professor was, in the fullest sense of the word, a philosopher. He neither tore nor burnt the harmless caricature; but its margin, curiously ornamented with diagrams and calculations by his erudite hand, is, I be lieve, still preserved among the academic rarities of Heidelberg.

Dr Müllner, incapacitated, at length,

by age and infirmity, from prosecuting his studies, retired to Frankfort, where Rose read the Gazette to him, with an alacrity and good will which made her wonder she should ever have thought it tiresome. But then Conrad was frequently also a listener, and she could rock the cradle perfectly all the time!

ACTED CHARADES.

[It may perhaps be necessary to premise for the benefit of the country gentlemen, that this fashionable amusement is a little drama of the nature of a French proverb, and that the first of the Charade is to be collected from one scene, the second from another, and the whole from the third. Having explained thus far, we leave the solution to the ingenuity of our readers.]

No. I.

SCENE THE FIRST. BEAUCHAMP'S House.

BEAUCHAMP at the Easel. Enter TALBOT.

Talbot. What! Beauchamp at the easel this morning? This is a fresh accès. I thought you had forsworn painting ever since we saw the masterpieces of art at Florence and the Vatican.

Beauchamp. Ha, Talbot! Pray, take a chair. Forsworn Art? Yes, as a pursuit, as an object of ambition and vanity, certainly yes. But as a record of sentiment, as certainly no. It is one thing to compete with the Titians and Rafaels in Venuses and Madonnas, and another to endeavour to transfer to canvass, however faintly, the real charms of a living beauty.

Tal." An affair of sentiment!" Ho! ho! "A living beauty!" There is a lady in the case, then. Well! every man to his taste. I had rather follow the hounds on my good steed Bayard, over the Leicestershire country, and break my neck, if so it chance, in a fox-chase, than break my heart by pursuing the fairest nymph that ever wore petticoats. But every man to his taste. Do I know the lady?

Beau. I think not.

Tal. And may one inquire her name?

Beau. It is a name that suits her well; the sweetest name ever breathed by poet or lover-Julia.

Tal. Julia! Pooh! Her family name?

Beau. Vernon; Miss Julia Vernon.

Tal. Vernon. Oh! A daughter of the General's. One of the four Miss Vernons whom one hears of everywhere with their tall mamma?

Beau. The loveliest of that lovely family. Ch, my dear Talbot! neither painting nor poetry can give the faintest image of her charms-" So soft, so sweet, so delicate she came, youth's opening rose

Tal. Spare me the poetry, I beseech you. I shall see the Goddess herself to-night at her aunt Lady Dashleigh's, and then you may introduce me.

Beau. I shan't be able to go to Lady Dashleigh's-An odious man-dinner at the Clarendon; and then the House-There'll be no escaping before the division. But I'll get Harry Lescombe to introduce you; and you must come tomorrow morning and tell me what you think of her. Take care of your heart. Tal. Yes, I'll come. I'll be sure to come. I am sorry for this love affair, very sorry; for I thought we should have got you down amongst us at Melton Mowbray next season. You were talking of forming a stud; and there are But when once a man sets his some capital hunters on sale at Tattersall's. heart on marrying-Let us look at her portrait, however-I take for granted that it is her portrait.

Beau. A faint copy of the charms of the original.

There!
[Displaying the picture.

Tal. Really I did not think you had been so good an artist. A very pretty bit of colour indeed; very delicately hit off. Rather too much of the lily, though, to suit my taste. Is Miss Julia really so pale?

Beau. She has just as much colour as any woman ought to have-the maidenrose tint. This cheek would bear a thought more-I can add it in a moment. Talb. Yes; we all know that a little rouge is easily put on a lady's face. Beau. (seating himself at the easel.) Hold thy irreverent tongue, and reach me yonder brush-not that-the farther one. Thank you. Now, you shall see in a moment-(Painting.) Heavens! What have I done! The whole picture is ruin'd-spoilt for ever! This is the brush with which I was adding the deepest shades to her lovely dark hair-only see-ruined for ever! Don't say a word, my dear fellow. It's entirely my fault! Irredeemably spoilt—A week's work-such a likeness-and ruined for ever! [Exeunt.

SCENE the SECOND.-The same Apartment.

Enter TALBOT to BEAUCHAMP.

Beau. How late you are! I was on the point of calling to see what detained you.

Talb. A thousand pardons! I was kept at home by the sudden lameness of Bayard-you know Bayard-finest hunter in England-cost me a cool three hundred last season-can't put his off fore-foot to the ground.

Beau. Very sorry. Were you at Lady Dashleigh's last night?

Talb. Yes. Sent for Colman. Colman thinks it's only a prick-touched in the shoeing-and advises one of his bar shoes; but my groom

Beau. Did you see Julia?

Talb. Yes. My groom says

Beau. Were you introduced to her?

Tulb. Yes. My groom thinks, and he knows more of Bayard's action than Colman

Beau. Hang Colman! Did you dance with Julia?

Talb. No. My groom says that Bayard―

Beau. Hang Bayard!

Talb. Hang Bayard! Really, Mr Beauchamp

Beau. My dear friend, I do not mean the slightest offence to your horsefinest animal in England! But do talk to me of Julia! Did you converse with her? Did you see her dance? Did you hear her sing?

Talb. Ye-es.

Beau. Well! And were you not charmed, enchanted?

Do you not think

her exquisitely beautiful? Her figure so light and graceful? Her countenance

so full of sensibility and sweetness? Is not she an angel?

Talb. A fineish girl.

Beau. And then, her singing, her dancing, her conversation!

Talb. Pretty fair.

Beau. Talbot, do you know of whom you are speaking? Pretty fair! Talb. Why, to confess the truth, my dear Beauchamp, this Julia of yours is not altogether one of my beauties. She is too pale, too tall, too thin, too lanky, shows too much bone. I like a little flesh and blood.

Beau. Gracious heaven, what coarseness of idea!

Talb. And, moreover, I don't like the breed. I have a regard for you, Beauchamp; and I can't help giving you warning, that Mrs Vernon is the most determined husband-hunting mamma in London; we all know that the General is as poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer; and I have it from the best authority, that Miss Julia herself is as arrant a flirt

Beau. Be silent, Mr Talbot; be silent, sir. It was but yesterday that you were the cause of my defacing an imperfect copy of her divine features. Today you would sully her spotless reputation. Go back to your groom and Bayard; they are your fit companions. Leave me, sir.

Talb. I take no notice of what you say, my good friend; because you are in a passion, and a lover has a madman's privilege: but I have an old regard for you, and I advise you not to be too hasty in your proceedings.

Beau. Out of my house, sir! Get out instantly.

VOL. XIX.

4 B

Tal. Take time to consider. Look before you leap.

Beau. Off with you, sir!-I have a good mind to kick him down stairs. In a passion, indeed! Impertinent puppy! I never was cooler in my life. I'll go to the General, and propose for her this moment!-Insufferable coxcomb! (Exit.

SCENE THE THIRD.-Regent Street.

BEAUCHAMP and TALBOT, meeting.

Beau. Ha! Talbot, my dear fellow! I am delighted to see you. I thought you had been hunting in Leicestershire.

Tal. Just ran up for a day or two, whilst the frost holds; and very lucky to meet with you, and wish you joy in person. You got my letter?

Beau. Yes. Have you had good runs this season?

Tal. Capital. I saw the happy event in the papers, and took my chance of writing to your house in town, to congratulate, and apologize, and so forth.

Beau. No need of apologies on your part, God knows! You are a good fellow, Talbot-a real friend. It is I that ought to apologize. Ah! if I had but taken your advice. But a man must follow his destiny.

Tal. I hope the fair lady is well?

Beau. We won't talk of her, Talbot. How is Bayard, that noble steed? Does he sustain his reputation?

Tal. I refused four hundred pounds for him last week. Where have you been since August? Did you go a tour?

Beau. Yes-To the Lakes.

Tal. A pleasant excursion?

Beau. All the pleasure of travelling, my dear friend, depends on one's company-I found it a confounded bore. By the way, I've a great mind to run down to Melton Mowbray with you for a week or two. Could you put me in the way of buying some good horses? I shall certainly take to fox-hunting again.

Tal. I shall be delighted, of course; but what will Mrs Beauchamp say? Beau. Say! What right has she to say anything? Don't talk of Mrs Beauchamp-there's a dear fellow. Do you think you can help me to the hunters?

Eh!

Tal. Why, I know that Dick Mathews had some to dispose of yesterday. I'll go and see about them.

Beau. I shall be eternally obliged to you. And hark ye, Talbot-dine with me at seven, and we'll settle about the jaunt into Leicestershire. I have some thoughts of taking a box there-a hunting box-just to run down to. Dine with me at seven.

Tal. In Harley Street?

Beau. Oh no, no! at the old place, the Clarendon-a bachelor's dinner at the Clarendon, my boy !—a snug bachelor's dinner!-Au revoir !`

No. II.

SCENE THE FIRST.-St James's Park-1667.

MR EVELYN and MR PEPYS meeting.

Mr Evelyn. My worthy Mr Pepys, how are you this morning?

Mr Pepys. The better, assuredly, for the honour of meeting my good Mr Evelyn. Will you take a turn in the walk? I am waiting the Duke's leisure, who is, as you perceive, engaged with the King and Sir John Minnes.

Mr Evel. Is there anything new in town? I am but just landed at Whitehall, having come by water from my retirement of Say Court, to dine at his new house with my Lord of Clarendon; and I address myself to Mr Pepys for news, as the most absolute courtier both in statecraft and poesy.

1826.

Acted Charades. No. 11.

561

Mr Pepys. Oh, my good sir!-For affairs of policy, I must refer you to my Lord of Clarendon. They are too weighty for so slight a person as myself, Mr Evelyn; but men may judge by straws which way the wind sets; and you may see my Lady Castlemaine yonder neglected and in the dumps.-That star is on the wane ;-but these matters are above my sphere. For the Muses, we had last night at the Duke's House a new play called the Tempest, one of Shakspeare's old drolleries revised and perfected by Dryden, wherein pretty Mrs Nelly did really excel herself. I know of nothing else new except a lampoon which the wits give to the Duke of Buckingham, and a new song by my Lord of Dorset. How goes on the New Society, Mr Evelyn? And, above all, your own great work on Forest-trees?

Mr Evel. Slowly, my good Mr Pepys-slowly. I shall be glad to show it to you some day at Say Court, together with some other small pieces, if you can partake of my poor dinner at the old-fashioned time of twelve at noon. I hate these new-fangled hours, Mr Pepys ;-these one o'clock dinners. Our fathers, my good sir, dined at eleven. But we are a degenerate race. These are signs of the times-awful signs!

Mr Pepys. They are so, indeed, Mr Evelyn. But, my good sir, I most respectfully take my leave. The Duke is beckoning to me. I wish you a good day.

Mr Evel. A good day to you, Mr Pepys! Remember that we shall expect you at Say Court with your first leisure, and not later than noon. A good day [Exeunt severally, bowing to you, sir!

SCENE THE SECOND.-Hyde Park-1826.

LORD JOHN LUTTRIDGE and MR ADEANE Meeting.

A Crowd on the Serpentine.

Lord John. Ah! my dear Adeane! How long from Vienna? Are you come to show off your Austrian Spread Eagles on the Serpentine?

Mr Adeane. Why, really, my dear lord, after the Danube, one can't think of figuring on these English puddles. Besides, the crowd! And I have left my Hamburgh skaits to follow with my trunks from Dover. Is there any news in this smoky, frosty, dirty London?

L. John. Why, not much, I believe." Bankruptcies in plenty-some talk of a general election, an early opera season, and a vast number of applications to subscribe to Almack's. But I am but just arrived myself-merely passing through from Holkham to Chatsworth.

Mr Ad. Town seems quite empty.

L. John. Why, so I hear. And yet there can hardly be less than a hundred thousand persons in the Park at this moment. Really that officer skaits well.

Mr Ad. But when one says town is empty, one means that there is nobody whom one knows-nobody fit to be known.

L. John. Now it seems to me that there are a great many people whom one should like to know-I have not seen so many pretty women together these dozen years.

Mr Ad. Does your Lordship think so?

L. John. Why, don't you?

Mr Ad. Really no. English noses get so red in a frost.

L. John. (Aside.) English noses! The Lord have mercy on these travelled gentlemen!

Mr Ad. And just look at that lubber. "

legs!"

English awkwardness on two left

L. John. Take care of your own legs, Adeane. You are getting on a slide. This place is as slippery as glass-Take care! He'll certainly tumble-there he goes.-(Mr Adeane falls; Lord John helps him up.)-I hope you are not seriously hurt. No bones broke. Can you walk?

Mr Ad. Yes, yes! This sort of accident could never have happened to me abroad; but the moment a man sets foot on this wretched island

L. John. Why, our English elements are no respecters of persons; that must be confessed.

Mr Ad. Does not your Lordship hear a cracking? We shall certainly be drowned.

L. John. There is not the slightest danger, except of your getting another tumble. That fall of yours has made you nervous. Keep hold of my arm, my good fellow, and I'll pilot you to Terra Firma; and then we'll go to Brookes's to while away two or three hours before dinner. The sun is but just set.-(Aside.) He'll certainly get another tumble this travelled gentleman, with his "English awkwardness on two left legs." Keep hold of me, Adeane, till we are clear of the Serpentine. Stick to me. I'll take care of you.-(Aside.) He'll never get off without another tumble. [Exeunt.

SCENE THE THIRD.-A Study.

Mr Frampton alone, reading a Newspaper.

Frampton (reading). "We are sorry to be compelled to state amongst the list of failures the firm of Fitzhugh, Dawson, and Co. The elegant taste and amiable qualities of the senior partner of this old-established house will render him an object of universal sympathy."-Sympathy! These newspaper writers are pretty fellows at a word! Sympathy forsooth, universal sympathy! And Fitzhugh a bankrupt! the handsome, the graceful, the witty Henry Fitzhugh, the life of every circle, the chosen of Agnes Merivale, a bankrupt! an object of universal sympathy! Go to, Mr Printer-I must feast my eyes once more on the paragraph. Ay, here he is too in the Gazette. There is no mistake in the business. Fitzhugh a bankrupt !

Enter Servant.

Did not I give orders not to be disturbed?

Ser. A gentleman, sir, requests a moment's audience.
Fram. I am engaged.

Ser. He desired me to give this card.

Fram. (after reading the card.) Show him up. [Exit Servant.] Fitzhugh himself! My old acquaintance Henry Fitzhugh-the bankrupt! the object, as the Morning Post assures us, of universal sympathy. It were sin and shame not to dispatch him quickly.

Now, sir!

Enter FITZHUGH.

Fitz. I have to apologize for an intrusion, which is, I fear, equally unwelcome and unexpected.

Fram. Waive apologies, sir; I hate them.

Fitz. So long a time has elapsed since we met, that my person is perhaps scarcely remembered by Mr Frampton.

Fram. If I had forgotten you, sir, this paper would have recalled you to my memory.

Fitz. The unfortunate speculations of my partner

Fram. You all, no doubt, can tell your own story. He perhaps might talk of his partner's supineness. But that can hardly be your business with

me.

Fitz. No, sir; I waited on you to request a favour, on which my welfare, and that of my wife and children, utterly depend.

Fram. And you speak of your wife to me! Do you happen to remember, sir, the transaction on which we last met, the transaction on which we parted?

Fitz. I trusted, Frampton, that you had forgotten it.

Fram. Forgotten! I loved Agnes Merivale; I told you of my love; I made you known to her; and you, my friend (for such you dared to call yourself), became my rival, my successful rival. Treachery such as that cannot be forgotten.

Fitz. At least, I trusted that an interval of ten years had swept from your mind all bitterness of recollection.

Fram. You thought me then a fool. Where is she now?
Fitz. In London.