It was a treat. But what a stupid play! What a set of sordid, squalid, ruffianly characters, all, except Polly Peachum, prettily played by Madame Cave-Ashton, who obtained more than one encore. The chorus of "Let us take the Road" was very effectively given. I should like to see _The Beggar's Opera_ with a well remodelled plot, an efficient cast, to include, of course, Mr. Sims Reeves (it would be nothing at all without his Captain Macheath) and Madame Cave-Ashton, and produced under such careful stage-management as was shown by Mr. Hare in bringing out _Olivia_ at the Court Theatre. However, for the present, _The Beggar's Opera_, which, I believe, was the result of a considerable amount of "collaboration," is, as played the other night at Covent Garden, good enough, by way of a musical treat, for Your Representative. What _Punch_ wished to see forty years ago has been achieved under the inspiring direction of Mr. Nigel Playfair, though not exactly on the lines indicated. Cherishing an old-fashioned weakness for a tune, _Punch_ naturally deplored the passing of Offenbach, one of the greatest tune-coiners of the century. The memorial lines in October, 1880, are an admirable summary of the qualities which made Offenbach the musical incarnation of the unbridled gaiety of the Second Empire. But it is rather a surprise to find an allusion to "Golden Schneider" in view of _Punch's_ earlier castigation of that ultra-vivacious lady. For the rest _Punch_ was still true to the tradition expressed in the avowal of the Philistine who said he would rather hear Offenbach than Bach often. Regret of a very different temper inspires the tribute to Jenny Lind, _Punch's_ favourite singer, on her death in 1887. Forty years earlier he had christened her "the Nightingale that sings in Winter," and recognized her unfailing response to all charitable appeals:-- "Dear Jenny Lind!" So then his song addressed her Who still is "Jenny Lind," and still is dear. Though Genius praised, and Fashion's crowd caressed her, She sank not, like some stars, below her sphere Into those darkening mists Whose taint the true and tender heart resists. Her nature fame was powerless to soil, Whom splendour hardened not, and puffery could not spoil. How the crowd rushed and crushed, and cheered and clamoured, Forty years syne, to hang upon her song! Of _La Sonnambula's_ heroine enamoured, Thrilled by the flute-like trillings sweet as strong Of their dear Nightingale. Amina, Lucia, Alice, each they'd hail With fervent plaudits, in whose flush and stir Love of her silvery song was blent with love of her.