I confess, to my shame, that when an actor with whose gifts I am unfamiliar is received on his entrance with a storm of applause, I am not prejudiced, as I ought to be, in his favour.  On the contrary I follow his performance the more judicially, and if I cannot find that it corresponds to his apparent reputation I am apt (wrongly again) to conclude that the fault lies with him and not with myself.

[Illustration:  THE OLD GAIETY IN A NEW HOME.

MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH AND MR. LESLIE HENSON AT THE WINTER GARDEN
THEATRE.]

But in the case of Kissing Time, after a rather dull First Act, during which I kept telling myself that I was not suffering from senile decay, I had to admit that the gods were in a great measure justified of their elect.  For one thing the authors, taking a bold and original line (from the French), had produced a coherent plot; and both dialogue and lyrics were above what I understand to be the average in this kind.  One expects, of course, a little Cockney licence—­“pyjamas” rhymed with “Palmer’s,” and so on—­and a certain amount of popular banality, as in the song, “Some Day” (rapturously approved); but there were excellent verses on the text, “A woman has no mercy on a man,” and, I doubt not, much other good stuff which I missed because Mr. IVAN CARYLL, who conducted (and was probably thinking more of his own pleasant music than somebody else’s words), did not make enough allowance for my slowness in the up-take of patter.

Mr. LESLIE HENSON was funny, and should be funnier still when the book has been cut down by about an hour and space allowed him for private developments.  Miss PHYLLIS DARE was graceful and confident.  One easily understood her popularity; but Miss YVONNE ARNAUD, who was a little slow for the general pace, must, I think, be more of an acquired taste.

Mr. TOM WALLS (very svelte in his French uniform) did sound work, and so did Mr. GEORGE BARRETT, a humourist by gift of nature.  Mr. GEORGE GROSSMITH, who with Mr. LAURILLARD has made out of the old Middlesex a most attractive and spacious “Winter Garden,” brought with him the traditions of the Gaiety, and had a warm personal welcome.  I could bear him to be funnier than he was; but as I’m sure that he’s clever enough to be anything he likes I can only assume that he wasn’t really trying.

I join everybody in wishing him good cheer in this “garden” of his, where, if the auguries fulfil themselves, he is not likely, even in the dog-days, to have to endure “the winter of our discontent.”

O. S.

* * * * *

THE LAND OF MY DREAMS

  I know a spot where balmy air and still
    Enfolds the placid dweller hour by hour
    As, all unhampered in his tranquil bower,
  He stretches idle limbs at ease until
  The blessed peace about him calms his will
    And hidden thoughts, expanding