Wednesday.—­Don Giovanni.  ZELIE DE LUSSAN as Zerlina, very popular.  Still a little too like Carmen in appearance.  LASSALLE can’t be bettered.  Great night everywhere.  Mlle. MELBA and Mr. EDOUARD DE RESZKE taking a little holiday at a concert in Grosvenor Square, where also are Madame PATEY and another EDWARD yclept LLOYD, whom HERR GANZ accompanies with his “Sons of Tubal Cain”—­no political allusion to the recent Barrow Election.  Opera comparatively full.  Some habitues look in to see how everything’s going on, then go on themselves to Reception in Piccadilly, At Homes elsewhere, M.P.Q.’s Smoking Concert, and various other entertainments.  Society winding itself up brilliantly.  “Rebellion’s dead! and now we’ll go to supper.”  And so we do.  “Again we come to the Savoy!”

Thursday.—­Lucia off-night, but everything and everybody “going on” as usual.  H.R.H. again at Opera.

Friday.—­La Favorita.  Breathing time before the great Operatic event of week to-morrow night.

Saturday.—­Esmeralda.  Too late at last moment to say anything on this splendid subject, save that the Composer was deservedly greeted with a storm—­of applause!

* * * * *

PURELY A MATTER OF BISLEYNESS.

PRIVATE R. VAN WINKLE opened his eyes, and, taking up his rusty rifle, marched towards the new ranges.

“Dear me!” said he, gazing with amazement at his surroundings, “this is not at all like what I saw when I went to sleep.”

“No, RIP, it is not,” replied Mr. Punch, who happened to be in the neighbourhood.  He had been watching his sweetest Princess making a bull’s-eye at the opening ceremony.

“Why, it is twice as large as Wimbledon,” continued the astounded warrior.

“You are well within the limit,” the Sage assented, “and see, there is plenty of space.  No fear of damaging any of the tenants of GEORGE RANGER in this part of the country.”

“No, indeed!” exclaimed Private VAN WINKLE.  “Not that I think His Royal Highness had much cause of complaint.  The truth is—­”

“Let bygones be bygones,” interrupted Mr. Punch.  “GEORGE RANGER is no longer your landlord, except, in a certain sense, representing the interests of the Regular Army, and I shall keep my eye upon him in that capacity.”

“An entirely satisfactory arrangement.  But where are the fancy tents, and the luncheon parties, and all the etceteras that used to be so pleasant at Wimbledon?”

“Disappeared,” returned Mr. Punch, firmly.  “Bisley is to be more like Shoeburyness (where the Artillery set an excellent example to the Infantry) than the Surrey saturnalia.”

“And is it to be all work and no play?”

“That will be the general idea.  Of course, in the evening, when nothing better can be done, there will be harmonic meetings round the camp-fires.  But while light lasts, the crack of the rifle and the ping of the bullet will be heard in all directions, vice the pop of champagne corks superseded.  And if you don’t like the prospect, my dear RIP, you had better go to sleep again.”