"How happy could he be with either."
I have never seen a play "go" better—rarely so well. The heroine—the "Doctoresse"—was played with much effect and discretion by Miss Enson, a lady for whom I prophesy a bright future. Mr. Penley was excellent in a part that fitted him to perfection. Both Miss Victor, as a "strong woman," and Mr. Hill, as—well, himself,—kept the pit in roars. The piece is more than a farce. The first two Acts are certainly farcical, but there is a touch of pathos in the last scene which reminds one that there is a close relationship between smiles and tears. And here let me note that the company in the private boxes, even when most heartily laughing, were still in tiers. As a rule the Doctor is not a popular person, but at the Globe she is sure to be always welcome. Any one suffering from that very distressing and prevalent malady, "the Doleful Dumps," cannot do better than go to Newcastle Street for a speedy cure.
The Colonel.
The Colonel at the Comedy is equally at home, and, on the occasion of his revival, was received with enthusiasm. Mr. Bruce has succeeded Mr. Coghlan in the title rôle, and plays just as well as his predecessor. Mr. Herbert is the original Forester, and the rest of the dramatis personæ are worthy of the applause bestowed upon them. To judge from the laughter that followed every attack upon the æsthetic fad, the "Greenery Yallery Gallery" is as much to the front as ever—a fact, by the way, that was amply demonstrated at the Soirée of the Royal Academy, where "passionate Brompton" was numerously represented.
The Bells of Hazlemere seem to be ringing in large audiences at the Adelphi, although the piece is not violently novel in its plot or characters. Mrs. Bernard-Beere ceases to die "every evening" at the end of this week at the Opéra Comique until November. I peeped in, a few days since, just before the last scene of As in a Looking-Glass, and found the talented lady on the point of committing her nightly suicide. Somehow I missed the commencement of the self-murder, and thus could not satisfactorily account for her dying until I noticed that a double-bass was moaning piteously. Possibly this double-bass made Mrs. Bernard-Beere wish to die—it certainly created the same desire on my part. Believe me,
yours sincerely,
One Who has Gone to Pieces.