nor any other Manager can carry on an operatic season without stars, and so they are here, a galaxy of ’em, up above, on the “back cloth,” as it is technically termed, shining brilliantly but spasmodically, strange portents in the operatic sky.  Pity Astronomer Royal not here to see and note the fact.  Next time Otello is given, if this atmospheric effect is to be repeated, the attendants in the lobbies might be permitted to supply powerful telescopes at a small fixed charge.  But the greatest star of all is Madame ALBANI as Desdemona; a triumph dramatically and operatically.  Her song in the last Act, the celebrated “Willow Song”—­which of course no cricketer ought to miss hearing—­was most beautifully and touchingly rendered.  Those persons suffering from the heat of a crowded house, and dreading the difficulty of finding their “keb or kerridge” in good time, and who therefore quitted their seats before ALBANI sang the “Willow Song,” must, perforce, sing the old refrain, “O Willow, we have missed you!” and go back for it whenever this Opera is played again.  M. JEAN DE RESZKÉ was not, perhaps, quite up to his usual form, or his usual former self; but, for all that, he justified his responsibility as one of the largest shareholders in the Grand Otello Company, Limited.  All things considered, and the last best thing being invariably quite the best, Otello, or Symphonies in Black and White, is about the biggest success of the season.

* * * * *

TO AMANDA.

[Illustration]

(ACCOMPANYING A SET OF VERSES WHICH SHE BADE ME WRITE.)

Only a trifle, though, i’ faith, ’tis smart,
A jeu d’esprit, not art concealing art,
Fruition of a moment’s fantasy,
Mere mental bubbles, verbal filagree.

But, though thy lightest wish I would not thwart,
I prithee bid me play some other part
Another time, and I will give thee carte
Blanche to dictate; in truth aught else will be
Only a trifle,
Compared with versifying.  I will dart,
At thy behest, e’en to the public mart
To buy a bonnet, or will gleefully
Carry a babe through Bond Street.  My sole plea
Is—­no more verses.  Surely ’tis, sweetheart,
Only a trifle.

* * * * *

SUPPLEMENTARY AND CORRECTIVE.—­In his Jubilee Number Mr. PUNCH remarked, “Merely to mention all the bright pens and pencils which have occasionally contributed to my pages would occupy much space.”  And space then was limited.  But among the “Great Unnamed” should assuredly have been mentioned W.H.  WILLS, one of the originators of Mr. PUNCH’s publication, CLEMENT SCOTT the flowing lyrist, and author of “The Cry of the Children,” &c., ASHBY STERRY of “Lazy Minstrel” fame, and “ROBERT,” the genial garrulous “City Waiter,” whilst the names of J.P. ("Dumb-Crambo”) ATKINSON, and E.J.  WHEELER, were omitted by the purest