First night at Covent Garden of new Opera, Irmengarda, by Chevalier, not Chevalier Coster, but Chevalier Emil Bach. In this plot the women of a besieged city are allowed to leave it, carrying whatever is most precious on their backs—but this one Bach can't carry Irmengarda, which is, however, not too, too precious, but is supportable. Sir Druriolanus Operaticus "gives a Back," and it's "Over!" First Act, while performing, is promising; second very much after, or behind the first. House full. Everybody good, specially Valda and Abramoff. Mr. Armbruster conducted the Mascagni-cum-Wagner-&-Co. music. Everybody happy, specially Bach himself, who was not backwards in coming forwards, and bowing his acknowledgments.
By the way, as in Act III. the King enters "a-riding a-riding," this Opera may be distinguished from any of Bach's future works by being called The Horse-Bach Opera. Not to exhaust the punning possibilities in the name of the composer, it may be incidentally noted that, original and fresh as every air in this Opera may be, yet this present work consists entirely of "Bach Numbers." No more on this subject at present.
Last week of Opera by night at Covent Garden, as the Garden is turned into a Race-course for The Prodigal Daughter's steeplechase, and Drury Lane is wanted for the Pantomime. Sir Druriolanus has his hands full—likewise his pockets. "So mote it be!"
TO MY PARTNER.
"Miss Red Sash"—my programme can't even relate
Your name, and I know nothing more
Of your tastes. Do you talk of high Art—or the state
Of the floor?
Has Girton or Newnham endeavoured to clog
With stiffest of science your brain;
Or are you prepared to discourse of the fog
And the rain?
Do politics please you? Uganda, perhaps,
Or the Cabinet crisis in France?
Or would you remark that a great many chaps
Never dance?
Is Ibsen your idol, with plays that are noise,
Some say nauseous; is he a sage?
Or are you contented to see a live horse
On the stage?