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The “NORFOLK BROADS,” according to the Standard, are in future to be the English cradle of the German “Bass.”  Not beer, but fish.  There are to be “no takers” at present, so the cradle will not be a Bass-in-net.

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[Illustration:  THE “LAIDLY WORM” OF LONDON—­AND YOUNG COUNTY COUNCIL.]

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[Illustration:  HUNTING PREDICAMENTS.  No. 1.

Miss Nelly (to her Slave, in the middle of the best thing of the Season).  “OH, MR. ROWEL, DO YOU MIND GOING BACK?  I DROPPED MY WHIP AT THE LAST FENCE!”]

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OPERATIC NOTES.

Wednesday.—­Welcome once more to our old friend, Norma, the Deceived Druidess, who was called Norma for short, she being an orphan, and having “nor par, nor ma.”  The Ancient Order of Druids, with Arch-Druid Oroveso in the chair, might have had a better brass band. Norma nowadays is not particularly attractive, and the house, when it is given, cannot be expected to be more than normal or ordinary.

Thursday.—­Orfeo. First appearance of Miles.  GIULIA and SOFIA RAVOGLI in GLUeCK’S beautiful Opera, which has not been seen here for many years, but—­judging from its reception by a full and delighted house—­will be seen many times before Signor LAGO’S season comes to an end.  Enthusiastic reception of GIULIA RAVOGLI as Orpheus; double recall after three of the four Acts; house insisting on having “Che faro” all over again.  Orchestra, under Signor BEVIGNANI, admirable.  Recreations of Demons and Furies, when let out of Gates of Erebus for a half-holiday, peculiar, not to say eccentric.  Demons lie on rocks, with silver serpents round their necks as comforters, claw the air, and trot round in circles, after which they exhibit Dutch-metalled walking-sticks to one another with sombre pride.  Furies trip measures and strike attitudes in pink tights and draperies of unaesthetic hues, when not engaged in witnessing, with qualified interest, incidental dances by two premieres danseuses. Hades evidently less dull than generally supposed.

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SUGGESTION.—­Curious that no enterprising shaving-soap proprietor has as yet, as far as we know, advertised his invention as “Tabula Rasa." This is worth thousands, and takes the cake—­of soap.

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QUIS NOMINABIT?

(Being a few Remarks a Apropos of a “British Academy of Letters.”)

    MR. PUNCH, SIR,