I attended the Opening Night of the Promenade Concerts at Her Majesty's on Saturday week. A crowded house; everybody in the best of humours. Mlle. Elly Warnots trilled her most brilliant "variations," Miss Florence St. John carried off the lioness's share of applause and bouquets. There was a new "Vocal valse," entitled "Laughing Beauties" in which a chorus of "ladies in costume" invited us to buy what the programme waggishly described as:—

The programme, by the way, contained one or two other similar eccentricities. Miss St. John was announced as inquiring in a song of Behrend's, "Why do your big tears fears fall, Daddy?"—hardly a fair question to be addressed to any parent. Fortunately she preferred to sing the line in a less enigmatical form, but the gifted author of Daddy, should insist on correcting his own proofs next time. Then we had a "descriptive Piece for Orchestra,"—The Bulgarian Patrol, in which the melody began faintly, and came nearer and nearer with the clank of metal, till it gradually died away again in the distance. "Oh, wot a novelty!" as I heard a street-vendor remark the other day concerning the "panorammer of the Lord Mayor's Show," he was offering to a dubious public. But the public at Her Majesty's applauded the Bulgarian Patrol as impartially as they did his Turkish forerunner.

(Signed)A. BOUTIGO JONES.

Advice Gratis.—Young Hoffmann is Hoff! Gone from our gaze, perhaps, with a Cook's Ticket. But, anyhow, the Juvenile Phenomenal Pianist has gone. Peace go with him—let him rest. Don't allow him to get within half a mile of a piano, or he is sure to go to pieces. All work and all play will make young Hoffmann a dull Young Man. Beware, O Parents and Guardians, in time.

À propos of a certain Illustrious Sufferer.—Who shall decide when Doctors disagree? The Patient. This is the sad Moral, Mackenzie.