A THEATRICAL PLUNGE; OR, TAKING A HEDDA.
A plunge indeed! but fortunately the swimmers are strong, and able to save the suicidal Ibsenites. For my part,—that is, as one of the audience drawn by curiosity,—I should say that were it not for the excellent acting of all concerned in the piece, and especially of Miss ELIZABETH ROBINS as the Hanwellian heroine, IBSEN's Hedda Gabler would scarcely have been allowed a second night's existence at the Vaudeville. Miss ROBINS is so much in earnest—as a true artist should be—that she excites your curiosity to discover what on earth she is taking all this trouble about; and thus she compels your attention. That the result is eminently unsatisfactory is no fault of hers. The piece itself is stuff and nonsense; poor stuff and "pernicious nonsense." It is as if the author had studied the weakest of the Robertsonian Comedies, and had thought he could do something like it in a tragic vein.
In the last Act there is a situation reminding us strongly of one short scene in Caste; there—so delicately and touchingly treated by its author; here—so repulsively treated by IBSEN. Let it be reduced to serious burlesque, and let us have it played by PENLEY as George Tesman, ARTHUR ROBERTS (with a song) as Judge Brack, WEEDON GROSSMITH as Ejlbert Lövborg, Miss LOTTIE VENNE as Mrs. Hedda Tesman, Mrs. JOHN WOOD as Aunt Juliana, and Miss JESSIE BOND (with song and dance) as Mrs. Elvsted. It is announced in the bill as "IBSEN's Last Play." There's a crumb of comfort in this.
QUEER QUERIES.
OATMEAL PORRIDGE.—Would some Scotch housewife kindly enlighten me as to the proper mode of preparing the above delicacy? I fancy there must be some mistake about the method I have hitherto adopted. Is it really necessary to "boil for forty-eight hours, and then mix with equal quantities of gin, Guinness's Stout, Gum Arabic, and Epsom Salts?" I have followed this recipe (given me by a young friend, who says he has often been in Scotland) faithfully, but the result is not wholly satisfactory. I doubt whether genuine porridge should be of the consistency of a brick-bat, or taste of hair-oil.—UNDAUNTED.