of course the innumerable customary _da
capos_) and a bright sketchy EVANS _obbligato_. As a Grand Duchess and
Duke respectively the genial twain present themselves. Mr. GEORGE
GRAVES, in a flounced skirt of green tartan check, copper curls and
mahogany features, is a delectable creation; says some strangely
unlady-like things (as is expected of him); is still oddly preoccupied
with "gear-boxes" and other anatomical detail; and generally indulges in
a fine careless rapture of reminiscence and improvisation--zealously
assisted by Mr. WILL EVANS' familiar tip-tilted nose and bland refusal
to be perturbed by entirely unrehearsed effects and obviously irregular
cues. A jovial and irreverent pair of potentates, crowned by public
laughter.

There is, of course, a sort of background to all this audacious fooling,
more definitely directed _virginibus puerisque_. The new principal boy,
Mr. ERIC MARSHALL, woos his princess with a romantic air and a mellow
tenor, in which emotion somewhat overshadows tone. Miss FLORENCE
SMITHSON, an accepted Drury Lane favourite, looks very charming, makes
love in pretty kitten wise and still indulges in those queer harmonics
of hers--virtuosity rather than artistry, shall we call it?--but is
altogether quite a nice princess of pantomime. Little RENEE MAYER is the
Puss. Nothing could well be daintier. But I hope she will let me tell
her (in a whisper, so that the others won't hear), that she doesn't
_quite_ realise what a jolly part she has got. I would implore her to
spend an hour or two at serious play with any decent young cat and study
the grace and variety of its beautiful, imitable gestures. Then she will
assuredly pounce on her magician turned mouse, and fawn on her master
and friends, with a greater air of conviction. And she will mightily
please all the other nice children in the house.

Of the great _ensemble_ scenes unquestionably the finest was the Fairy
Garden, with a quite beautiful back-cloth by R. MCCLEERY and a
bewildering (and, to tell truth, largely bewildered) bevy of
butterflies, decked by COMELLI, fluttering in a flowery pleasaunce. And
there was also a clever variation on the now inevitable staircase
_motif_ as a _finale_. But the Harlequinade of happy memory has
deplorably declined to something like a mere display of
advertisements--a sad business.

* * * * *

"The Starlight Express."

It would be uncandid to pretend that Mr. ALGERNON B