e chief of the wardrobe is far more
exalted and better beloved than a mere Premier or Secretary of State. The
Count is planning an intrigue, the agents of which are to be _Henrico_, a
Court page, and _Felicia_, a court milliner. Not being able to make much
of the page, he turns over a new leaf, and addresses himself to the
dress-maker; so, after a few preliminary hems, he draws out the thread of
his purpose to her, and cuts out an excellent pattern for her guidance,
which if she implicitly follow will assuredly make her a Maid of Honour.

A comedy without mystery is Punch without a joke; Yates without a speech
to the audience on a first night; or Bartley's pathos without a
pocket-handkerchief. The Court page soon opens the book of _imbroglio_. He
is made a Captain of the Queen's Guard by some unknown hand; he has always
been protected by the same unseen benefactor, who, as if to guard him from
every ill that flesh is heir to, showers on him his or her favours upon
condition that he never marries! "Happy man," exclaims the Count. "Not at
all," answers the other, "I am in love with _Felicia_!" Nobody is
surprised at this, for it is a rule amongst dramatists never to forbid the
banns until the banned, poor devil, is on the steps of the altar.
_Henrico_, now a Captain, goes off to flesh his sword; meets with an
insult, and by the greatest good luck kills his antagonist in the
precincts of the palace; so that if he be not hanged for murder, his
fortune is made. The victim is the Count's cousin, to whom he is next of
kin. "Good Heavens!" ejaculates _Ollivarez_, "You have made yourself a
criminal, and me--a Duke! Horrible!"

By the way, this same _Henrico_, as performed by that excellent swimmer
(in the water-piece), Mr. Spencer Forde, forms a very entertaining
character. His imperturbable calmness while uttering the heart-stirring
words, assigned by the author to his own description of the late
affair-of-honourable assassination, was highly edifying to the philosophic
mind. The pleasing and amiable tones in which he stated how irretrievably
he was ruined, the dulcet sweetness of the farewell to his heart's adored,
the mathematical exactitude of his position while embracing her, the cool
deliberation which marked his exit--offered a picture of calm stoicism
just on the point of tumbling over the precipice of destruction not to be
equalled--not, at least, since those halcyon dramatic days when
Osbaldiston leased Covent Garden,