ROSES IN DECEMBER.
Sir,—Strange as it may appear to you, Sir, as a London playgoer, I had never seen The Two Roses till last night. How this "celebrated comedy" ever acquired its celebrity is, I confess, beyond me, for the plot is poor, and in the dialogue there is nothing quotable, though the phrase, "a little cheque," forces itself on one's memory by frequent iteration. You, Sir, saw it with its original cast, and I take it that a play of this sort requires certain surroundings to insure its immediate success, just as a rich joke, when deprived of its original accidental accessories, is found to be a very poor joke, or no joke at all. This play by Mr. Albery I should have thought would have been, as Dr. Samuel Johnson might have said, Al-bery'd and forgotten long ago. Yet it lives,—at all events, it has been revived.
A Manager does not revive a piece which was not originally produced at his theatre without some pretty good reason for so doing. He must, at least, be fairly confident of its attractive powers as, at all events, a remunerative stop-gap; and I am informed that this piece has been revived, once before, by Mr. Henry Irving at the Lyceum. This is ancient history to you, Sir. After the revival, and the unwonted exercise of a long run (did it have a long run?), I should have supposed that there could not have been much life left in it. Yet apparently there is. The acting is, on the whole, good, and some of it very good. William Farren, one of the best of English players, makes all that is to be made (as it seems to me, who did not see Mr. Irving) out of Digby Grand, Mr. Giddens is an excellent blind Caleb (a very clever actor must be Mr. Giddens), and Mr. David James simply is "Our Mr. Jenkins." Maude Millett is pretty and graceful, and the whole entertainment entertaining. But still, how it ever became a celebrated comedy—
"Well, that I cannot tell," said he,
"But t'was a famous Comedy."
And by crammed houses it is, I hear, being fully appreciated. Indeed, I should only say, judging by this Criterion on the night I was present, it is in for another long run.
Yours,
Little Peterkin.
Shakspeare Up Again.—A Baconian writes to ask if there isn't sufficient proof of Shakspeare's affinity to Bacon in Ham let alone?