for the first moment or two, but I presently found my eyes riveted to a childish creature floating about among the rest, and, taking her for some beautiful young elève making her first essays in the chorus, I interpreted her extraordinary fascination as a triumph of nature over my unsophisticated taste; and wondered to myself whether, after all, I should be half so much captivated with the shew of skill I expected presently to witness. This was Taglioni! She came forward directly, in a pas seul, and I then observed that her dress was distinguished from that of her companions by its extreme modesty both of fashion and ornament, and the unconstrained ease with which it adapted itself to her shape and motion. She looks not more than fifteen. Her figure is small, but rounded to the very last degree of perfection; not a muscle swelled beyond the exquisite outline; not an angle, not a fault. Her back and neck, those points so rarely beautiful in women, are faultlessly formed; her feet and hands are in full proportion to her size, and the former play as freely and with as natural a yieldingness in her fairy slippers, as if they were accustomed only to the dainty uses of a drawing-room. Her face is most strangely interesting; not quite beautiful, but of that half-appealing, half-retiring sweetness that you sometimes see blended with the secluded reserve and unconscious refinement of a young girl just "out" in a circle of high fashion. In her greatest exertions her features retain the same timid half-smile, and she returns to the alternate by-play of her part without the slightest change of colour, or the slightest perceptible difference in her breathing, or the ease of her look and posture. No language can describe her motion. She swims in your eyes like a curl of smoke, or a flake of down. Her difficulty seems to be to keep to the floor. You have that feeling while you gaze upon her, that if she were to rise and float away like Ariel, you would scarce be surprised. And yet all

is done with such a childish unconsciousness of admiration, such a total absence of exertion or fatigue, that the delight with which she fills you is unmingled, and, assured as you are by the perfect purity of every look and attitude, that her hitherto spotless reputation is deserved beyond a breath of suspicion, you leave her with as much respect as admiration; and find with surprise that a dancing-girl, who is exposed night after night to the profaning gaze of the world, has crept into one of the most sacred niches of your memory.

MISCELLANIES.

GOVERNMENT.

A mad princess of the house of Bourbon, on being asked why the reigns of queens were, in general, more prosperous than the reigns of kings, replied: "Because under kings, women govern-under

queens, men.

FACTION.

PROVINCIAL animosities flourish in Italy as well as in Ireland. The favourite because she found herself growing atmaid of a Roman lady left her service tached to her mistress, "and it should never be said that a Tivolese loved a Roman."

CURIOUS DISCOVERY.

IT is said that the abbé Facciolati discovered in a vase recently excavated from the ruins of Pompeii, an orange immersed in vinegar, in perfect preservation. The Romans pickled this fruit, as we pickle cucumbers or onions.

ANTIDOTE AGAINST ARSENIC.

OUR readers will recollect that a Frenchman was some time since in London, and astonished every one by his swallowing arsenic. His secret has at length been detected:-Two physicians at Gottingen having lately discovered that the oxydrat of iron is an infallible antidote against arsenical poison. As the oxydrat of iron is perfectly innocuous, this discovery is peculiarly interesting.

COOLNESS.

Duchess of Abrantes in her Memoirs, "Monsieur de Malsaignes," says the "was a determined duelist. Having quarreled with a brother officer, they agreed to fight out the dispute in the Monsieur Malsaignes's adversary mavery room where it took place; when naged to run him through the body and nail him to the door. It is all very well, sir,' said the transfixed duelist, with singular sang froid, 'but pray how are you to get out?" "

VALUABLE TIMBER.

AMONG the varieties of timber trees discovered by the settlers in Southern Africa, is one used by the missionaries for the manufacture of household furniture, of a saffron colour, and called "sneeze wood," from the effect of its pungent scent when newly cut, and which among other good properties, is said to possess that of repelling all noxious vermin from its neighbourhood. It is singular enough that some of the Canadian timber imported into this country is described as having a directly contrary effect.

THE SENTINEL:

A TRADITION OF THE CIVIL WARS.

(For the Parterre).

A few years since I spent several days with a friend in Gloucestershire. He resided at a quiet village, in one of those obscure nooks which are so seldom visited by the tourist, that the arrival of a stranger is considered by the inhabitants as an epoch in their history. The spot was endeared to my friend by many and early associations: his family had resided there for several generations past; the little church-yard held the remains of his parents, and his parents' parents, and those of two or three of his children: his orchard contained trees which had grown up with himself; and the two old limes, that shaded the house, had been planted by his great grandfather when a boy.

The village itself had an air of neatness and respectability, and it was graced by one of those picturesque morsels of antiquity, a small church in the early pointed style of architecture, half covered with luxuriant ivy. The burial-ground

contained many memorials of humble worth. The best of fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, lay there in no inconsiderable numbers, considering the population of the village. Many who could neither write nor read their own names, had borne pain and long-suffering with resolution and fortitude, that might shame the educated. Some of the epitaphs were borrowed from the churchyard of the distant town; others were the production of the village poet. Of course those exquisite lines

"Affliction sore, long time she bore," &c. And,

"Weep not for me, my parents dear,

I am not dead, but sleeping here," &c. were not wanting to complete the attractions of this rustic cemetery. What English church-yard is without them? There were also three or four old tombs, with half-obliterated inscriptions, to which my friend directed my attention, as we one day entered the burialground.

"That tomb," said he, "covers the remains of a gentleman who fell fighting for the royalist cause at Edghill -- he was a bachelor, and the last of his race.

The family, whose ancestors lie beneath that quaintly carved monument, were non-conformists, and emigrated to New England just before the breaking out of the civil wars: we have several curious traditions of that eventful period, some of which I have written down."

I was greatly delighted to hear this intelligence, and expressed my astonishment that he had not made me acquainted with it before.

"Why, to be candid with you," replied my friend," I some years since contemplated surprising my acquaintance (you among the rest) with a volume of these traditions, which I intended to christen by the general title of Churchyard Stories;' but the magazines, about the same time, contained several tales with a somewhat similar title; so, in the spirit of genuine laziness, I seized upon this excuse for not preparing my stories, and locked up the manuscript in my bookcase, where it has since remained; however, as you are so fond of these stories, I will relate one which I have not yet committed to paper. I have often heard my father repeat it. He had it from the then curate, who had it from his predecessor, and he had it from I can't tell who."

"Let me hear it by all means," cried I; "from my childhood upwards I have always been delighted with these legends: we can sit on this tomb while you relate it.

My friend looked thoughtful for a few moments, as though he were endeavouring to collect the leading incidents in his tale, and then began as follows:

"In the reign of Charles the First there lived in this neighbourhood a small farmer named Horne. He had two sons, the eldest of whom, contemning the quiet occupation of a husbandman, chose the adventurous life of a soldier, and enlisted into a regiment of dragoons, at that time quartered at Fairford. Wil liam, the other son, preferred the occupation by which his father had obtained a comfortable subsistence. He was a youth of quiet and unobtrusive manners, while those of his brother fitted him for the reckless profession he had chosen. At length the quarrel between Charles and his parliament led to civil strife, and England was again the theatre of intestine war. Several skirmishes took place near this village; and one day a foraging party belonging to the royalists paid a visit to the farm of Humphrey Horne, whom they treated with great brutality. A scuffle ensued, in which the old man

received such severe injuries, that he died a few days afterwards. This was a dreadful shock to William Horne. He had lost his mother when a boy, and his home was now desolate! Poor fellow! he had not a soul to whom he could tell his sorrows, for the old housekeeper was as deaf as a beetle. Despair fixed his fangs upon him, and he fell into that fatal error which has brought ruin and destruction on many more nobly born ;he took to the bottle. Every body knows how rapid is the transition from dissipation to beggary, William Horne neglected his farm, and in a few months was a ruined man; for his landlord, being himself hard pressed in consequence of losses which he had suffered on account of his adherence to the royalist cause, became urgent in his demand, and our young farmer was finally ejected, to make room for a more punctual tenant.

We shall pass over all that followed, until the morning that saw poor Horne under the hands of a drill sergeant of foot in the market place at Marlborough. He had enlisted in the Parliament cause, because the first company he met with belonged to that party: misery had made him indifferent as to which side he took, and the earnest-money which he received from the sergeant procured him a hearty meal—a luxury he had not enjoyed for many days before. Young Horne soon discovered that the life of a common soldier, when on active service, is anything but a sinecure; that forced marches and skirmishes were harder work than mowing and reaping ; in short, that he had made a bad bargain: but he feared to attempt giving his new associates the slip, lest he should make a bad matter worse, and get shot for desertion. The regiment was kept in continual alarm by the attacks of the Cavalier party, who set upon them at night; but they were generally beaten off with loss. At length orders were received by the officer of the regiment, to proceed with his company to the parliamentary army, then in the neighbourhood of London.

On the evening of the second day of their march, they were again threatened by a regiment of royalist dragoons, who hung on their rear for several miles. As the night advanced, they halted a short distance beyond Henley in Oxfordshire, intending to renew their march by daybreak, having lost sight of their enemies, whom they supposed had relinquished the pursuit.

A thicket skirted the road on each

side, and sentinels were placed around it to guard against surprise, Horne being one of the number.

The spot at which he was posted was most picturesque. A rugged lane descended into a deep dell overshadowed by thick foliage, and the road was spanned by an ancient gateway, overgrown with ivy and creeping plants. As he paced to and fro, with his musket on his shoulder, in the light of the young moon which had risen above the trees, his mind reverted to other days, when a lighter heart beat beneath his doublet. Memory was busy, and the recollection of happier hours, .filled his eyes with tears.

"Alas!" thought he, "I am an outcast and a wanderer! I have none left to sorrow for me. But what boots it?—Death is a sure release: I shall find a dog's grave ere long!"

He was suddenly aroused by a slight noise among the bushes in the dell below, and fixing his eyes intently on the spot from which it appeared to come, he awaited the result with something like trepidation.

All was again still; but Horne was satisfied that an enemy was in the neighbourhood, and cautiously withdrawing under the shelter of the ruined arch, awaited the issue with a beating heart.

Again a rustling was heard among the bushes; and the sentinel, straining his eyes in that direction, saw a dark figure emerge from the thicket, and descend the bank. He was clad in the dress of a dragoon, with iron cap, cuirass, and jack-boots, but his arms were not visible in the gloom. The figure advanced cautiously into the moonlight, and then Horne perceived that he had companions in the thicket. There was not a moment to lose. The sentinel blew his match, uncovered his pan, and took aim at the advancing figure, who until that moment had not observed Horne. The dragoon instantly snapped a pistol which burnt priming, and Horne fired! The unfortunate dragoon received the bullet in his head, and leaping convulsively

Some of the soldiers who had gathered round the body of the slain dragoon, began to jest and crack their coarse jokes upon the occurrence.

"A regular cavalier trick," cried one, "these fellows will never learn wisdom." They will ever fail in their attempts against those who keep their lights burning before them, "said another in a drawling tone.

"Faith, he's a sturdy rogue," remarked a third, as he spurned the body with his foot-"'t was a brave shot that killed him!"

"Foul fall thee, Dick Robinson!" cried a corporal, "t is cowardly to insult the dead body of a brave man-turn him on his back, and let's see if life has quite left him."

،، The shot would have killed a bull," observed the soldiers, as they turned the body over-" he is hit plump in the middle of the forehead."

There was a dead pause as the men looked on the ghastly countenance of the slain trooper, which the moonlight rendered still paler, but there was one among them who scrutinized it with more than ordinary curiosity. It was William Horne.

66

،، Why dost thou stare so at the body," said the corporal, "dost thou know that face?"

Horne held his breath, and still continued to gaze upon the corpse with a fixed stare. The thick moustaches which covered the upper lip of the dead trooper had not disguised his features, and a wart on the left cheek, removed all doubt as to their identity-the wretched sentinel had slain his brother!

Poor Horne, from that fatal night was an idiot! The shock deprived him for ever of the power of speech. He was dismissed from the regiment, and returned to his native village, where he lived many years afterwards, upon the charity of those who had known him in happier days. He was buried near the yew tree, yonder, and some one erected a gravestone over his remains, recording his sad story; but it was accidentally

ANTHONY DUMPS, the father of my hero (the subject-matter of a story being always called the hero, however little heroic he may personally have been) married Dora Coffin, on St. Swithin's day, in the first year of the last reign.

Anthony was then comfortably off; but through a combination of adverse circumstances, he went rapidly down in the world, became a bankrupt, and being obliged to vacate his residence in St. Paul's Church Yard, he removed to No. 3, Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, where Mrs. Dumps was delivered of a son.

The depressed pair agreed to christen

their babe Simon, but the name was registered in the parish book with the first syllable spelt "S—I—G—H ;”—whether the trembling hand of the afflicted parent orthographically erred, or whether a bungling clerk caused the error, I know not; but certain it is, that the infant Dumps was registered SIGHMON.

Sighmon sighed away his infancy like other babes and sucklings; and when he grew to be a hobedy-hoy, there was a seriousness in his visage, and a muchado-about-nothing-ness in his eye, which were proclaimed by good natured people to be indications of deep thought and profundity; while others less "flattering sweet," declared they indicated nought but want of comprehension, and the dulness of stupidity.

As he grew older he grew graver: sad was his look, sombre the tone of his voice, and half an hour's conversation with him was a very serious affair indeed.

Burying Ground Buildings, Paddington Road, was the scene of his infant sports. Since his failure, his father had earned his livelyhood, by letting himself out as a mute or a mourner, to a furnisher of funerals.

"Mute" and "voluntary woe were his stock in trade.

Often did Mrs. Dumps ink the seams of his small-clothes, and darken his elbows with a blacking brush, ere he sallied forth to follow borrowed plumes; and when he returned from his public performance (oft rehearsed) Master Sighmon did innocently crumple his crapes, and sport with his weepers.

His melancholy outgoings at length were rewarded by some pecuniary incomings. The demise of others secured a living for him, and after a few unusually propitious sickly seasons, he grimly smiled as he counted his gains: the mourner exulted, and, in praise of his profession, the mute became eloquent.

Another event occurred: after burying so many people professionally, he at length buried Mrs. Dumps; that, of course, was by no means a matter of business. I have before remarked that she was descended from the Coffins; she was now gathered to her ancestors.

It was not surprising that Dumps had risen in his profession: he was a perfect master of melancholy ceremonies, and as a mute proclaimer of the mutability of human affairs, none could equal him. Never did the summer sunshine of nankeen, lie hid beneath the shadows of his " inky cloak;" never, while his countenance betokened "the winter of