The author is at his best in his curt, cynical sentences. Epigrams are few and far between in the play, but what there are go to the devil, that is, are given to the "Old Gentleman," with the best possible result. ENRY HAUTHOR is at his worst in the long speeches, not one of which, no matter to whom it may fall, but would be the better for cutting. Of course, suggestions for abbreviating the _Tempter_'s part would not be favourably entertained by the principal actor, as, naturally enough, any Tree objects to being cut down: and as his personal success is too decided for him to be "cut up," the Tree will have to remain, though lopping and pruning would be advantageous to the growth and strength of this Tree now that it has assumed these proportions. And the moral? Well, GOETHE, I think, in the poem was a trifle hazy about the ultimate fate of his lovers; but in the opera there is no doubt about it. With _Marguerite_ it was "Here we go up, up, up," and with _Faust_ it was just the reverse: but the operatic _Faust_ will always "go down" when sung and played as it was this season at Covent Garden. I forget what BOÎTO does with his erring couple, but where Mr. JONES'S demon resembles BOÎTO'S, and also BYRON'S, Satan, is in his monologues addressed directly to the Supreme Being. But those Satans were Fallen Archangels of Heaven; this of 'ENRY HAUTHOR'S is a Fallen Angel of Islington. This illogical demon sneers at one of the characters for not using language sufficiently strong to express his feelings; yet when his own turn comes his blasphemy is vulgar, and so mild that not the sternest magistrate would like to fine him for it. And strange to say, in one passage (which most persons would have deemed objectionable, did it not come to them on the authority of the Lord Chamberlain's Theatrical Licensing office), the Prince of Darkness shows himself a gentleman curiously ignorant of such elementary Christian theology as he could have picked up from a penny catechism. How Mr. TREE was ever in-deuced to attempt the _Tempter_ by ENRY HAUTHOR, will remain a mystery to the end of the run, and if that should be in the far distant future, the mystery will be Tree-mendous, and absolutely impenetrable. The costumes are artistic and superb, the scenery effective, though the majestic proportions of Canterbury Cathedral are rather dwarfed by the imposing figure of the Very Deuce, who is "all over the place." * * * * * Morning Thought. (_By a chilly Autumn Guest at a Country House._) _GR-R-R-R!_ No fire in the grate--for our hostess is thrifty-- Although the thermometer stands below fifty! Well, I wish to be courteous and sober; But the _biggest_ of pests is that pig of a host-- In a climate like ours, too!--who makes it his boast That "he _never_ starts fires till October!" * * * * *