HE.—­“The Season, my young friend, is a programme paper that is circulated gratuitously and depends for support upon its advertizing patronage.  A few managers permit it to be circulated in their theatres; the remaining managers will not admit it.  Among the latter are Mr. WALLACK, and MAX STRAKOSCH.  Consequently, the Season abuses WALLACK’S Theatre and NILSSON’S concerts—­asserting that Mr. WALLACK has a wretched company, and that Miss NILSSON has no voice.  The Season is also a comic paper, and its best joke is its assertion that it is an ‘independent critical journal.’”

YOUNG LADY IN COLORS.—­“This opera is dreadfully stupid.”

LIGHT-HAIRED YOUNG MAN.—­“But, MARY ANNE, it is one of Mozart’s—­the Marriage of Figaro.  It is one of his most famous works.”

SHE.—­“Then I don’t like Mozart.  There was an Italian who wrote an opera that was all about Figaro,—­the Nossy di Figaro was the name of it.  Oh, it is perfectly splendid; ever so much prettier than this.”

HE.—­“Why, my dear girl, the Nozze di Figaro is the identical opera you are now hearing.”

SHE.—­“There is young Mr. NATHAN ISAACS.  Isn’t he perfectly splendid?”

HE (sighing sadly).—­“Whenever you wish to go home, I am ready.”

SHE.—­“You are real disagreeable to-night, and I’m sorry I came with you.”

RURAL PERSON.—­“Well, if this is the opery, I don’t mind sayin’ I like it.  Susan said I couldn’t understand a word of the gibberish these opery folks squawked, but it’s just as plain as psalm-singing.  Miss RICHIN and that HERSY gal are just the tallest kind of singers.  If we had ’em in our choir, the Baptist folks might shut up their meetin’-house to wunst.”

ZIMMERMANN.—­“When are we going to revive the Crook—­did you ask?  What do we want to revive it for?  Isn’t the house full enough to-night to satisfy anybody?”

FRIEND OF THE THEATRE—­“To be sure it is.  Stick to this sort of thing, and you’ll find it will pay better in the end than any amount of legs.  NIBLO’S is now a respectable theatre.  Don’t change it into an Anatomical Museum.”

MATADOR.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  AFTER THE BATTLE.

CARRYING OFF THE WOUNDED.]

* * * * *

PUNCHINELLO CORRESPONDENCE

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

A Lover of Music. Our street musicians are growing worse and worse.  There is a piper who infests the street in which I live, and sets my nerves on edge with his horrible droning.  What am I to do with him?

Answer. put him in the waste-piper basket.

Aunt Carraway. The preparatory schools about which you inquire have nothing to do with the reformation of wicked parrots.  If the language made use of by your parrot is so dreadful that the cats have left the house in consequence of it, we are afraid that the bird is past reform.  Try him with rats, and you may yet be renowned as the “female Whittington of the period.”