Much as I admire Kean, I always prefer the acting of Wallack; there is more variety in the tones of his voice, for Kean tunes his pipes exactly as my long-drummer sets his drum;—­to one pitch:  but as to action, Wallack—­more like my drummer—­beats him hollow; he points his toes, stands a-kimbo, takes off his hat, and puts it on again, quite as naturally as if he belonged to the really legitimate drama, and was worked by strings cleverly pulled to suit the action to every word.  Wallack is an honest performer; he don’t impose upon you, like Webster, for instance, who as the Apothecary, speaks with a hungry voice, walks with a tottering step, moves with a helpless gait, which plainly shows that he never studied the part—­he must have starved for it.  Where will this confounded naturalness end?

The play is “got up,” as we managers call it, capitally.  The dresses are superb, and so are the properties.  The scenery exhibited views of different parts of the city, and was, so far as I am a judge, well painted.  I have only one objection to the balcony scene.  Plagiarism is mean and contemptible—­I despise it.  I will not apply to the Vice-Chancellor for an injunction, because the imitation is so vilely caricatured; but the balcony itself is the very counterpart of PUNCH’S theatre!—­PUNCH.

* * * * *

MY FRIEND THE CAPTAIN.

When a new farce begins with duck and green peas, it promises well; the sympathies of the audience are secured, especially as the curtain rises but a short time before every sober play-goer is ready for his supper.  Mr. Gabriel Snoxall is seated before the comsstibles above mentioned—­he is just established in a new lodging.  It is snug—­the furniture is neat—­being his own property, for he is an unfurnished lodger.  A bachelor so situated must be a happy fellow.  Mr. Snoxall is happy—­a smile radiates his face—­he takes wine with himself; but has scarcely tapped the decanter for his first glass, before he hears a tap at his door.  The hospitable “Come in!” is answered by the appearance of Mr. Dunne Brown, a captain by courtesy, and Snoxall’s neighbour by misfortune.  Here business begins.

The ancient natural historian has divided the genus homo into the two grand divisions of victimiser and victim.  Behold one of each class before you—­the yeast and sweat-wort, as it were, which brew the plot!  Brown invites himself to dinner, and does the invitation ample justice; for he finds the peas as green as the host; who he determines shall be done no less brown than the duck.  He possesses two valuable qualifications in a diner-out—­an excellent appetite, and a habit of eating fast, consequently the meal is soon over.  Mr. Brown’s own tiger clears away, by the ingenious method of eating up what is left.  Mr. Snoxall is angry, for he is hungry; but, good easy man, allows himself to be mollified to a degree of softness that allows Mr. Brown to borrow, not only his tables and chairs, but his coat, hat, and watch; just, too, in the very nick of time, for the bailiffs are announced.  What is the hunted creditor to do?  Exit by the window to be sure.