avail are all these tureens of real turtle, when tabooed, but I have heard that two viscounts, an not the tiniest modicum of calipash or calipee archbishop, and a proctor from Doctors' Comfalls to your share? It may be that in my semi-mons, paid full price to the pit on the ninetydiatribe against undue patronage of operas, there second night of its performance. Sir Charles was may be something of the selfishness of my sofa. a great playgoer, and, like his Gracious Master, I am to see the carissimi luoghi no more. I was fondly attached to-but soft! Let me see: confess, against the grain, but still confess, that haven't I witnessed the performance of the inimiI should like to hear the Guiglini whom you table John Reeve, as Marmaduke Magog, in the call incomparable; his languishing notes, his "Wreck Ashore." Yes, and we had a proscenium spasms of tenderness. Was he more pathetic box, two-and-twenty years since, to see a drathan Nourrit, I wonder? Does Mario surpass matised version of Mr. Dickens's "Oliver Twist.” Rubini? A Mademoiselle Tietjens also you speak I remember it as though it were yesterday. of-is the woman's name Titiens, or Tietjens, Clever Mr. Yates was the Jew Fagin ; the terrible or what? She is haughty, commanding, su- O'Smith was Sykes; an extraordinary man with perb. Is she equal to Pasta? Is she equal to a crabbed face played Mr. Brownlow's friend, Sontag? Who is this Mademoiselle Piccolomini Mr. Greenwig; and Mrs. Keeley, yes, the deyou describe as joyous, vivacious, saucy, fasci-lightful, chatty, humorous, good-natured, penating, a captivating actress, but an imperfect rennial, Mrs. Keeley, was the Oliver Twist; and singer:-yet one who makes a furore wherever the only survivor, I believe, of that bright band. she goes? Since when has the Cameriera can- I can recal, too, a wonderful piece called tante--the singing chambermaid-become a"Die Hesein am Rhein," with gnomes and prima donna? Have you, tell me true, a female singer on your stage who can equal, nay, who can approach the enchanting, the divine Maria Malibran? But why should I ask you, my dear? she belongs to another age, like many of the great singers I have named. Catalani, Ronzi di Begnis, Donzeli, Curioni, Velletti, Blasis, what do you know of these? You speak to me of English tenors. Mr. Sims Reeves, according to you has a voice like a silver clarion. It is worth making a pilgrimage to Loretto with pease in your shoes to hear him sing-" My Pretty Jane" or "Come into the Garden Maud." You talk about other tenors: Harrisons, Perrens, Eliot Galers; je ne les connais pas, ces gens. I can remember a Mr. Incledon who used to sing the "Storm:" that was when I was very young indeed. I can remember a Mr. Sinclair, one of the sweetest of singers. And I can likewise remember the famous John Braham a grand singer, a pigmy in stature, but a giant in song: a little black-whiskered, blue-gilled man, who, with a few notes could melt you to tears or rouse you to enthusiasm. Ah, to hear him sing the "Death of Nelson” or “Farewell my trimbuilt Wherry." I present my compliments to your English tenors, and beg to know if in their wildest accesses of vanity, they can hope to excel or to equal John Braham. Among the theatres you have visited, you mention the Adelphi, which, it appears, has been thoroughly re-built, and is resuscitated as a most sumptuous and commodious little salle, somewhat after the Parisian model. The old Adelphi was a very stifling, uncomfortable little cupboard of a place, but very celebrated in its day. The great Sir Walter Scott was a friend of one of its earliest conductors, Mr. Terry, and in Lockhart's "Life" you may read some friendly, affectionate hints on the perils of management, sent by the Scotch baronet to the English actor. Baronets trouble themselves about theatres in quite a different manner, now. I remember Sir Charles going, years and years ago, to see a dreadful piece, called Tom and Jerry," at the old Adelphi. Was it before, or after that, the theatre was called the Sanspareil ?. Before, I think. This improper performance took the town by storm. To the ladies, of course, it was witches and salamanders, and real water, into which people jumped. Also, another piece which the ladies were sternly prohibited from seeing, but went to see it in considerable numbers, nevertheless. That wonderful Mrs. Keeley was the hero again, and wore smalls, and a flapped waistcoat, and a coat with large cuffs; and with a round, bullet, closely shorn head, and roguish, twinkling eyes, looked the very image of Mr. George Cruikshank's etching of Jack Sheppard. I think that was the name of the piece. A very fat man, with a rich husky voice, whose name has quite escaped me, played a part called Bluenose or Bottleskin, or some such name, and sang a song about his nose, which was encored every night; and I know there was a ballad in the piece, written by Mr. Rodwell, to words in some inconceivable thieves' jargon I disdain to recall, but with, perhaps, the sweetest melody ever heard since "Cherry Ripe." And then I lost sight of the Adelphi altogether. You say you were there on Thursday, and saw a startling melodrama, called the "Dead Heart." From the description you give me it must be very thrilling. You omitted to give me the author's name, but I should say, from the nature of the incidents, that it must be by some disciple of M. Alexandre Dumas. A wonderful man, my dear. I saw his "Christine" in Paris, in 1830. It lasted six hours, and was called a Trilogie, which, I believe, means three plays in one; and there were duels fought, and ladies run away with, all in consequence of this terrible melodrama, the week afterwards. The most inte resting item you give me with respect to the Adelphi is, that the money and cheque takers, and the box openers, are all females. What! is the old reign of insolence, extortion, and sulkiness, at an end? Are ladies no longer liable to be bullied and insulted because they don't care about giving a shilling or eighteen pence for a greasy, flimsy playbill, worth, perhaps, a quarter of a farthing? These new attendants, you say, are positively civil and obliging; take care of your bonnet for nothing, and are only stern when they refuse to take the money which the public, in spite of the printed placards liberally displayed about the theatre, persist in offering them. I cannot sufficiently congratulate the frequenters of theatres for this wholesome reform, Crimson Dragon, or a Red Cross Knight, or or commend Mr. Benjamin Webster too highly something fabulous and chivalrous of that deon his liberality and public spirit in abolishing scription; but I know the appointment had a monstrous annoyance and imposition. The something to do with the Heralds' College in theatre was crowded, you say, the night you Doctors' Commons, where Sir Charles once went went to see the "Dead Heart." I like to hear to look up our pedigree, and paid forty pounds of theatres being crowded, and of people amusing for a piece of parchment with a coloured illusthemselves. Rational recreation keeps people tration and a large seal; but he had the satisfrom hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, faction of seeing a solemn gentleman with a and from coveting their neighbour's house, and white neckcloth step out of a brougham at the his wife, and his ox, and his ass. Which is best, door, whom they told him was Garter. I ask; to pay our shilling to the gallery and There is a great deal of dancing in Burlesque have a good evening's entertainment, or to Extravaganza apparently. Also of comic singwait till the Sunday evening and trudge Wap-ing. And from the description you give me of ping-wards to St. George's in the East, there to the entertainment you witnessed, I am afraid cough over the Litany, and hoot a silly priest that the objectionable practice of putting young and his choristers ? ladies into male costume is somewhat too liberally resorted to. I should perfectly agree with you that there was no resisting Miss Marie Wilton if I had ever experienced an attack from that young lady; but I take all the flattering things you and your critical friends-they worry me sometimes, those critical friends-are pleased to say about Miss Marie Wilton's wit, and grace, and agility. I am afraid you know too many critics, Louisa; and when I consider how those self-appointed censors increase and multiply in these latter days, I can't help thinking of a story of old Lady Strange, the widow of the famous engraver, and the lady who in youth saved her husband from the soldiers who sought his life, by sheltering him under her hoop petticoat. The critics remind me of the story, and they may consider its application as intended for them if they so choose. Lady Strange lived to a very great age, and a long time after the death of her husband; but she was to the last, of her dear partner's political creed, a staunch Jacobite. It chanced one day that a gentleman in her company talking of bygone politics, chanced to speak of the Chevalier Charles Edward, by the name the adherents of the House of Hanover usually gave him: that of the "Pretender." Whereat cried old Lady Strange, usually very taciturn, but with a wonderful sharpness and alacrity. Pretender, forsooth! and be d-d to you." And that is what I say to some of the critics. You must pardon, my dear, the use of a naughty word; you must remember that it was a long time ago when ladies were more frankspoken in their conversation than at present, and, moreover, that the ugly expletive in question, was made use of by a lady of quality and title. If you are very much shocked, draw a pen carefully through the word when you show this letter to your friends; and as for the critics-but I check my pen, remembering that in my hum-drum way I am always criticising somebody or something. The Princess's-yes, you have been there; but Mr. Charles Kean's gorgeous Shakespearian spectacles-William bound in gold and morocco, with tooled edges and illuminated margins-no longer attract crowds to Oxford-street. The honse is in a transition state, your critical friends tell you; and though the new lessee, Mr. Harris, means well, he doesn't exactly seem to know what he means as yet. However, you saw a capital and irreproachably moral drama, called "Home Truths," and after that a wonderful little Jew man, with a more wonderful nose, who played a dancing dervish in a divertissement, and, in the most wonderful manner of all, spun round and round like a tee-totum, till your eyes ached, and you thought the dancer's head was off. Shanko Fanko-who, with the exception of words of four syllables, can spell through the Times tolerably well-read me the account of this wonderful dancing, or rather spinning dervish; and likewise an explanatory note which appeared a day or two afterwards from the critic who had erroneously asserted that the Dervish wore a false proboscis. It appears that the nose is a "boon of nature, not a work of art." I don't know the critic, but he must be a marvellously comic-minded man to put so much humour into so few words. the actresses. I should like very much to go to that droll little theatre in the Strand, of which you profess yourself to be enraptured. It does not seem much bigger, you tell me, than a bird-cage, and one can see, from the stalls or the private boxes, the faintest corking on the eyebrows of the actors, and the minutest grain of pearl powder and the most delicate blush of rouge on the cheeks of You say these accomplished persons dress beautifully, in the very best taste, and in the richest materials, to say nothing of real lace and undeniably genuine jewellery. Well they may, in so small a theatre, and in an age when double-barrelled opera-glasses are so powerful. What class of entertainments do you There are three wonderful humorists you tell tell me are produced at the Strand? Farces.-me at the Strand: one a lady, the very perfecVery well. Petites comédies.-Nothing could be better. Burlesque Extravaganzas.—Ah! I know. You mean those whimsical and fanciful parodies of fairy tales or classic fables, for the concoction of which, before I left the world, Mr. Planché was so famous. But I suppose he has left off writing for the stage now, as I read some time since that he had been gazetted by Royal letters patent to be a Morning Herald-no, it was a tion of archness and quaint oddity without exaggeration, a Miss Charlotte Saunders; and two Dromios-two gentlemen I mean-Messrs. Clark and Rogers-who, without interfering in the least with each other's fun, are excruciatingly comic. And Miss Martha Oliver, I learn from your letter, has the most beautiful eyes, and the sweetest smile, and the most silvery speaking voice you have heard; and Miss Swanborough, the fair manageress of this prosperous housewhich you tell me is nightly attended by the élite of the aristocracy-is graceful, and dignified, and eminently tasteful. Sure, the days of Madame Vestris, and Mrs. Honey, and Mrs. Waylett, must have returned again. Dearest Louisa, my gossip about plays and players is fast drawing to a close; but I cannot pass over in silence your rapturous eulogium of a wonderful little man called Robson-one of the half-dozen people, they say, who is successful in making the Queen laugh-who, according to all I hear, not only succeeds, night after night, in making people scream themselves hoarse with merriment, but a better faculty, my dear— makes them weep their eyes red with sympathising grief. Be assured that we have heard often and favourably of this Mr. Robson, even in this remote Pumpwell. You have seen him, you say, in the "Porter's Knot," and in "Retained for the Defence." Doctor Gradus, of the grammar school, who went purposely to town in the spring, and attended the Olympic Theatre in the company of a person of quality intimately connected with the court, says that you should see Robson in "Daddy Hardacre," in "The Wandering Minstrel," and especially in a wonderful parody of a Greek play, in the Italian version of which Madame Ristori amazed and astonished all Europe, called " Medea." Doctor Gradus talks in his good solemn, somewhat pompous way of Robson, as though he were a national institution-a perpetual censor, appointed, not only to hold the mirror up to nature, and show vice her own image, but to commend to our admiration and emulation such qualities as rugged fidelity and loving disinterested ness. "No man can paint, to the minutest hairbreadth of verisemblance," said the Doctor to me, over his fourth cup of tea, last Tuesday evening, "the petty meannesses, and spites, and jealousies that disfigure humanity, as in the marvellous and life-like, heart-searching, and soul-knowing manner peculiar to Robson; but, on the other hand, no actor, comic or tragic, can give us so graphic a portraiture of a true friend and an honest man. Madam," the Doctor, with grave emphasis, went on; "if Pumpwell-le-Springs were not a hundred and eighty-seven miles from the great metropolis, and did not the parents of some of my pupils object as a matter of principle to dramatic entertainments, I would give the entire school a half-holiday to-morrow for the express purpose of seeing Robson; and I believe, Madam, that I should be tempted to subject to the correction of stripes that perverse and obdurate boy who did not consider Robson to be the finest actor he had ever seen." "Doctor Gradus," I replied, "I have the highest respect for your critical acumen and judgment. Will you be so good as to ring for Shanko Fanko. I want my maid and my bed candle." And lo! as I pen these lines, Shanko Fanko answers a similar summons, and departs to fetch chambermaid and candlestick. Adieu, my pet! CONSTANCE CHESTERFIELD. HOW I TOLD MY LOVE. BY EDWIN F. ROBERTS. Он, the glories of a sleigh-ride in the sparkling, bracing air of a Canadian winter! The sky clear and exhilarating-keenly bright, but with a different degree of lucidity from that of a bright summer's day. Broad expanding plains-the city receding behind us, as the horses, leaping onward to the music of their chiming bells, make for the broad, boundless country. The fir-forests are clasped in a shadowy, ghostly slumber. Far away on our right are those pathless funereal groves where the wolves aggregate in hundreds. To the left lies a ridge of hills sloping down to the river, which is locked up in the iron manacles of the Winter King. A-head, and right before us--whither we are bound-over waste, and plain, and clearing-, lies a snugly-sheltered village, the head-quarters of the "lumberer" and the voyageur. Our destination is not quite so far. This said destination is a broadly-spread, lowlying farmstead, with its almost numberless outhouses, consisting of cattle-sheds and dairies, corn-stores, roofings for winter-fodder, woodstacks, and other concomitants surrounding the dwelling, all pallisaded by zig-zag fences, as so many out-works to protect the comfortable citadel. Within it, warm fires blaze and sparkle from the huge and odorous logs crackling on the broad, bounteous hearth. In the great com. mon chamber, raftered and picturesque as an antique gothic hall, are warm hearts and flashing eyes. Bearded men and fair women are there-laughing maidens, and strapping young hunters, who have just shaken the snow off their furs at the portals. Despite the stern, yet musical baritone of the singing wind, as it goes by, stinging cheeks, biting noses into purple, and making the blood tingle, shouts of mirth and laughter rise above the boreal blasts; and our leaping sleigh, gliding-flying along ratherto the music of the soft musical bells, is fast,! fast approaching its terminus. "In the mean time," asks the reader, "who occupy this sleigh ?" I hasten to answer. First, there was your humble servant, the narrator, Dick Harding by name, but a few months back from the banks of the Isis, with the "bar" in prospect, my "governor” having a snug interest in the India House. I add a few of my personal items. Rather good-looking; a fair shot; a stunning "stroke-oar;" can hit with ! wonderful vigour straight out from the shoulder; am five-feet-ten and-growing; can play the fiddle, a game of pool, and have the temper of an angel. I had been one of a party of adventurous sportsmen, "going in" for something worthy of Alexander, and, with fishing-tackle, spears, and "shooting-irons," had done no inconsiderable execution among the denizens of the Canadian woods and sounding "rapids," and hunted the bear in his own bold and picturesque fastnesses. Enough of myself. Now for my companions. Place aux Dames therefore-for nestling by my side, wrapped up in rugs and warm furs, is Lota d'Arville-a bright-eyed, rosy-lipped, laughing Canadian, as lovely a girl-woman of seven teen as glance of man ever rested complacently upon. The Canadian mother and the French father were expressed in her name. Her playful lambent eyes had exercised their sorcery upon me ere this; and the modulations of a voice unequalled for its low, soft sweetness, completed the young Syren's triumph. This by the way; for we had exchanged no confidences as yet on a subject very near to my heart. We were bound to a merry sleighing party at Windy-gap Farm-ostensibly to a hunt upon a vast scale, which accounts for my two rifles and ammunition lying in the sleigh, and for the noble deer-hound, the third "individual," who had curled up his great body at our feet, and aided to keep them warm. I had known her brother-a young officer in the Canadian Rifles -had killed "bar" at the "Salt-licks" with him; had met Lota and her family on board a St. Lawrence steamer, and was now a guest at their house, enjoying their frank and bounteous hospitality. "Hurrah!" Through the keen, sonorous air, sleigh and horses bound along! "Cling-clang!" go the chiming bells. "Crick-crack!" goes the long-thonged whip, with a sharp cheery significance. My "Madawaska Cariole," a sleigh which is the perfection of locomotion, is not less perfection than the fiery steeds, with their sinews of elastic steel, which I drive. Driving sleigh-tandem is the easiest thing in the world, when you are used to it. I was a member of the "Tandem Club," and reckoned a crack hand, of course. I exulted in my skill now, as I bore my rosy companion flying through the air, and the whip went "crick-crack!" like a double-barrel going off, and the sweet bells sang and chimed. Oh! sweet echoes of far distant wedding-bells," I thought and the crisp snow was split and shattered into diamond-dust under the grinding of the hoofs and the attrition of the " 'runners;" " and with an exhilaration I could not repress, I gave a vigorous "hurrah!" which conveyed itself to Lota, wrapped up in moose and bear-skins, and warm as a toast. A sweet, girlish laugh echoed my exulting shout. "You appear to enjoy this, Mr. Harding!" she said. "If I don't- -" "Crick-crack!" filled up the hiatus. What a pair of beauties! Phoebus Apollo never drove their like down the steeps of heaven! The wily Ithacan never "raised" such cattle when he cleared the stables of Rhesus of his horses! "Crick-crack!" and the horses neigh and toss their arching necks, and the bells are chiming and tinkling, and the mad, exulting rush uplifts one like wine. "Oh! so comfortable," she answered, with a nestling movement, and a smile which made my heart leap joyously upward. But my attention was called away to the creeping, crepuscular inkiness of the sky. It was light, yet not day-light, but blue-light-to coin a word; that wintry hue of livid darkening steel always the precursor to a fierce change in the weather. This only made the long level plains of snow gleam with a lustre the more dazzling and intense. I remarked this, but with a momentarily divided and wavering sense. I had never (familiarly as we had grown, and I was "honest as the skin between your brows," as she was in fact)-I had never said "dear Lota" before, and the words were yet in mine ears like a sweet old burthen. I loved her with all my heart and soul, but I had never told it. I yearned to tell her so now; but I thought it scarcely fair-not up to the mark of my manhood-to take what seemed an unfair advantage of the protection I was supposed to extend over her. I magnanimously resolved to wait-choking down the words-but not for long. Meantime, "Crick-crack!" went the long whip, and still "cling-clang" went the chiming bells, and the horses held on with unabated pace and splendid vigour, but-where had "Windygap" gone to all this time, for time was up, and we should be there by this? "Goodness!" exclaimed Lota, all at once, "how strange the sky looks; we shall have more snow-a heavy fall too." "I fear so," I replied, "but n'importe, we'll soon be out of it." "We are very long, I fancy," she continued, reflectively; "you have driven there quicker than this before. Oh, Heaven!" she cried, with the suddenness of a revelation, "can we have lost the track?" The blank question harped with a horrible jar on my most vivid fears. Now or never was the time to be quite cool. 66 "No, I think not," I replied, with assumed carelessness; we shall come to our landmark, presently." "A clump of firs-an old mill, farther on; yes," she added, "I recollect; but we should have passed them long ere this. Oh, I fear we are lost!" A cold chill seized me as I tacitly admitted that she was in the right. I could not account for my error, if such was the case. I looked round the horizon, but beheld no friendly sign; it was only a circle gathering closer, and growing darker the while. Suddenly my brave deer-hound lifted up his I remark, to myself, that the sky has deepened head, and uttered a low growl. The horses gave into an intense, still darkening blue-darkening a startled swerve just as suddenly. A strange, with a strange, unearthly, tenebrious inkiness, lugubrious, but appalling sound came all at betokening a coming snow-storm. No matter-once from windward, wailing like a death-cry— "Windy-gap" is right a-head, and the welcome a prolonged, awful, groaning discordance-over lights will blaze out of the casements soon, for the white gleaming snow; and then it died away. the afternoon is wearing. The horses halted trembling; only the shivering tinkle of the bells broke the death silence On we go-but I do not see them yet; and yet-but no-it's all right! "Are you warm-quite snug, dear Lota ?" said I, half turning to look at the rosy, exquisite face peeping forth with so much furtive coquetry from its encadrement of white cosy furs. that fell like eclipse over all. "What is that?" asked Lota, in a shuddering whisper, as she clutched my arm. I listened. "It is the wind sighing, and dying away in the pine forest," I answered. "And we do not go near the forest," she said. "Hark! there it is again. Oh, what what can it be?" Again the indescribably hideous and lugubrious sound broke forth; clearer-nearer. It increased; it multiplied; the horrible crescendo, howling, shrieking, and ravening, was NOT that of the wind this time. I thought my ears would have split at their dreadful yells, for they were now upon us, opening out to surround us; and though the horses held bravely on, I dreaded, every instant, that sheer terror would paralyze them. It is scarcely possible to conceive the unutterable horror that was circling us both; young lovers with beating hearts, for ever, from that hour, interchanged "Merciful God!" gasped Lota; "THE with each other. WOLVES!" I never understood, till that moment, what the concentrated essence of literal, deadly horror might mean. I never experienced the shock before, or since; and I have, in my hunting excursions, faced my danger and played out the game manfully. To have lost the way was terrible enough; but the wolves! and Lota! An instant I was numb and dumb. It was true, however. The severity of the weather, the migration or scarcity of the animals on whom these unclean creatures preyed, had made their hunger a raging, devouring madness. They were encroaching on civilized territory, and losing their usual characteristic and craven cowardice-were approaching the habitations of men, haunting village and settlement. Woe to those in their path! As the infernal howl rose lingeringly again the horses darted away with a shrill neigh of fear, and I guided them-beginning to recover myself-in an opposite direction, while "Terror," my noble hound, stood up with every fang bared, and every hair erect, waiting for the enemy he had already scented. If my good horses had gone on so admirably at first, they sped off now like arrows from the bow, for the madness of fear added wings to their speed, as that of hunger did to our panting pursuers. I was growing cool; Lota was pale, but calm. I felt proud of her, though it was certain that if we escaped not speedily the brutes would run us down; and then, horror of horrors! what a fate for her! I had two rifles, a revolver, ammunition, a spear, and a wood-hatchet in the "sleigh." I conveyed my intention to Lota. "Can you load these weapons with those cartridges ?" I asked. "Yes," was the answer; and she loaded a "Fuller" and a "Manton" with true hunter's skill. I took one rifle-looked back-the pack was increasing. I fired, and Lota loaded; and one after another fell, to be devoured by their ravenous comrades; and still the horses sped on. The accursed things were, for all this, gaining ground. Doubts, fears, hopes, trembling were at my heart as I turned to the sweet girl whose life or death were all in all to me, and said: "Lota! if we die together, remember that I loved you-none but you! I tell it you now, if I may never again." "Kill me first," she whispered; "I hear your words; I echo them. You have my heart. Richard "Oh, Lota! best beloved! what a moment to confess; and I know not if I feel pain or gladness most." "There are now no secrets between us," said Lota, smiling; "take this rifle; give me-the pistol; one kiss-soh! they come. Save me from them at any cost." With lolling tongues, eyes of flame, hoarse, deep growls, they had ceased to bay and howl; they were closing in upon us. I remarked one huge monster in advance of the rest; his object evidently being to leap into the sleigh from behind. I fired-and missed him! The next moment his huge bulk came scrambling over the back; his paws were on me; his fiery breath on my cheeks; and I expected, as I murmured a short prayer, to feel the fangs of the abhorrent brute in my flesh. A flash!-a crash!-a gush of blood and the creature tumbled backward, shot through the throat, to the spine, by my brave Lota! Then I plied hatchet, and split skull after skull, while the sleigh tore on; but I was giving up all hope, and turning roundOh, Heaven!-to spare my darling a more hideous fate, when shots and shouts rang around, and troops of dogs and hunters came swiftly to our aid, and—and we were saved. Providence had directed the sleigh to "Windygap;" our firing reached the hearing of our friends, and brought them out in hot baste to aid us. We were saved; and as I bore her fainting form into the hospitable hall, and clasped her tenderly to my breast, you may guess how sincere was the gratitude I breathed in silence to Heaven. It was the prelude to a wedding, which oc curred soon afterwards; and you may be sure I never forgot my fight with the wolves, how pluckily my noble Lota backed me, or the somewhat original but apropos mode in which "I Told my Love." TANGIERS, THE SILENT CITY. A STRANGE lassitude seems to pervade even the approach to this Moorish city. Eolus, who had been puffing his cheeks until they were fit to burst in the forenoon, suffered them to collapse as we drew in with the shore; and the very waves seemed to subside into listless apathy. The sun was just setting as we reached the anchorage, and we were, consequently, too late to communicate with the shore that day. As the night gathered around us, however, the sea-breeze subsided entirely, and a light zephyr off the land wafted us odours very dissimilar to those popularly supposed to burthen the breeze of Araby the Blest. There came, moreover, a confused hum of distant voices mingling together, with the occasional crowing of some sleepless cock, and the perpetual sharp barking of dogs. All these subsided into profound silence at 8 p.m., when the " Allah akbar, allah il allah” of the Muezzin floated distinctly over the waves; and then Tangiers became, to all intents and pur poses, what it has been by some writers named"The Silent City." If silence pervaded the night, ample amends |