYLY CARTE, noticing that Mr. GRUNDY calls
his piece "a light Opera," thought that, as it wasn't quite up to this
description, it would be as well if the required "light'ning" were
brought in somewhere, and so he introduced it here. If this be so, it
is about the only flash of genius in the performance.

* * * * *

[Illustration: POST-PRANDIAL PESSIMISTS.

SCENE--_The Smoking-room at the Decadents._

_First Decadent_ (_M.A. Oxon._). "AFTER ALL, SMYTHE, WHAT WOULD LIFE
BE WITHOUT COFFEE?"

_Second Decadent_ (_B.A. Camb._). "TRUE, JEOHNES, TRUE! AND YET, AFTER
ALL, WHAT IS LIFE _WITH_ COFFEE?"]

* * * * *

"CROSSING THE BAR."

IN MEMORIAM.

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

BORN, AUGUST 5, 1809. DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1892.

"TALIESSEN is our fullest throat of song."--_The Holy Grail_.

Our fullest throat of song is silent, hushed
In Autumn, when the songless woods are still,
And with October's boding hectic flushed
Slowly the year disrobes. A passionate thrill
Of strange proud sorrow pulses through the land,
His land, his England, which he loved so well:
And brows bend low, as slow from strand to strand
The Poet's passing bell
Sends