One of the failures of modern life that has worried the Vagabond more than the business depression or the post war madness is the decline, yes and the downright fall, of the theatre. Time was when the old fellow could slump down in his seat and enjoy the full richness of Booth's baritone or the exquisite pathos of Mrs. Fiske's Becky Sharp. But now he is subjected to the baser aspects of free love or human propagation whenever he so much as steps into a theatre.

Long years ago in London he saw Pinafore with Gilbert in the lead while Sullivan waved an imperious baton over the harrassed base drummer. When Gilbert sang "The Captain of the Pinafore" old men wept, gay youth cheered, and sad matrons forget how poorly the dinner had gone off. If debutantes had existed at that time they would have been heard to utter that highest praise of "Gosh that's swell" as Gilbert juggled the last high note. And once after too much port and Iolanthe the Vagabond went down Pieadilly with a poppy and a lily. Yea, verily, there were giants upon the earth in the old days. And that is why the Vagabond is wont to assume a certain cynicism towards the modern productions, and to mumble under his breath, "It's clever, but is it art?"

Every now and again the old fellow is able to spend an evening which opens rifts of memory in the dusky reaches of the past. Tonight is one of those rare occasions. Though Pieadilly has changed and the poppies and lilies have faded, Gilbert and Sullivan remain. Tonight at 8.30 he will go to Paine Hall to hear the modern Damon and Pythias talked and sung about. It won't be the same, nay it can't be the same. There is no royal box, no short one between acts, but the substance is there, and Spinoza built a whole philosophy on the theory of substance.