In Louise, again, it was the orchestra, cleverly steered by Sir THOMAS BEECHAM through the difficult score for the choruses, that sustained us through the banalities of an opera which has only one dramatic moment—­when her father hastens the eviction of Louise by throwing a chair at her, very well aimed by Mr. ROBERT RADFORD, who only just missed his mark.  I suppose it is hopeless to expect that the makers of “Grand” Opera (whose sense of humour is seldom their strong point) will consent to allow the trivialities of ordinary speech in everyday life ("How do you do?” “Thank you, I am not feeling my best,” and so on) to be said—­if they must find expression of some sort—­and not sung.

By way of contrast to the modern realism which makes so unlikely a material for serious opera, the fantastic irresponsibility of The Magic Flute came as a great relief.  Its simpler music, serenely sampling the whole gamut of emotions, grave to gay, offered equal chances (all taken) to the pure love-singing of Miss AGNES NICHOLLS as Pamina, and Mr. MAURICE D’OISLY as Tamino, the light-hearted frivolity of Papageno (Mr. RANALOW), and the solemn pontifics (de profundissimis) of Mr. FOSTER RICHARDSON’S Sarastro.  A most delightful and refreshing performance.

O.S.

* * * * *

JAZZ—­TWO VIEWS.

  Terpsichore, tired of the “trot,”
  And letting the waltz go to pot,
    In the glorious Jazz
    Most undoubtedly has
  Discovered the pick of the lot.

  There was an exuberant “coon”
  Who invented a horrible tune
    For a horrible dance
    Which suggested the prance
  Of a half-epileptic baboon.

* * * * *

    “The Prime Minister threw aside precedent to such an extent that
    he got out of his depth and went on his knees when we were on the
    rocks.”—­Letter in “The Globe.”

When we get out of our depth we never think of kneeling on the bottom.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

“VICTORY.”

MR. MACDONALD HASTINGS has invented, and committed, yet another new sin—­that of attempting to do a CONRAD novel into a three-act play.  Fifteen, possibly; but three?  We hardly think.  What every Conradist knows is that you can’t compress that master of subtlety without losing the master’s dominant quality—­atmosphere; that it’s not so much the things he says but the queer way and the odd order in which he says them that matter.  He is not precisely a filmable person.

And yet, all things considered, the potter has produced a tolerable pot, and we may write down his fault of extreme foolhardiness as venial.  What, however, Mr. CONRAD himself thought of the rehearsals, if he attended them—­but perhaps we need not go into that.