_Friday Night._--First performance of _I Rantzau_, and first-rate performance, too. The Plot is simply a Plot of Land. Scene laid--laid for seven _dramatis personæ_--in a Vague Village of the Vosges; time, present century. The Rantzaus are the Capulets and Montagues of this district; the son of one faction is in love with the daughter of the other; but it doesn't end tragically, and the lovers marry. That's all. It was played as a Drama at the Français, with GOT in it; when subsequently it was turned into an Opera, it had the "Go" taken out of it. DE LUCIA, ANCONA, CASTELMARY, BISPHAM, and CORSI doing their very best, as do also the lamplighter and his assistant, who deftly perform their "Wagnerian watchman" "business" to characteristic music. Mlle. BAUERMEISTER great in a small part; and Madame MELBA does her very best with the singularly uninteresting part of _Luisa_, who is a very "Limited Loo." Signor MASCAGNI conducted the Opera, and was himself conducted on to the stage as often as possible in order to receive the congratulations of his "friends in front." _I Rantzau_ not "in it" with MASCAGNI'S _Cavalleria_, which, like the Rantzau family at the end of the piece, "still holds the field." Thermometer 95° in the stalls. House animated and appreciative. _Saturday._--_Les Huguenots._ Grand Cast. Thermometer down again. * * * * * A DITTY OF THE DOG-DAYS. Ninety-one in the shade, by NEGRETTI and ZAMBRA! 'Tis O that I dwelt in an ice-crevasse, Or rented a share in the _Mer de Glace_, Or hired (ere I melt and resolve to gas) That _patio_ cool in the chill Alhambra (Not "Lei-ces-ter Squarr," but Granada far), Where fountains sprinkle and plash and tinkle-- Ay me! that my dream can ne'er come to pass! "Fourteen hours of the sun!" says the "Jordan Recorder"-- Each day it grows hotter in London town! The plane-trees are withered and burnt and brown; Ere Lammas has come the leaves are down! The months have been mixed--they're out of order; We'd the weather of June six weeks too soon; And now we swelter and gasp for shelter-- We're grilled alive from toe to crown! There's drought in the fields, and drought in my gullet! I would that I sat in a boundless tank Of claret and soda, and drank and drank! My thirst with PANTAGRUEL'S own would rank-- Gargantuan draughts alone may lull it! A shandygaff "chute" _à la_ BOYTON would suit, Or of Pilsener lager a Nile or Niagara-- Would that it through my [oe]sophagus sank! I'd long to be NANSEN, that bold Norwegian, Who's off to the north like a sailor-troll; Dry land I prefer in my inmost soul, And his tub-like _Fram_ will pitch and roll, But she's bound at least for a glacial region! Or stay, to be sure! here's Professor D----R To cold can consign us untold degrees _minus_-- There's no need to visit the Northern Pole!