First a quite charming and, what is not so usual, a quite intelligible fantasy in mime--_The Magic Pipe_: Pierrot, faithless mistress, despair, sympathetic friend, adoring midinette, and so on. But Mr. JULES DELACRE, who played his own part, _Pierrot_, with a fine sincerity and a sense of the great tradition in this _genre_, got his effect across to us with an admirable directness. Miss PHYLLIS PINSON looking charming in a mid-Victorian Latin-Quarterly sort of way (which is a very nice way), danced seriously, fantastically, delightfully, and with quite astonishing command of her technique--the sort of thing that nine infallible managers out of ten who know what the public wants would condemn out of hand as impossible. The intelligent tenth must have been consoled by the enthusiastic applause which greeted the little piece. I have a fancy that mime would go far to restore sanity and tradition to the English stage, and every creditable essay in a delightful art deserves the fullest support. It is amusing to see our solemn Mr. JOHN GALSWORTHY in labour for three Acts over a rude joke. I frankly confess I enjoyed the joke. Cisterns (its theme) have no terrors for me even in mixed company. But the joke was not the really serious thing about _The Foundations_, a play that starts (some years hence) with a mob of starving people yelling outside the house--dear, stupid, kindly _Lord William Dromondy's_ house. _Lord William_ was a god of an infantry captain in the great War, and his four footmen--particularly _James_, the first of them--though revolutionaries at heart, are ready to stand between their master and any other revolutionaries in London town. Well, a bomb is found in the foundations of _Lord William's_ Park Lane palace, and explodes to embarrassed laughter of shocked stall-holders in the Third Act. The plot's nothing, and the main joke, as I say, nothing to get excited over. But the whole effect of the tremendous trifle, admirably cast as it was, was diverting in the extreme. Of course it is like our Mr. GALSWORTHY to assume that things will be as black as ever a few years hence. 'Tis, no doubt, what encourages us to keep our end up in the great War. But we know the customs of leopards, and can forgive our pessimist for his creations (for all the world as if he were a milliner) of _Poulder, Lord William's_ butler, rounded pillar of the eternal old order of things; of _James_, revolutionary but faithful (of course _James_ never would in fact have kept this absurd job); of a light yellow pressman; of a feckless, torrentially eloquent plumber, whose solution of the class war was loving-kindness and the letting of the blood of all who were not kind.