have been a little wrong here, and your memory and reason are not of the clearest."

"Where does my grandsire dwell ?" asked Auriol.

"Why here, sir," replied the dwarf, "and for the matter of locality, the house is situated on the south end of London Bridge."

66

your

"On the bridge-did you say on the bridge, friend?" cried Auriol. Ay, on the bridge-where else should it be? You would not have grandsire live under the river ?" rejoined the dwarf. "Though for aught I know some of these vaults may go under it. They are damp enough. Auriol was lost in reflection, and did not observe a sign that passed between the dwarf and Rougemont.

"Will it disturb Doctor Lamb if his grandson goes up to him ?" said the latter, after a brief pause.

"My master does not like to be interrupted in his operations, as you know, sir," replied the dwarf, "and seldom suffers any one, except myself, to enter his laboratory; but I will make so bold as to introduce Master Auriol, if he desires it."

"You will confer the greatest favour on me by doing so," cried Auriol, rising.

"Sit down-sit down," said Rougemont, authoritatively. "You cannot go up till the doctor has been apprised. Remain here, while Flapdragon and I ascertain his wishes." So saying, he quitted the chamber by a further outlet with the dwarf.

During the short time that Auriol was left alone, he found it vain to attempt to settle his thoughts, or to convince himself that he was not labouring under some strange delusion.

He was aroused at length by the dwarf, who returned alone. “Your grandsire will see you," said the mannikin,

"One word before we go-" cried Auriol, seizing his arm. "Saints! how you frighten me!" exclaimed the dwarf.

keep composed, or I dare not take you to my master."

"You must

"Pardon me," replied Auriol; "I meant not to alarm you. Where

is the person who brought me hither ?"

"What, your keeper ?" said the dwarf. will come to you anon. Now follow me."

"Oh he is within call. He

And taking up the torch, he led the way out of the chamber. Mounting a spiral staircase, apparently within a turret, they came to a door, which being opened by Flapdragon, disclosed a scene that wellnigh stupified Auriol.

It was the laboratory precisely as he had seen it above two centuries ago. The floor was strewn with alchemical implements-the table was covered with mystic parchments inscribed with cabalistic characters-the furnace stood in the corner-crucibles and cucurbites decorated the chimney-board-the sphere and brazen lamp hung from the ceiling-the skeletons grinned from behind the chimney-corner-all was there as he had seen it before! There also was Doctor Lamb, in his loose gown of sable silk, with a square black his venerable head, and his snowy upon cap beard streaming to his girdle.

The old man's gaze was fixed upon a crucible placed upon the furnace, and he was occupied in working the bellows. He moved his head as Auriol entered the chamber, and the features became visible. It was a face never to be forgotten.

"Come in, grandson," said the old man, kindly. "Come in, and close the door after you. The draught affects the furnace-my Athanor, as we adepts term it. So you are better, your keeper tells me-much better." "Are you indeed living?" cried Auriol, rushing wildly towards him, and attempting to take his hand.

"Off,-off!" cried the old man, drawing back as if alarmed. "You disturb my operations. Keep him calm, Flapdragon, or take him hence. He may do me a mischief."

"I have no such intention, sir," said Auriol; "indeed, I have not. I only wish to be assured that you are my aged relative." "To be sure, he is, young sir," interposed the dwarf. you doubt it ?"

"Why should "Oh! sir," cried Auriol, throwing himself at the old man's feet, "pity me if I am mad; but offer me some explanation, which may tend to restore me to my senses. My reason seems gone, yet I appear capable of receiving impressions from external objects. I see you, and appear to know you. I see this chamber-these alchemical implements-that furnace-these different objects-and I appear to recognise them. Am I deceived, or is this real ?"`

"You have

"You are not deceived, my son," replied the old man. been in this room before, and you have seen me before. It would be useless to explain to you now how you have suffered from fever, and what visions your delirium has produced. When you are perfectly restored, we will talk the matter over.'

And, as he said this, he began to blow the fire anew, and watched with great apparent interest the changing colours of the liquid in the cucurbite placed on the furnace.

Auriol looked at him earnestly, but could not catch another glance, so intently was the old man occupied. At length, he ventured to break the silence.

66

I should feel perfectly convinced if I might look forth from that window," he said.

"Convinced of what?" rejoined the old man, somewhat sharply.
"That I am what I seem," replied Auriol.
"Look forth, then," said the old man.

"But do not disturb me

by idle talk. There is the rosy colour in the projection for which I have been so long waiting."

Auriol then walked to the window and gazed through the tinted panes. It was very dark, and objects could only be imperfectly distinguished. Still he fancied he could detect the gleam of the river beneath him, and what seemed a long line of houses on the bridge. He also fancied he discerned other buildings with the high roofs, the gables, and the other architectural peculiarities of the structures of Elizabeth's time. He persuaded himself, also, that he could distinguish through the gloom the venerable gothic pile of Saint Paul's Cathedral on the other side of the water, and, as if to satisfy him that he was right, a deep solemn bell tolled forth the hour of two. After awhile he returned from the window and said to his supposed grandsire, "I am satisfied. I have lived centuries in a few nights.'

THE WESTMINSTER PLAY.

AMONG all the sights of London, there is nothing that in the slightest degree resembleth the Westminster play. The actors are unlike all other actors-the theatre is unlike all other theatres-the audience is unlike all other audiences. He who hath not seen the Westminster play, can solace himself with the notion, that he may yet obtain a new sensation.

Art thou reader, among those who have not seen a Westminster play? Give to thine imagination a productive power, and picture to thyself the end of a long, rude room, converted into a temporary theatre; neat, indeed, but without superfluity of ornament. If the visiter be not especially favoured, he will mount to his seat by means of an uncouth flight of steps, and find himself in a locality not unlike the "boxes" at a theatrical booth. And what a long while will he wait ere the play commences! In his simplicity he has believed his ticket, which has told him that "hora sexta" is the appointed time for the comedy. Oh, thou of little experience! "Hora sexta" means half-past seven, according to the latinity of Westminster tickets.

Therefore, we will amuse ourselves by contemplating the audience, the fashion of the theatre, and all the et cæteras which fortune may be liberal enough to bestow. We say "we"--because, getting tired of the third person, we have put ourselves in the place of the inexperienced writer, and have thrown him overboard.

very

There, straight before us, stands the proscenium which we have seen for the last twenty years. There it is, in the similarity of a tent, with an indifferent hut at each end; and there are the two stage-doors, with modern windows above them, through which the greater part of the exits and entrances will be made. The door to the right-mind, reader, the play is Andria-belongs to the house of Simo. At that door shall the offspring of his son's unfortunate amour be laid by the directions of the wily Davus; through it shall the same Davus be dragged by the merciless Dromo. The door to the left belongs to the house of Chrysis -Chrysis, now no more; a fair frail creature, who, whatever her faults, was possessed of a world of kindliness. There, at present, reside the lovely Glycerium, and the astute servant, Mysis; and there shortly will the family be increased by the birth of a son to Pamphilus. The green curtain at present conceals the scene from our gaze; but through the three slits in it, we can see portions of juvenile faces, anxiously watching the increase of the audience.

In the space below us, there are happier folks than we; less crowded, yet more abounding in acquaintance. Clergymen, in full canonicals, evidently authorities in the place, smiling complacently, and shaking hands condescendingly, as this youth or that parent approaches them. To the right, in a snug little pew-so we must call it are the only ladies allowed to witness the drama, special friends of the master's wife, all full-dressed, and some armed with English translations of Terence. Young gentlemen, with hair remarkably well arranged, with unexceptionable waistcoats, with light kid gloves, which they draw on with exceeding gusto, are most sedulous in their attentions to this fair group. These are "old Westminsters" many of them actors in the plays of former years. These are the men who are thoroughly trained up to the mark, who know every line of the comedy, who can laugh at every joke Jan.-VOL. LXXVI. NO. CCCI.,

I

in the epilogue, and who-not the least estimable qualification-will drop their guinea into the trencher-cap at the conclusion of the performance. They are different from some of our immediate neighbours, who bring their little sheepskin Terence with them, and look at it carefully, poringly, painfully. Aye, they are people who feel at home, and to whom Terence presents an accustomed atmosphere.

Suddenly the band behind the curtain, which has been endeavouring to amuse us with waltzes by Strauss, and selections from "Giselle," strikes up, "See the conquering Hero comes!" Then how great is the commotion ! What a rising from benches, what a clapping of hands! The " conquering hero" is the head master of the school, who, attended by his party, a somewhat aristocratic set, proceeds to his seat. The small boys perched on various eminences, applaud with the greatest vehemence, as far as their hands are concerned, but we trace no great enthusiasm in their countenances. Neither, when the play proceeds, will these urchins laugh with any great show of enjoyment, although the mechanical applause will be loud as ever. It is one thing to toil through "Terence" at ten or twelve, with all the attending horrors of grammar and accidence, another to slip through him at sixteen, with a free sense of his elegance, and a power to appreciate the neatness of his intrigue.

The appearance of the head-master is the signal for the captain of the school to come forward, be-capped and be-gowned, to speak the prologue, and it is no pleasant task to deliver this same prologue. It is a mere formal address, bowing in the play, as it were, craving indulgence, appealing to good feelings and the like. No wonder that the encore of the prologue is rather a matter of form than any thing else. The spice, the fun, the invention of the evening belongs to the epilogue.

The curtain rises for the play, and discovers the dear old street through which we have seen Thraso march in warlike guise, in which we have beheld Phormio struggling with the peccant old man, in which, in fact, all the Terentian incidents have occurred from time immemorial. Right down in the centre hangs from the sky a large chandelier, in glittering defiance of probability. Now enter Simo-no, no-turn to thy Terence, reader; we will not utter one word that shall relieve thee from that pleasant task. If thou hast not read Andria already, it is high time thou didst, and if thou hast, the reminiscence will be so agreeable that, as a thing of course, thou wilt turn to it again. The play at Westminster is well acted. Something, generally, of formality, because it is more the result of training, than (except in isolated cases) of natural aptitude. The shrillness of the juvenal voices, is, besides, somewhat monotonous, but the whole affair is altogether very agreeable, both to the spectator, who, folding his arms, looks on with an air of familiarity, or to the one who deeply follows the performance with his well-thumbed book.

The epilogue is a shout—a thing of joy to the well-tried Latinist, full of quaint conceits and pleasant allusions. Is it not a luxury to see Davus a railway director, and to laugh with complacency at being able to detect a Latin pun! But oh, to the less practised Latinist, the epilogue is a thing of sorrow. Now he has no book to aid him, no well-conned scene for his guide. He must look at the stage in mournful vacancy, while the laughter of the initiated rings horribly in his ear. Mind, reader, the epilogue of 1845 was a capital thing, and thou wouldst have roared at it, hadst thou been present, for we are civil enough to assume that to thee, it would not have been caviare, and we know thou wilt not contradict us.

LITERATURE.

THE QUEEN OF DENMARK.*

THE "Queen of Denmark" possesses more remarkable claims upon the British public than its title intimates. It is a novel of the historical school of the very best class, and which delineates to perfection the manners and times of the Danish court, when its hereditarily incapable and sickly monarch, Christian VII., had wedded a beautiful and spirited British princess, Caroline Matilda, sister of George III.

The distinguished editress justly remarks, that naïveté is the characteristic of the author, which attaches strong inferences to its parentage being Andersenian. Be that as it may, there is certainly a simplicity in the style and sentiments of the author, which is peculiarly captivating, and lends an inexpressible charm to his narrative and sketches of cha

racter.

The hearty and life-like introduction to Sophus, the chamberlain of other times, "who, having outlived his contemporary world, wanders about its ruins like Scipio in Carthage,"-only that unlike Scipio he wears a gold embroidered pelisse and a tail, which is daily tied afresh with a new black bow, as a mark of anti-revolutionary independence, or to add an occasional pointed commentary to the words of the speaker,-gives the reader at once an idea of the equally genuine and life-like sketches, which are made to emanate from such a source, and which are narrated with such unaffected spirit, and such a delicate sense of tasteful simplicity, that, as Mrs. Gore truly remarks, "instead of feeling ourselves to be perusing a novel, or even a romantic series of historical memoirs, we could fancy The Queen of Denmark,' to be the mere journal of some observant courtier-circumstantial as Dangeau, and artless as Pepys."

Caroline Matilda, although her character is carefully sketched, is not, however, the polar star of the tale. That position is occupied by the pretty and good Lisette, the supposed goldsmith's daughter, and to whom, among all the various scenes and scattered groups, amid which she is made to move, the interest still ever reverts, as greater, as well as minor stars, alike revolve around their arctic contemporary. For the same reason, although interested in Sophus, we can never pardon his heartlessness-except in that, scarcely, indeed, a true specimen of Page-for, with all his faults, he is still virtuous; but his boy's love of Elizabeth changed for a manly admiration of Lisette, to again revert, after an inexcusable wavering, caused by Elizabeth's limp; and even the union of the lovers, brought about by Lisette's self-sacrificing goodness, give no interest to the usual matrimonial climax, that can for a moment compare with what we experience in the heart-severed, exiled, and melancholy fortunes of the fair Lisette herself.

The plot, which hurries the English princess and Danish queen into disgrace, is the only portion of the "memoirs," so to call them, that is not made sufficiently clear, and the catastrophe itself is most unexpectedly brought about. It is evident that the author has been guided in thus restraining himself within the close limits of a pleasing, instead of indulg*The Queen of Denmark: an Historical Novel. Edited by Mrs. Gore. 3 vols. Henry Colburn.