Last Friday evening certain of us "ink-stained wretches" (Oscar Wilde) assembled in the lecture hall at the Horticultural Exhibition to pass judgment upon the performance given by the Zulu Choir. The dusky folks were all suitably attired, and carried such necessities for vocalisation as clubs, shields, bows, and cows' heads; the latter they wore as hats. The young women of the crowd, who, as Zulus go, are not uncomely to gaze upon, wore garments of alledyed Zulu cloth. The Choir sang sundry glees and solos in English very much after the manner of the average British choirs. After that they jumped about somewhat, uttered piercing shrieks, and used what appeared to be abusive language to one another. This their interpreter said was a kind of play. It was not the kind of play I yearned after at all, and will, I should fancy, find the minutest amount of satisfaction in the sight of Londoners. Although, of course, there is no saying, for the British Public is a wild strange thing, of weird tastes and fancies.