Returning to what I venture to imagine must be “new matter” not in the Herman-plus-Jonesian version, I consider the scene in which Nora chaffs Dr. Rank about his illness absolutely nauseous, and the drink-inspired admiration of husband for wife in the concluding Act repulsive to the last degree.  On Tuesday the spectators received the piece with patient apathy; and, this being the case, I could not help feeling that anyone who could single out such a play as suitable for performance before an English audience, could scarcely possess the acumen generally considered a necessary adjunct to the qualifications of an efficient Dramatic Critic.  The hero, the heroine, the doctor, as prigs, could only appeal to prigs, and thank goodness the average London theatre-goer is the reverse of a prig.  There was but one redeeming point in the play—­its conclusion.  It ends happily in Nora, forger, liar, and—­hem—­wedded flirt, being separated from her innocent children.

For the rest, the piece was fairly well acted.  But when the Curtain had fallen for the last time, and the audience were departing more in sadness than in anger, I could not help asking myself the question, Had the advantages obtained in witnessing the performance balanced the expense incurred in securing a seat?  I am forced to reply in the negative, as I sign myself regretfully,

ONE WHO PAID FOR A PLACE IN THE PIT.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I see three ladies in a drawing-room, each with a green volume.  “What is it?” No, they won’t hear.  Each one is intent on her volume, and an irritable answer, in a don’t bother kind of manner, is all that I can obtain.  The novel is Miss BRADDON’s latest, One Life, One Love (but three volumes, for all that), in which they are absorbed.  Later on, at intervals, I get the volumes, and, raven-like, secrete them.  I can quite understand the absorption of my young friends.  Marvellous, Miss BRADDON!  Very few have approached you in sensation-writing, and none in keeping up sensationalism as fresh as ever it was when first I sat up at night nervously to read Aurora Floyd, and Lady Audley’s Secret.  In this bad time of year (I am writing when the snow is without, and the North-East wind is engaged in cutting leaves), the Baron recommends remaining indoors with this Three-volume Novel as a between lunch and dinner companion, only don’t take it up to your bed-room, and sit over the fire with it, or—­but there, I won’t mention the consequences.  Keep it till daylight doth appear.  The Baron being a busy man—­no, Sir, not a busy-body,—­is grateful to the authors of good short stories in Magazines.  Many others agree with the Baron, who wishes to recommend “Saint or Satan” in The Argosy; The story of an “Old Beau,” which might have been advantageously abbreviated in Scribner; an odd tale entitled, “The Phantom Portrait,”