every dispute. The means he adopted to render himself irresponsible for his decisions were highly amusing. In the room, otherwise "nest," was kept a living owl, which received the sobriquet of "The Oracular," and which on all points of order or difference of opinion Rede pretended to consult by whispering in its ear. He would then place his own ear to its beak, and having apparently received its commands, promulgated the decree to the company-a decree from which there was no appeal. His first essay was indicative of what might be afterwards expected: Α brother "Owl" having introduced the word "snakerism" into conversation, was accused of acting as a snake himself to the dictionary in thus giving such an exposé to its poverty by adding a new word. Rede was referred to, and he appealed to the "Oracular." The answer was: "The offending brother must be a snake as he has proved himself an add-er.” Rede now assisted in forming the "Dramatic Authors' Society," and was sought after by all the principal theatrical managers.

At this epoch he wrote a piece for John Reeve, in which the character assigned to that eccentric comedian had not a word introduced for him to say. On Reeve expostulating, Rede replied, "If I gave you any thing you would not study it; and if you did, you 'gag' so well, that I should be wise to save myself the trouble."

Notwithstanding the unflagging efforts of his brain, Rede's spirits were unshaken, and his humour inexhaustible. A frequent source of wit was his own name. One of the "Owls" having too freely indulged in post prandial enjoyments, asked him to be his leaning-staff while descending the staircase, and grasped an arm, but stumbled forward for want of power to retain his hold. Upon this, Rede pencilled the following lines, and pinned them to the breast of his prostrate friend:

Some seek the wheat and meet but chaff;

Some wish the flower and win the weed;
Thus, when you thought you grasp'd a staff,
You found you only clutch'd a reed!

On another occasion, having answered an acquaintance rather tartly, that person said to those around, "I wonder what makes Leman Rede so sour and snappish to-night ?" The punster retorted, "Why, what can you expect but acidity and brittleness from a lemon and a reed?" His really brilliant career lasted for some years. He gained an introduction to Madame Vestris, through Hooper the treasurer, and wrote "The Old and Young Stager," which introduced Charles Matthews to the stage. In 1834 he met with an accident, while playing at the Pavilion Theatre, which forced him to retire from the stage until the April of 1838. He then resumed the profession, by playing for the benefit of the widow of a departed actor, and subsequently at the Colosseum, Strand, Surrey, Wells, and Olympic. At length he finally retired, to devote himself to the Sunday Times newspaper, in the columns of which he produced a novel, entitled "The Royal Rake," receiving three hundred pounds for the copyright. It is a work of unequal merit, but contains some clever passages.

From this period he confined himself chiefly to newspaper writingoccasionally appearing upon the stage for the benefit of a brother actor, or supplying some broken-down manager with a piece to rescue him from ruin. But these productions became "few and far between;" not

from any decrease in attraction, but because, as he affirmed, the managers, having lowered their prices, wanted to lower their terms with authors; "and," he added, "I won't stand it!"-An instance out of many of his championship for the scenic pen. This state of things lasted for some years. As reviewer, critic, and sporting correspondent, he obtained an easy income, but his habitual profusion rendered it insufficient to his wants, and as time progressed he began to find his means considerably straitened. The anxiety thus produced, coupled with wear and tear of mind, enfeebled his powers, and undermined a naturally vigorous constitution; rendering him also unequal to those convivial habits which he had hitherto sustained without encroachment upon ebriety. An attack of gout, likewise, together with three painful operations, performed by Liston, combined to completely shatter him, and it became evident to his friends that "his wheel had become broken at the cistern." The realisation of their apprehensions occurred on the night of Thursday, the 1st of April, 1847, when, after spending a convivial evening with Mr. Copplestone Hodges, he sunk beneath a stroke of apoplexy, under which he never rallied, although sedulously attended by Drs. Richards and Roberts. On the morning of Good Friday he expired. And thus, in his forty-fifth year, died a man who hoped, and was expected, to attain a good old age, but whose premature decease was destined to furnish one more instance of the inroads which too free an abuse of the mental powers will make upon the finest constitution. What renders this consideration more deplorable is, that he possessed none of those small vices which tend to enervate the frame. He was a foe to indo

lence; never gambled; rose early, and fed plainly. Though of very convivial habits he neither smoked nor took snuff.

To a friend who did

both, he once said, “I shall do neither until I reach my forty-sixth year. At that time of life existence takes a new turn, and a man requires a new impulse, a new zest, and when I reach it, I will adopt the habits you possess. My first pinch and pipe shall be in your society." Poor fellow ! He did not live to fulfil the engagement.

His remains were, on the 11th of April, deposited in the grave of his brother; and earth closed over two hearts which the best and kindliest feelings had knit together. The funeral train consisted of his son-a boy ten years' old-his nephew, and a brother-in-law; Sheridan Knowles, Dr. Richardson, J. K. Chapman, Alexander Lee, T. Manders, E. R. Lancaster, Dr. Richards, Mr. Simpson, and Mr. Colville. The obsequies were attended by nearly three hundred members of the stage of both sexes, and several of the literati. He has left a gap which will not be easily filled; but has bequeathed little to sustain his memory with posterity. Had he committed a tithe of what he uttered to paper, it would have been otherwise; but he preferred scattering his good things to the winds in the intercourse of fellowship, and when the ears which listened to them are closed they will have passed away for ever.

Poor Rede's free habits, and the expenses which necessarily attend the steps of a public man, prevented him from securing any provision for his wife and child. Let us hope that the hand of succour will not be withheld.

JEALOUSY.

11:

FROM THE GERMAN OF EDWARD MAUTNER.

1

BY JOHN Oxenford.

[Or Edward Mautner I know nothing beyond the fact that, in the present year, he has published a volume of poems at Leipzig, and dedicated the same to another poet of the day, Alfred Meissner, who, by the way, has acquired some renown. Turning over the poems of Mautner, of which I had never heard, and which came to me only in compliance with a general order for all new German poetry, I formed the conclusion that he is not so much distinguished by creative imagination or power of illustration, as by a certain intensity in the expression of feeling. It seems as if he himself actually feels what he is writing, and therefore can command the sympathy of his reader. Many of his poems are in the indignant political vein, which is now so common in Germany; and many which relate to unfortunate love affairs, appear to allude to some actual circumstances. In the whole book, which is pervaded by a melancholy tone, there is nothing which looks like the mere amusement of a passing. hour, but all is marked by a sad reality, which inspires one with a desire to know more of the author. The following poem struck me as remarkable for its force and truth. Though I have called it "Jealousy," it has no special name in the original, but is the third of a series bearing the mournful title "Lieder eines Ungeliebten" ("Songs of an Unloved One"). The reader of German ballads need not be told that the stanza of two lines, in which it is written, has been popular from early days, and has been especially employed by Uhland.-J. O.]

We sat by our wine, with its hue of gold,
Of thee I thought, and of thee he told.
His words with the fervour of love were hot;
The boiling blood into my cheek shot.*

He said, "To my love right dear am I,
And shall be until on the bier I lie."

Then rage,
like a fire, came over me;
I clench'd my fist in my agony.

He said, “Her kisses so warmly glow !"
My face at his words grew white as snow.
He said, "Her embraces so fondly clasp !"
The glass I shiver'd within my grasp.

My breath was short, and my flashing eye
Look'd round to see if no weapon were nigh.

He said, "I know, that if I were dead,
The bitterest tears she would surely shed."

And then in a moment my rage had pass'd;

I held his hand in my own hand fast;

I press'd it, and into the night I rush'd

From my eyes, 'mid the storm, the hot tears gush'd.

Mir schoss in die Wange das siedende Blut.

The gentle reader will mind to accent the "my," or the metre, which is regulated by accent and not by number of syllables, will go to the

J. O.

ONE evening at the Tuileries, shortly after the arrival of the Duchess de Montpensier in Paris, the Queen of the French, being anxious to amuse the Infanta as much as possible, asked her what recreation she would prefer? The eyes of the young princess sparkled with delight as she eagerly exclaimed,

"There's nothing in the world I should enjoy so much as a game at blindman's buff with the officers of the guard!"

Kind and amiable as the Queen of the French is, her notions of decorum were rather too strict to allow her to meet the Infanta's wishes, and the officers of the guard were therefore left to their usual nightly rounds, instead of being summoned to run round the room after a charming young princess, though there can be little doubt as to which occupation they would have preferred.

Blindman's-buff, under such circumstances, being out of the question, some other amusement became necessary, and, thanks to the gallantry of Louis Philippe, a troop of Spanish actors from Madrid have crossed the Pyrenees, and gave their first representation last night in the Salle Ventadour, where the Italian Opera has just closed.

All Paris has been on the qui vive for this event, a Spanish comedy (not to speak politically) being a thing hitherto unknown in this city; and every inch of room in the theatre was let at advanced prices. A gayer scene than the house presented before the curtain it is difficult to imagine; the theatre itself is decorated with great taste, and the deepcrimson linings of the boxes and stalls, and the disposition of the soft globe-lamps add greatly to the very desirable object of bringing out the beauty which is so often obscured by an injudicious choice of colours and bad arrangement of lights. Whatever there is in Paris of handsome or fashionable, lion or lionne of every degree of celebrity was present last night, and expectation was on tip-toe, the novelty of the thing being, of course, the great attraction-for as to understanding the language of the actors no one, apparently, made the slightest pretension to do so. "Vous comprenez l'Espagnol ?" said a bearded youth behind me, to an equally hirsute companion.

"Pas un mot," was the calm reply, as he levelled his glass at a beautiful Englishwoman on the opposite side of the house.

"Ni moi non plus," returned his friend" "mais je comprends la danse, ça est bien traduisible !" (

The queen has some difficulties to encounter in the education of her daughters-in-law. The Princess de Joinville is very agreeable and somewhat spirituelle, but like most Portuguese-or rather Brazilians-has had no education. She has a French master in constant attendance, but her knowledge of the language would seem to be chiefly derived from that of her sailor husband, perhaps à son insçu. It is not long since the queen met her, and observing a cloud on her brow, asked what was the matter. Her naïve reply was,

66

Ce sacré mâtin de professeur Français m'embête!”

The queen started, and presently observed, that it was not the custom for French ladies to express themselves in so forcible a manner.

"Mon Dieu ! je ne sais pas," she answered, "Joinville dit toujours ça.”

May.-VOL. LXXX. No. CCCXVII.

I

But if the sonorous eloquence of Castile failed of its effect, the Jota of Arragon was certainly fully appreciated. Not that the wit of the gracioso passed without applause, but from the simultaneous murmur which preceded it, it was evident it proceeded from a knot of veritable Spaniards who had planted themselves in the centre of the parterre, to revel in the enjoyment from which, doubtless, many of them had long been exiled.

Before I say any thing of the actors, I must speak of the two most notable personages amongst the audience, Queen Christina and the Duchess de Montpensier, who occupied the royal box. The former, as all the world knows, is forty, fat-and fair-as far as complexion goes, but no longer so in the sense significant of beauty; her profile is a very bad one, and her full face quite justifies the term in its absolute meaning; for her figure, any description will serve that conveys an idea of size, and perhaps an elastic haycock may be as good an image as any other. This embonpoint is sometimes slightly in her majesty's way, for instance, at her devotions; and the other day, during carême in the church of St. Philippe du Roule, whither she always repairs to pray, she got so thoroughly embedded in the pavement while kneeling that all her efforts to rise were unavailing, and her attendants were forced to come to her assistance. This ought to have been the business of the Duke de Rianzares, now the French Duke de Montmoro, who knelt at her side, but he, with the true phlegm of a husband to whom a wife's difficulties were no novelty, remained absorbed in holy meditation. And whether his trance was disturbed or not by the furious glance which Christina bestowed upon him I cannot say, but upon any one less self-possessed than Muñoz it certainly would have excited some visible symptoms of discomfort. majesty's frame of mind must at any rate have been enviable, for-she had just taken the sacrament!-Queen Christina's costume last night had in it nothing striking; she wore no diamonds—at least, I observed nonewhich is the more remarkable as there are said to be in her coffers jewels to the value of eighty millions of francs, which she contrived to smuggle out of Spain by every avenue, in some instances packing them up in bottles, and thus passing them for sherry. So completely were the royal treasures at Madrid dévalisé, that only a single necklace remained for Queen Isabella, no less than seventy écrins being found at the palace empty after her departure.

Her

To return to a more pleasing personage, her daughter, the Infanta Luisa Fernanda.

Many and very different accounts have been given of her personal appearance. It was at first said that, totally unlike her sister, she was perfectly beautiful; then, that she was affreusement laide; and if the portrait which is to be seen on the Boulevard Italien could be relied on, the last description would be nearest the mark; but, as in most cases, truth lies between, and the only wonder is that the artist who has aimed at reproducing her features, should have so far forgotten his métier, in painting a royal personage, as to have done her so little justice. I was seated so near the royal box, and was so intent upon examining the features of this future Helen, that I cannot be mistaken as to their contour and expression. My opinion is, that the Duchess de Montpensier is decidedly pretty. She has a very agreeable countenance, avec beaucoup de