Look, too, at the influence exercised by the wine on the British drama, or rather on what to-day passes as such. Plagioso the playwright freely opens a bottle of Champagne with the object of stimulating the wit of his friend and collaborateur in the task of adapting Messrs. Meilhac & Halévy's latest production to the London stage. Adverse critics, moreover, are said to be mollified by the subjugating influence of the wine; while authors, enraged at the way in which their pieces have been 'cut,' are similarly soothed; squabbles too between rival _artistes_ as to parts and lengths are satisfactorily arranged in the managerial sanctum over a bottle of fiz. Does Lord Nortiboy wish to smooth over a tiff with the tow-haired young lady who is making ducks and drakes of his money at the Gynarchic Theatre, and whose partiality for sparkling wine is notorious, a dinner at Richmond and floods of 'Cham' for herself and friends is the plan that naturally suggests itself. Should the enterprising lessees of the Chansonnette Theatre determine to celebrate the thousand and first night of the run of _Their Girls_, a Champagne supper is recognised as the fit and proper method of doing so. Supper is the favourite meal of the profession, and Champagne is of course the best of all wine to take at that repast. On the stage itself it has often proved of very serious service. Robust tragedians and prima donnas in good training may indulge in stout, as more 'mellering to the organ;' but by the judicious administration of Champagne many a nervous _débutant_ has been encouraged to conquer 'stage fright' and to face the footlights, many a jaded _tragédienne_ enabled to rally her fainting energies in the last act, and to carry her audience with her in a final outburst of pathos or passion. Statesmen no longer prime themselves with Port before strolling down to the House, till they get into the condition of the two members, one of whom averred that he could not see any Speaker in the chair, whilst the other gravely accounted for the phenomenon of this disappearance by asserting that, for his part, he saw a couple. Perhaps it is to be regretted that the records of the 'tea-room' do not vouch for a larger consumption of Champagne, as then perhaps the reporters overnight and their readers the nest morning might escape the wearisome reiteration of purposeless recrimination and threadbare platitudes. Such should certainly be the case, since the power of the wine as an incentive to brisk and sparkling conversation has been universally acknowledged in social life. [Illustration: 'Now, George, my boy, there's a glass of Champagne for you. Don't get such stuff at school, eh?' 'H'm! Awfully sweet. Very good sort for ladies. But I've arrived at a time of life when I confess I like my wine dry.' (From a drawing by John Leech in 'Punch.')]