Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/452

The story of Cinderella being the best story in the world, and each new Cinderella giving it freshness, any play based upon it is fairly certain of success. So Betty, by Miss Gladys Unger, and Mr. Frederick Lonsdale, should be in for a long run at Daly's, for not only is the Cinderella theme deftly handled, but in Miss Winifred Barnes a very sympathetic actress has been found for what is probably the most sympathetic part that the wit of storyteller or dramatist will ever devise.

Two surprises are in store for the habitué of this comfortable theatre: one agreeable and the other disappointing. The agreeable surprise is that for the first time a musical comedy has some real acting in it, as distinguished from the facile singing and dancing and talking of the pleasant ladies and gentlemen upon whose shoulders the slender burden of dramatic verisimilitude in such pieces usually rests; and the other surprise is that, for once, Daly's has little but thin and very ordinary music. The acting is contributed principally by Mr. Donald Calthrop and Mr. C. M. Lowne, both new-comers to musical comedy. Their gifts are welcome because the Audience has to be persuaded of the reality of the young scapegrace peer and his father the duke's indignant aristocratic tyranny. Without this reality we should not be sufficiently touched by the position of Betty, the kitchen-maid so capriciously selected by the young lord as his wife; and to be touched by her is of the essence of the play. Miss Winifred Barnes herself sees to that too, although it is Mr. Calthrop on whom the chief responsibility lies, and he succeeds admirably; but Miss Barnes is charming in her simple sincerity, and her singing completes her conquest.

The humorous honours go to Mr. G. P. Huntley, who has never been funnier or kindlier. Nor has he ever been more idiosyncratic. I came away with the feeling that he ought permanently to adopt this role of the short-sighted, warm-hearted, affable, idiotic yet fitfully shrewd Lord Playne; that some arrangement should be come to by which in this character he should be made free of the stage of all other theatres, to wander irresponsibly through whatever other plays most needed him. I would not even confine him to one theatre; he should do two or even three houses a night, if necessary. Every play thus adorned, I care not by whom written, would be the better for it. And yet, in Betty, Lord Playne has a real place; he is important if not necessary to the story, whereas poor Mr. W. H. Berry, who has so often destroyed my gravity at this house, is not. The trouble about Mr. Berry's part is that it is obviously an afterthought, added as an embarrassment of riches. Neither he nor his sprightly feminine foil, Miss Beatrice Sealby, is in the picture, nor has Mr. Berry, who is one of the best of our comedians, anything yet to do that is worthy of his gifts. Time, however, is always on the side of such performers; more jokes will be dropped in and funnier songs substituted. I feel perfectly confident that in a month's time Mr. Berry's part will be adequate once more.

The last scene, of which (no doubt to the intense astonishment of the audience) a staircase is a prominent feature, is gay and distinguished beyond anything now on the stage; and I congratulate Mr. Royce on his triumph. But I retain as the most charming pictorial moment of the evening Betty's appearance in her going-away dress in Act II. That dress is the prettiest thing in London. V.

At the Palace Theatre, on Tuesday next, May 11th, at 2.30, Messrs. Vedrenne and Eadie are to give a matinée of the popular play, The Man who stayed at Home. The performance is in aid of The Officers' Family Fund, of which the Queen is Patroness and Lady Lansdowne President. The King and Queen have graciously promised to attend.

"Kearney—April 24, 1915, at 8 Grantham Street and 59 Upper Stephen Street, Dublin, the wife of J. C. Kearney, of a daughter (both doing well)."—Dublin Evening Mail.

Miss Kearney appears to have solved the problem which puzzled her fellow-countryman, Sir Boyle Roche.

"Mr. Fred T. Jane's lecture in the Free Trade Hall last night was in reality a discursive but very interesting talk about the navy lasting for two hours.—Manchester Guardian.

From a perusal of Mr. Jane's remarks we are relieved to learn that in his opinion the Navy will last considerably longer than this.

"Theft of Cash and Bank Notes
Liability to Third Parties
Damage to contents by Bursting of Pipes is surely worth having when obtainable
at ABOUT THE USUAL COST.

May wo arrange one for you?"

Advt. in "The Friend."

There may be a demand for these misfortunes, but personally we have no use For them.

"It's my belief you don't know nothing about anything," declared the public-house orator, exasperated to an unusual degree by the continued silence of the big, stolid-looking man sitting opposite him.

The silent man raised his eyebrows and waved his pipe in the air, to intimate that he took no interest whatever in the orator's beliefs or disbeliefs.

"Garn, you don't know there's a War on," said the argumentative one, tauntingly. "Leastways, you don't know which side the Rooshians is on." This thrust also failing in its purpose, the speaker was emboldened to proceed.

"It's my belief you don't care who wins the War, so long as you ain't hurt." The man remained unmoved.

"You're a pro-German, that's what you are, and I always had my suspicions."

The silent man stared up at the ceiling and slowly put his hands in his pockets.

"You agree with them blokes what says we ought not to hurt Germany more than we can help."

The listener beat a tattoo on the floor with his heels and thrust his hands yet deeper into his pockets.

The argumentative man was nearly at the end of his tether. "Nothing can't move you," he said angrily.

"You can't," declared the other without removing his pipe from his mouth. "It ain't worth my while to argufy with you. Waste o' breath."

"Oh, waste of breath, is it? You're a Hun, that's what you are, and your missus is a Frow, and your kids is little Willies."

The silent man appeared to be faintly amused. "Go on, Roosyvelt," he said.

"I've finished," answered the orator, rising to go. "It ain't no use talking to an Independent Labourer."

"A what?" said the big man, uncrossing his legs and taking his hands out of his pockets.

"An Independent Labourer," was the triumphant answer. "That's what you are. One of Keir ..." The sentence remained unfinished. The silent man's fist shot out, and the orator found himself on the floor staring at an angry face bending over him.

"Say that again," challenged the big man.

"No," replied the fallen hero. "I'll shake hands instead." He rose cautiously, rubbing his head. Then smiled ruefully and said, "Anyway, I did wake you up in the end."