But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.—Shakspeare, Much Ado about Nothing.
Many of our readers have doubtless witnessed, or perchance participated in, the amusement of acting charades—a divertisement much in vogue in social circles, and if cleverly done, productive of much mirth. To the uninitiated, a brief description of an acted charade may not be unacceptable. A word of two or more syllables is selected, each part of which must make sense by itself—as, for instance, the word inspector, which would be decomposed, thus; inn spectre. The company of performers would then extemporize a scene at a public house, leaving the spectators to guess at the first syllable, inn. The second scene would represent the terror occasioned by the apparition of a phantom, and give the second part of the word spectre. The third scene would represent the whole word, and would perhaps be a brigade inspector reviewing his troops, giving occasion for the humors of a Yankee militia training. Much ingenuity is required in the selection of a word, and in carrying out the representation, with appropriate dialogue, &c.
Acting charades generally turns a house topsy turvy; wardrobes and garrets are ransacked for costumes and properties; hats, canes, umbrellas, and firearms are mustered, and old dresses that haven't seen the light for forty years are rummaged out as disguises for the actors in these extempore theatricals.
In a certain circle in this city there was a knot of clever young people, of both sexes, strongly addicted to acting charades, and very happy in their execution. But they were unfortunately afflicted by an interloper,
"Whose head
Was not of brains particularly full,"
one of those geniuses who have a fatal facility for making blunders. Yet, with a pleasing unconsciousness of his deficiencies, he was always volunteering his services, and always expected, in this matter of acting charades, to be intrusted with the leading parts.
One evening the usual coterie was assembled, charades were proposed, as usual, and the little knot of performers retired to the back drawing room, dropping the curtain behind them, and prepared for their performance, congratulating themselves that Mr. Blinks, the name of the marplot, was not on hand to spoil their sport. They selected the word catastrophe, and the curtain went up.
A very pretty and lively young lady, who had been abroad, gave a very happy imitation of the almost inimitable Jenny Vertpré, in the French vaudeville of the "Cat metamorphosed to a Woman," in that scene where she betrays her original nature. She purred, she frolicked, she pounced on an imaginary mouse, caught it, tossed it up in the air, and went through all the manœuvres of a veritable grimalkin. When the curtain fell, amidst roars of laughter and applause, the first syllable—cat—was whispered from mouth to mouth, among the audience.
At this moment the hated Blinks arrived in the green-room.
"What are you up to? Acting charades—eh? By Jove! I'm just in time. You must give me a part—can't get along without me. What's the word?"