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Winter Season at Covent garden.—­Opening of Italian Opera last Saturday, with Aida.  Very well done.  “Wait” between Second and Third Act too long:  “Waiters” in Gallery whistling.  Wind whistling, too, in Stalls.  Operatic and rheumatic.  Rugs and fur capes might be kept on hire by Stall-keepers.  Airs in Aida delightful:  draughts in Stalls awful.  Signor Lago called before Curtain to receive First Night congratulations.  Signor Lago ought to do good business “in front,” as there’s evidently no difficulty in “raising the wind.”

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[Illustration:  “L’ONION Fait La force.”

John Bull.  “Now, my dear little Portugal, as you are Strong be Wise, or you’ll get yourself into A Pretty Pickle!”]

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The fire King and his friends.

(WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO MONK LEWIS AND THE AUTHORS OF “REJECTED ADDRESSES.")

“No hardship would be inflicted upon manufacturers, if dangerous trades in general were subjected to such a supervision as would afford the largest attainable measure of security to all engaged in them.  The case is one which urgently demands the consideration of Parliament, not only for the protection of work-people, but even for the protection of the Metropolis itself.  It should never be forgotten that fire constitutes the gravest risk to which London is exposed.”—­The Times.

  The Fire King one day rather furious felt,
    He mounted his steam-horse satanic;
  Its head and its tail were of steel, with a belt
  Of riveted boiler-plate proved not to melt
    With heat howsoever volcanic.

  The sight of the King with that flame-face of his
    Was something exceedingly horrid;
  The rain, as it fell on his flight, gave a fizz
  Like unbottled champagne, and went off with a whizz
    As it sprinkled his rubicund forehead.

  The sound of his voice as he soared to the sky
    Was that of a ghoul with the grumbles. 
  His teeth were so hot, and his tongue was so dry,
  That his shout seemed us raucous as though one should try
  To play on a big drum with dumb-bells.

  From his nostrils a naphthaline odour outflows,
    In his trail a petroleum-whiff lingers. 
  With crude nitro-glycerine glitter his hose,
  Suggestions of dynamite hang round his nose,
    And gunpowder grimeth his fingers.

  His hair is of flame fizzing over his head,
    As likewise his heard and eye-lashes;
  His drink’s “low-test naphtha,” his nag, it is said,
  Eats flaming tow soaked in combustibles dread,
    Which hot from the manger he gnashes.