Volume 107, 15th December, 1894.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

* * * * *

A TREE WITH VARIEGATED LEAVES.

The following communications have found their way into the Editor's box at 85, Fleet Street, and are published that their writers may claim them. As most of the signatures were more or less illegible, it has been considered advisable to suppress them, to prevent the possibility of mistakes. The only exception that has been made to this rule is in the case of the last letter, wherein seemingly is summed up the moral of the controversy.

_Communication No. 1, dated Tuesday._

Is it not time, considering that there is nothing of particular interest attracting public attention, that a protest should be raised against the "Society" plays which occupy the stages of some of our best theatres? You see I pave the way to my gentle reproof by buttering up vested interests. To do this the better, I will say something nice about "our most capable actors," and write "I remember BUCKSTONE, and SOTHERN, the BANCROFTS, and, aye, Mr. TREE himself." This will prove that there is no malice in my suggestions.

Let me describe the piece to which, in the dead season of the year, I object. The plot is centred in the love for each other of a partially-reclaimed lady and an opium-drinking gentleman; I might use stronger expressions, but I know your paper is intended for the family rather than the dress-circle, and my language is therefore modulated to meet the modest requirements of the case. Take it from me, Sir, that the story of these two individuals is nauseous and degrading. I say that its unravelling should not be foisted on the public in a modern play. But that you may not consider my impressions libellous, I add that the piece is finely staged, and in parts well written. For all that, I cannot imagine why the manager, with his lofty ideas of the function of a theatre as a medium of education, has permitted himself to produce it. And if that observation does not draw the manager in question, my name is not X. Y. Z.

_Communication No. 2, dated Wednesday._

Your anonymous contributor "of London" (mark the sarcasm!) was right in imagining that I would be drawn. I consider it my duty to Mr. HENRY ARTHUR JONES to say something about his "accustomed combative geniality," and to Mr. HADDON CHAMBERS to refer to his "cheery stoicism." I will also allude to Mr. PINERO, but as he is not writing for my theatre just now, merely record my conviction that he will be able to survive the sneers against _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_--"a play which has made a deep and lasting impression on the thinking public." And when I write "lasting," I am the more obliging, as I assume the _rôle_ of a prophet. It will be "lasting," I am sure. The "thinking public," of course, are those admirable and intellectual persons who fill the stalls and boxes of my theatre, and the stalls and boxes of kindred establishments.

And, while I am talking of "thinking," let me insist that the criticism of the piece by the anonymous one "of London" (mark the irony!) is not a personal matter, but a question that affects the freedom of the thinking community. This is a generation that has outgrown "the skirts of the young lady of fifteen"; and it behoves all to understand the meaning of that apt sentence, and to regard with a jealous eye any attempt to crib, cabin, and confine the development of contemporary thought. "Crib, cabin, and confine" is also good, and entirely worthy of your serious consideration. At a time when the stalls are 10_s._ 6_d._, and the family-circle available to those who will not run to gold, is a literary dandy (in whose stained forefinger I seem to detect the sign of an old journalistic hand) to pass a vote of censure on SHAKSPEARE because, forsooth, _Hamlet_ was not forgotten? I trust not. And shall the public (mark you the intellectual, the praiseworthy--in a word, the "thinking public") be debarred from taking their piece in their favourite theatre because, forsooth, there is an interesting correspondence in newspapers in the dullest season of the decrepit old year? Again--I trust not.

_Communication No. 3--once more dated Wednesday._

I beg to ask your permission, as an old playgoer, to see myself in print. I do not pretend to be able to write myself, but an eminent _littérateur_, in a recent number of a popular monthly magazine, has done good service by enforcing the untruthful character of the "problem" pieces recently presented to the public audiences. I have not the ability to comment on this unpleasant phase of the histrionic profession, so merely observe (with a recollection of an old-world story) "them's my sentiments."

_Communication No. 4, dated Thursday._

No doubt this letter will reach you with many others, with signatures anonymous and otherwise. Being a bit spiteful I will confine myself to five lines in the hope of gaining insertion. Are not pieces with "girls with a past" played out? Then why slay the slain? I am sure healthier work will now be submitted to the public. And when that happy time arrives there will be found on my bookshelves certain brown-paper-covered tomes that are waiting the inspection of every actor-manager in London. Need I say more? You yourself, Sir, will practically answer the question.

_Communication No. 5, dated Friday._

Permit me to keep the ball a rolling. Why is the "young lady of fifteen" to be alone protected? Are not the boys and girls of an older growth to be also preserved from contamination? What is to be done for that large class of playgoers who have entered their second childhood?

_Communication No. 6, dated Saturday._

Now that a piece at present being played at a West-End theatre has been well advertised for a whole week in the more largely-read columns of a most influential daily paper, it is to be sincerely hoped that _Box_ and _Cox_ are satisfied.

(SIGNED)

BOUNCER.

* * * * *

WITH KIND REGARDS.

"With kind regards"--'tis good to see your writing Even on meagre correspondence-cards, But would more matter you had been inditing With kind regards!

Below you add that you are "mine sincerely," I wonder if in those two words you wrote A sweet confession that you care--or merely The usual ending to a friendly note?

I wonder if that week you still remember, The shooting lunches and round games of cards, Our walks and talks that wonderful September-- I wonder what you meant by "kind regards"!

With kind regards, and eyes that, reading, soften I read your note, most blessed among cards, And think of you--I dare not say _how_ often-- With kind regards.

* * * * *

APPROPRIATE.--_The Command of the Sea_, by WILKINSON SHAW. The author will be hereafter known as "SEA-SHAW."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

LOVE'S LABOUR _NOT_ LOST!

(_A Dramatic Scene, with Suggestions from Shakspeare._)

SCENE.--_A British Quay._ _Enter_ The Visible Prince (_like the_ King _and his companions in "Love's Labour's Lost"_) _"in Russian habits" but bearing a true British face_, not _masked_. _To him enters the most loyal and loving of his subjects and sage counsellors_, Mr. Punch.

_Mr. Punch_ (_joyously_). "All hail the pleasantest Prince upon the earth!" _Prince_ (_gaily._) "Behaviour, what wert thou, till this man show'd thee?" _Mr. Punch._ Well capped, my Prince! _Prince._ Be you the same, good friend! "Your bonnet to its right use; 'tis for the head," (As _Hamlet_ said), and "'tis indifferent cold." _Mr. Punch._ "It is a nipping and an eager air"-- As not unusual in our Isle's December! _Prince._ "The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold." I feel it, _Punch_, through all my Russian sables, Though I'm from Muscovy. _Mr. Punch._ What met you there, Sir? _Prince_ (_promptly_). "NOTHING BUT PEACE, AND GENTLE VISITATION!" _Mr. Punch_ (_applauding_). Most aptly quoted, Sir! The happiest "lift," From him the ever applicable bard, I've met this many a moon. _Prince._ Glad to be back To English shores--and you--for all the love I leave behind, and all the cold I come to. _Mr. Punch._ Not in our hearts, my Prince, not in our hearts! _Prince._ Nay, that I'll swear. Witness your presence here, This chilling day. "How many weary steps Of many weary miles you have o'ergone!" _Mr. Punch._ "We number nothing that we spend for you: Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without account." When you "vouchsafe the sunshine of your face." _Prince_ (_laughing_). _Punch_, know you _all_ the Swan? _Mr. Punch._ E'en as the Swan Knows all his _Punch_, which is his favourite reading In the Elysian Fields; and one good turn Deserves another! But, my ALBERT EDWARD, "What did the Russian whisper in your ear?" _Prince._ _Punchius_, "He swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world; adding thereto, moreover, That he would ever live our England's lover." _Mr. Punch._ "God give thee joy of him! The noble TSAR Most honourably will uphold his word" As I doubt not. I'm happy o' your visit. "But what, Sir, purpose they to visit us?" _Prince._ "They do, they do, and all apparel'd thus Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I dress. Their purpose is to parle, to court, to dance. And every one his love-feat will advance." _Mr. Punch._ As _you_ have done, my Prince, at sorrow's flood Taking the tide of frank affection, like A skilled and trusty pilot. Such a Prince, Good faith, is worth a dozen diplomats And many full-armed legions. _Prince._ May it prove so! _Mr. Punch._ Well, let them come! "Disguis'd like Muscovites" (As _Rosaline_ said) we'll know them still as friends; And they'll find here, as you there found, my Prince, "NOTHING BUT PEACE, AND GENTLE VISITATION!!!"[*]

[_Exeunt together._

[Footnote *: _Love's Labour's Lost_, Act V., Scene 2.]

* * * * *

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

A TEMPEST in a teapot stands, one knows, For noisy nothing in the realms of prose. But what _is_ that to the prodigious pother When Minor Poets pulverise each other? "Birds in their little nests agree,"--all right! _Bards_ in their little books fall out and fight. The birds of which the pious rhymster sings Sure were not "singing birds"--those angry things! Who prune themselves and peck each other frightfully. Alas that warblers should contend so spitefully. All--save the cynic--mourn the Muse's loss, When GOSSE snubs GALE, or GALE be-blizzards GOSSE!

* * * * *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PAST XXIV.--THE HAPPY DISPATCH.

"Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, but----"