["More than one actor-manager during the past few months has been searching round frantically in his efforts to find a new play." _The Times_.] Oh, have you marked upon the breeze The wail of hunger which occurs When starved theatrical lessees Commune with hollow managers? "Where is Dramatic Art?" they say; "Can no one, _no one_, write a play?" I cannot think why this should be, This bitter plaint of sudden dearth; To write a play would seem to me Almost the easiest thing on earth. Sometimes I feel that even I Could do it if I chose to try. What! can this Art be in its grave Whose form was lately so rotund, Whose strength was as a bull's and gave No sign of being moribund? I'm sure my facts are right, or how Do you account for _Chu Chin Chow_? As for the gods, their judgment shows No loss of _flair_ for grace or wit; We see the comic's ruby nose Reduce to pulp the nightly pit, Whose patrons, sound in head and heart, Still love the loftiest type of Art. Nor should the playwright fail for lack Of matter, if with curious eyes He follows in our Pressmen's track, Who find the source of their supplies In Life, that ever-flowing font, And "give the public what they want." If authors, moving with the times, Would only feed us, like the Press, On squalid "mysteries," ugly crimes, Scandals and all that carrion mess, I see no solid reason why Dramatic Art should ever die. O. S. * * * * * =UNAUTHENTIC IMPRESSIONS.= II.--MR. WINSTON CHURCHILL. If it be urged that a few trifling inaccuracies have crept into the sketch which is here given of a great statesman's personality I can only say, "_Humanum est errare_," and "_Homo sum: humani nihil alienum a me puto_." These two Latin sentences, I find, invariably soothe all angry passions; you have only to try their effect the next time you stamp on the foot of a stout man when alighting from an Underground train. Of all the present-day politicians, and indeed there are not a few, upon whose mantelpieces the bust of NAPOLEON BONAPARTE is displayed, Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL is probably the most assiduous worshipper at the great Corsican's shrine. How often has he not entered his sanctum at the War Office, peering forward with that purposeful dominating look on his face, and discovered a few specks of dust upon his favourite effigy. With a quick characteristic motion of the thumb resembling a stab he rings the bell. A flunkey instantly appears. "Bust that dust," says the WAR MINISTER. And then, correcting himself instantly, with a genial smile, "I should say, Dust that bust."