In a vocal item from Siegfried, Mr. Orlo Jimson evinced a sympathetic appreciation of the emotional needs of the situation which augurs favourably for his further progress, and the powerful support furnished him by the orchestra was an important factor in the enjoyment of his praiseworthy efforts.  An almost too vivacious rendering of the Venusberg music brought the scheme to a strepitous conclusion.  It may, however, be submitted that so realistic an interpretation of the Pagan revelries depicted by the composer is hardly in accordance with the best traditions of the British musical public.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE DREAM OF BLISS.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Fussy Old Party (who likes to make sure).  “ARE YOU CERTAIN YOU GO TO TUNBRIDGE WELLS?”

Driver (to Conductor). “’ERE, BILL, WE ARE CARELESS.  SOMEONE MUST HAVE PINCHED THE NAME-BOARDS WHEN WE WEREN’T LOOKING.”]

* * * * *

    “There is no such thing as infallibility in rerum
    naturae.”—­Provincial Paper.

Nor, apparently, in journalistic Latin.

* * * * *

    “Reward.—­Bedroom taken Tuesday, 27th, between Holborn and
    Woburn-place.  A basket and umbrella left.”—­Daily Paper.

We compliment the victim of this theft on his courtesy in calling the thieves’ attention to their oversight.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Exhausted War Profiteer. “DEER FORESTS FOR THE ’IDLE RICH’ BE BLOWED!  THE ‘NEW POOR’ CAN ’AVE ’EM FOR ME.”]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)

The long-promised Herbert Beerbohm Tree (HUTCHINSON), than which I have expected no book with more impatience, turns out to be a volume full of lively interest, though rather an experiment in snap-shot portraiture from various angles than a full-dress biography.  Mr. MAX BEERBOHM has arranged the book, himself contributing a short memoir of his brother, which, together with what Lady TREE aptly calls her Reverie, fills some two-thirds of it with the more intimate view of the subject, the rest being supplied by the outside appreciations of friends and colleagues.  If I were to sum up my impression of the resulting picture it would be in the word “happiness.”  Not without reason did the TREES name a daughter FELICITY.  Here was a life spent in precisely the kind of success that held most delight for the victor—­honour, love, obedience, troops of friends; all that Macbeth missed his exponent enjoyed in flowing measure.  Perhaps TREE was never a great actor, because he found existence too “full of a number of things”; if so he was something considerably jollier, the enthusiastic,