Third Act pleases everybody, raises our hopes, and then in the Fourth Act we discover, to our amazement, that we are only to see SCALCHI once again, that we have bidden farewell for ever to ALBANI and GAYARRÉ, and that the remainder of the Opera is to be carried on right up to the end by the heavy father, a chorus of Poles,--all acting well, and not a stick amongst them,--and a transparency representing the Coronation of the CZAR. And though the absence of ALBANI, SCALCHI, and GAYARRÉ made everyone's heart grow fonder, though we all missed them, yet we "pitied the sorrows of the poor old man," admired his acting and singing in a most difficult situation, and agreed with everybody that this strange Opera was a decided success. The Second scene of the last Act might be curtailed with advantage. This is speaking only dramatically; perhaps on a second hearing we should change our opinion. However, so ends the Covent Garden Opera Season; it has finished first,--a good first. * * * * * The New Silver Coinage will be re-named, until it is re-called, "The Silber-Goschen." * * * * * VERB. SAP. (_To a Wandering Star._) "I am willing to throw in my lot with that of my friend HUXLEY, and 'to fight to the death' against this wicked and cowardly surrender. A desperate gamester miscalled a Statesman, has chosen to invoke ignorant foreign opinion against the instructed opinion of his own countrymen."--_Professor Tyndall's last Letter to the Times._ TYNDALL, TYNDALL, learned star, How we wonder where you are! Fizzing up like penny pop, Coming down on GLADSTONE flop! "Desperate gamester!" TYNDALL mine, Such invective is _not_ fine. Have _you_ not a card to trump, Rattling RANDOLPH on the stump? Science in her calm retreat Ought that sort of bosh to beat; She, whose words should drop like gold, Must not ape an angry scold. Party scribes who rage for pay, When most rabid write that way, Politicians of the pot Perpetrate that sort of rot. Just suppose that W. G., Fancying your remarks too free, Dubbed you, in polemic rage, "Sciolist miscalled a sage." How you _savants_ would cry "Shame!" Why should Science only claim Right to be exceeding rude, Sourly false and coarsely crude? "Wicked! Cowardly!" Oh, bless us! Hercules in the shirt of Nessus Did not rage in wilder fashion Than our TYNDALL in a passion. Difference exists no doubt; Let us calmly fight it out; But to call each other names Is the vulgarest of games. Honestly one view you hold; If to differ one makes bold, Is it fair, Sir, to infer, That he's rascal, traitor, cur? Pooh! That's Party's puerile plan. Wisdom, Sir, should play the man. Drop these tart polemic pennings, Leave that sort of stuff to JENNINGS. * * * * *