United States. Mr. Frank Worthing (nice seasidey name on a hot night in town) a gentlemanly-villainous Proteus, and Mr. John Craig an equally gentlemanly-virtuous Valentine. So "Gents both" are disposed of. Mr. James Lewis, as Launce, playing "the lead" to his dog, put into the part new humour in place of the old which has evaporated by fluxion of time. Launce's sly dog, very original; part considerably curtailed.

I see that a descendant of Tyrone Power appears as "Mine Host." I did not gather from his costume that he was "a host in himself," but thought he was a Venetian Judge or retired Doge; the latter surmise receiving some confirmation from the fact that, while the singing was going on, he, being somnolent, "doge'd" (as Mrs. Gamp would say) in his chair. Sleeping or waking his was a dignified performance. Miss Elliot a graceful Sylvia, who, as a Milanese brunette, is artistically contrasted with Miss Ada Rehan, of Florentine fairness, as Julia. All that is wanting to this sketchy character Miss Rehan fills in, and makes the design a finished picture. Improbable that Proteus should never recognize Julia when disguised as a boy until she herself reveals her identity. However, it was a very early work of William's: mere child's play.

*    *    *    *    *

The most Clement of critics, our learned and ever amiable Scotus of the Daily Telegraph, speaking with authority from his column last Saturday, recalls to us how many English actors and actresses have successfully played in French on the Parisian stage, and adds to the list the name of Marie Halton, who, excellent both in singing and acting as La Cigale at the Lyric, will soon appear at a new theatre in Paris, where she is to "create" French rôles—which, Mlle. Marie, is a very pleasant way of making your bread. But if we have in this actress an English Chaumont, why does not some such astute manager as Mr. Edwardes, the Universal Theatre Provider, induce Halton to Stay on—here, not only for her own "benefit," but for that of the Light Opera-loving public.

TRUE HYPERBOLE.

He. "What a lovely Frock!... Worth, I suppose?" She. "Monsieur Worth is dead."

He. "Ah! it looks as if it came from Heaven!"

THE OLD CHIEFTAIN'S FAREWELL.

["The impending Dissolution brings into its practical and final form the prospective farewell which I addressed last year to the constituency of Midlothian."—Mr. Gladstone's Farewell Letter to the Electors of Midlothian.]

Air—Burns's "The Farewell."

It was a' for our Glorious Cause
I sought fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for fair, rightfu' laws
To bless the Irish land,
My dear;
To bless the Irish land.

Now a' is done that man could do,
And a' seems done in vain,
My loved Midlothian, farewell,
I mauna stand again,
My dear;
I canna stand again.

For fifteen lang an' happy years,
That ne'er may be forgot,
We have foregathered, loved, and fought.
Fare farther I may not,
My dear;
Fare farther may I not.

Yet say not that our love has failed,
Or that our battle's lost;
Were I yet young I'd fight again,
And never count the cost,
My dear;
And never count the cost.

Tegither we've won mony a fight,
You following where I led;
But now late Winter's chilling snows
Are gatherin' round my head,
My dear;
Are gatherin' round my head.

And times will change, and Chieftains pass.
Lang time I've borne the brunt
Of war; and now I'm glad to see
Carmichael to the front,
My dear;
Sir Tammy to the front.

A champion stout, I mak nae doubt,
He'll carry on my task.
To see ye braw and doing weel,
Henceforth is a' I ask.
My dear;
Henceforth is a' I ask.

True Scot am I—Midlothian's heart
I won. Now I fare far,
And leave a younger chieftain, Tam,
To lead the Lowland war,
My dear;
To lead the Lowland war!

He turned him right and round about
Upon the Scottish shore.
He gae his bonnet plume a shake,
With "Adieu for evermore,
My dear;
Adieu for evermore!

"Rosebery will from fight return,
Wi' loss or else wi' gain;
But I am parted from my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear;
Never to meet again.

"When day is gone, and night is come,
A' folk are fain to rest;
I'll think on thee, though far awa',
While pulse throbs in this breast,
My dear;
While pulse throbs in my breast!"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Smith, Elder & Co. are carrying out a happy thought in projecting what they call the Novel Series, a title which is the least felicitous part of the business. It is designed to meet the views of those who desire to possess, not to borrow (or indeed to steal) good books. The volumes will not be too large to be carried in the pocket, nor too small to lie on the shelf. Neatly bound, admirably printed, they are to cost from two shillings up to four shillings, presumably according to length and the inclusion of illustrations. The series leads off with