entreat him to keep her secret. Unfortunately Mr Posket has been brought by his precocious stepson to sup in another room of the same café, and with extraordinary imprudence all the characters remain in the establishment after the legal time for closing. The police appear, the proprietor hurries everybody into one room, in which he extinguishes the lights, and in the panic of the moment the magistrate unknowingly takes refuge under the very table beneath which his wife is hiding. Ultimately the male characters make their escape with difficulty, while the ladies are captured by the police. In the morning the latter are brought before Mr Posket, who has struggled back to his Court in time to exercise his duties as magistrate, though in a state of indescribable confusion, both mental and physical, arising from the excitement of the previous night. Half asleep and entirely demoralised, he unconsciously sentences his wife and her sister to a week's imprisonment, following the suggestions of his clerk. His utter breakdown when he finds what he has done, and the contrast of his immaculate respectability and the office he holds with all the incidents of the night, are no doubt irresistibly comic; but the play is broad farce throughout, and with less capable actors would be unworthy of consideration at all. It is saved by the excellent acting of Mrs John Wood, and of Messrs Clayton, Cecil, and Eversfield, and the life and "go" that is put into it by the whole company; and makes a sufficient evening's diversion for the unconcerned spectator who likes to be amused without much caring how. But surely, with actors of the calibre of those above mentioned, something better might be attempted than the trivial plot of a charade, lengthened out by the oldest follies of rude art, the devices of the pantomime. We remember an Italian comedy in which this hiding under tables is an incident, which we should be very sorry to offer to the consideration of Mr Clayton and Mr Cecil, both of whom, and especially the latter, are capable of very much higher work. But if the public loves to be kept on the broad grin, and prefers the ludicrous to the humorous, what can the actor do? The ludicrous is easier than the humorous, and a practical joke has many advantages over that exploded idea of holding the mirror up to nature, which necessitates, perhaps, a different kind and quality of intelligence.
All these considerations we throw to the winds when we enter the bright precincts of the Savoy Theatre, where Mr Gilbert and Mr Sullivan keep their legitimate places in defiance of all laws – though that is a paradox. "The Mikado" is above criticism. There is no question in this whimsical world of fun and tuneful ditties of holding up any mirror. Whether it be "The Sorcerer" or "The Pirate," or that delightful "Jury" who award unheard-of damages, under any circumstances, to Angelina, there is here neither possibility to be considered or rules of art to be observed. When the able seaman and his captain change places on the admirable argument that they had been previously changed at nurse, we accept the reasoning with delight: and demand nothing but a little variation from the favourite pose of judge and general, which, by repetition, become monotonous, to content us. This is fully secured in the Japanese Lord High Executioner of Mr Grossmith, in which there is no perceptible echo of his former impersonations, and in all the de-
