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, and played Pierre.

Somehow or other—­for one must not be too particular about the wherefores of stage political intrigues—­Felicia is promoted from the office of making dresses for the Queen to that of putting them on.  Behold her a maid of honour and of all-work; for the Queen takes her into her confidence, and in that case people at Court have an immense variety of duties to perform.  The Duchess’s place is fast becoming a sinecure, and she trembles for her influence—­perhaps, in case of dismissal, for her next quarter’s salary to boot—­so she shakes in her shoes.

It is at this stage of the plot that we perceive why the part of Henrico was entrusted to the gentleman who plays it,—­the mystery we have alluded to being by this arrangement very considerably increased; for we now learn that no fewer than three ladies in the piece are in love with him, namely, Felicia, the Queen, and the Duchess.  Now the most penetrating auditor would never, until actually informed of the