have been surprised and are running for their lives. Away dashed the Mandan, his bow bent ready for use, his spears lashed together, his arms all ready for the conflict. None, however, ensued. The night was tempestuous and dark, thunder rolled across the sky, and the Riccarees lost all trace of their hated foe. But as long as his beast could hold out, Mah-to-toh-pa sped on his way; and after three days' hard riding, during which time he allowed little rest to himself or his steed, he arrived amid the deafening applause of his people at the upper Mandan village. Great were the rejoicings of that memorable day; dances were immediately begun, and carried on until a late hour: a feast was declared, and Mah-to-toh-pa was ever after held in high honour amid his people. Many were his warlike deeds, but none more celebrated than his surprise of the Riccaree.

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are round and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft!" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
'Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then, turn, and through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

66

HINDOSTAN. With the winter season, our in-door amusements are increasing, and the Panorama of Hindostan is again opened to the public in Baker Street. We have frequently spoken of this work of arts which is so well contrived as to give the "stranger to India" the most vivid impression of the country-its sceneryits public and private buildings-and its people. The latter are shewn in their public walks, in their religious edifices, and in the recesses of private life; and so vivid is the impression the "mimic representation" leaves on the mind, that the spectator quits the spot almost believing that he has seen a reality. We should strongly advise all those who have the opportunity to visit this highly interesting work of art.

The following letter, from an Irish soldier on duty at the Tower, was written to the warden :-"My wife is very ill; prays your worship to let me sleep out at night, promising most faithfully never to go out till after the gates are locked up at night, and always to come in before the gates are opened in the morning; for which your petioner shall ever pray."

THE RIVAL'S WREATH.

Ar length the night came, and all Naples crowded to the opera to hear Gambrica, the most powerful, the most gifted, the most renowned and dazzling Cantatrice that had ever ravished heart, senses, and breath from the fierysouled inhabitants of that celebrated city. The enthnsiasm of the Neapolitans for music, under any circumstances, is inconceivable to the people of a colder clime, but Gambrica had excited it beyond itself. Her figure, large, symmetrical and commanding, recalled Cleopatra

or Juno. Her features were sweet and noble. On her queenly brow dignity sat enthroned; and all the lofty and all the tender passions were reflected in turn from her classic and ever-eloquent face. Her eyes, endowed with the power of magic, carried with every glance the highest emotions of poetry and music. The public worshipped her. She was an empress-a goddess. Her smile sent a sunshine through the multitude. Her step across the stage caused a stir of delight. Her gestures, like those of a prophetess interpreting to mortals the language of heaven, made the pulses leap, and the heart heave in the bosom-and when, all majestic, her superb and awful form, full of inspiration-a statue beyond the chisel of Angelo or Praxiteles-her countenance, a manifestation of all that Rossini ever imagined, or Raphael drew, when thus revealed-a magnificent vision before the unnumbered, and expectant faces-her wonderful voice poured forth its volume, now in a stream gentle as the murmuring zephyr, and clear as the voice of the limpid brook-now startling as the heave of the ocean or the fall of the cataract, aud, at length, terrible as the sudden thunder, and rapid as the lightning when it darts from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. It was curious to witness the tempest of delight, the hurricane, the earthquake, which involved the assembly and overwhelmed the performances in a chaos of frantic acclamations.

Gambrica was an Italian. With her first breath she inhaled fire from the sun. Had she been born in Nova Zembla, that bosom had held a heart of passion. Enthusiasm, for good or evil, would have been her leading quality. Had she been bred in the cell of a convent, her vestal veins would still have run fire. Education might have modified her impetuous disposition-it could not have chilled it utterly. But her education! The air of the north had never cooled her blood-she knew not the awful solemnity of solitude. She had always lived in the glare of public observation, and quaffed the intoxicating draught of public applause. It had become to her a necessary aliment-a want-a demand of her nature. Without it she would have faded like a rose without light. It was her air-her sunshine. For years she had been the most potent attraction in her fairy theatric world. In infancy she danced as a fay, or floated as an angel, amid murmurs of delight. As time ripened her form, and touched it with the seducing grace of girlhood, she had dazzled mortal eyes as sylph, naiad, or princess; and when at length years, rolling like summer hours over the rose, had only expanded her into more bewildering loveliness-had only awakened new and more dangerous power-she had queened it as if, indeed, a veritable enchantress. Aided by all the magic of poetry,

painting, music and romance, now amid the gorgeous story of oriental lands, now leading on the warm dreams of the burning south-now spell-bound in the far-gone days of Arabian fable-to the sober inhabitants of the outward earth she was only known as the heroine of these magnificent phantasmagoria. Adoring fame, and dwelling amid its beams as the eagle near the sun, she had little sympathy with, or knowledge of, the common earth. Wealth was gathered by her as if it floated in the streams, and fell like manna over the plains. She scarce knew ambition; for she was on the "topmost round." The world was below her-mankind at her feet -and, at the sound of her voice, they bent or rose like the sea beneath the trident of its monarch. She was the embodied dream of the poet-she became, in turn, each passion-she was the priestess of nature-a creature half earthly, half divine. He who had not seen Gambrica, had seen nothing. He who had not heard her, had not lived. It was a bright life that she led her simple appearance for ever greeted by thousands, with tumultuous rapture-her rising upon nations, like that of Aurora, whose approach chases the shadows, and overspreads the sky with rosy light.

Upon this night, after a long absence, she was to appear in her best part. The Neapolitans attended for a thousandth time to enjoy the wonders and witness the triumph of their queen of song.

as

The second character of the piece was entrusted to a young female, who had tremblingly ventured to make her début on this evening. Her simple and sweet taste; the quality, extent, and power of her voice, had more than once gained a word of condescending encouragement from the despotic mistress of song. She did not come on till after the entrance of Gambrica, by whom, well as by the audience, her unpretending efforts, her unpronounced name, had been unnoticed. But scarcely had she presented herself, when a murmur of surprise ran through the auditory. Nothing more unlike Gambrica could be imagined; yet so soft, ingenuous, modest, and spirituelle were her air, shape and countenance, and so wonderfully was the impression created by her appearance, confirmed and deepened by her voice and grace, that, as if by preconcert, an audible and universal whisper of "who is she?" was heard, and a general stir from all parts of the house. As if afraid to give utterance to their emotions in the usual manner, the audience remained for some moments in a kind of suspense, looking to behold a heavenly illusion suddenly dispelled, and this celestial visitant utter some tone, or make some motion, to relink her in their minds with the associations of earth. She proceeded, however, in her part; she gave the few introductory passages in the same new and exquisite manner, till, at the end of a brilliant and most difficult solo, executed with a taste, ease, simplicity and power not excelled-not equalled by Gambrica herselfa startled "brava! brava!" uttered in the tone of one

thrown off his guard by rapture, broke the spell of silence, and such peals burst forth as made the house tremble to its foundations. The performances were stopped. The audience rose in a body. Handkerchiefs, gloves, hats waved in the air from the high dome to the feet of the lovely being, herself astonished at the tumult

83

Gambrica, from the green-room, heard these ominous sounds, and felt the boards tremble under her feet. She hastened forth, and, from an unobserved retreat, beheld the sight-blasting view of a rival, potent with all the spells of grace, youth, beauty, genius; a rival, conjured up from no one knew where-raised like Venus, fullformed, from the deep-mounted upon her pedestal— waving her sacred wand-and wielding with a hand, yesterday feeble and unknown, all her thunders. From the lips of the hundreds, too, she heard undisguised raptures, sanctioning, leading on the triumph of this new and all resplendent enemy. Her ears rung with the continual and simultaneous peals-each one seemed a bolt directed at her own head. Her breath failed-the strength forsook her limbs-rage and despair filled her bosom, paralyzed her efforts, and painted themselves on her countenance. It happened that the opera shadowed forth a tale not unlike the reality of those interests and emotions which where thus brought into action, and that the two competitors before the audience bore roles which gave a fatal illustration of the downfal of long-successful ambition before the rising of a purer and lovelier star.

Marina gained each moment in the esteem of the auditors. The very dissimilitude between her and Gambrica gave a new impetus to her success. For the first time, the world discovered that nature had other gems than that which they had worn, to the exclusion of all others; and, with the caprice for which they are celebrated, they were prepared in an instant to throw aside that of which they became weary. After Gambrica, Marina pleased by force of novelty and contrast. Her very faults were a relief. She was like the sighing of a flute, after the blast of the trumpet. She resembled silence and odour-breathing moonlight, after the brightness of the "gaudy and remorseless day."

Gambrica felt that the sceptre was slipping from her hands. The applauses which she subsequently received after having lost all inspiration, trembling, desperate, as were not what they had been. She went from the stage, mirror hung in the green-room. She gazed at herself in if an evil spirit had taken possession of her. A large it. Her countenance was haggard-her features dark and heavy with passion-and to throw the last shadow moment, she detected a wrinkle on her brow, and upon over her gloom, at this inopportune and miserable the sable and glossy hair parted over her forehead, two or three lines of white. It is thus that mortality breaks upon the aspirations of earthly dreamers.

The curtain fell, but the audience remained, and, with vehement clamours, demanded the manager. On his appearance, a general cry expressed the wish that Marina should receive an immediate engagement as prima donna. The ready caterer for their pleasure acquiesced, of course, delighted to find a new treasure. Three heavy rounds of applause offered a parting tribute to the newlyrisen star, and then night, calm and quiet, settled over the glittering bay and half-aerial mountains, the silent shore and the sleeping city.

For some days nothing was talked of but Marina. How capricious is the popular judgment! how utterly it will be ravished to-day with that which to-morrow will be flung by and forgotten. Gambrica's name was now scarcely heard but as the precursor of an invidious

uttered by every lip. Marina was the theme of every caf,e every street, every square.

"How unlike Gambrica!" was the ungrateful exclamation.

"Ah! poverina, she has had her day," cried one. "She was good, but she is terribly passée," said another.

"For me," cried a third, "I always knew she was overrated."

"A sun-flower by the rose," said a fourth. "Too large-too round-too tall-too heavy-her hair too black, her eyes no softness," added a fifth.

"Then," said the first, "how over-dramatic! We are cloyed with a style too studied and voluptuous. Nature is too elaborately improved upon. Nothing is left to itself. She may be the first of her school, but the school of Marina is the first. Did you observe her attitude last night when she drew the dagger ?"

"Yes, a fishwoman going to fight."

"She is a great singer, though," ventured a little dandy who had not heard Marina.

Certainly, very great; but then she is always the

same."

"And what horrid faces!"

These strictures were general. They were the first that Gambrica had ever encountered. They fell on her heart like lava.

Again the night came and the theatre was besieged by an enthusiastic throng. Equipage after equipage dashed up. Party after party of bewildering faces and dazzling shoulders hastened in. Each seat was filled, the aisles were crowded, the lobbies overflowed; all the nobility, fashion, science, and loveliness, fortunate enough to

A MODEL "ASSISTANT."-A Dublin mercer, recom mending a piece of silk to a lady for a gown, said, “Madam, it will wear for ever, and make a petticoat AFTERWARDS."

A HARD HEART.-"I am afraid of the lightning,' murmured a pretty woman, during a thunder-storm. "Well you may," sighed a desperate adorer, "when heart is steel." your

WHO WROTE IT?-The following verse contains every letter in the English alphabet except "E." It is a question whether any other English rhymes can be produced (in print) without the letter "E," which is a letter employed more than any other :—

"A jovial swain may rack his brain,
And tax his fancy's might

To quiz in vain, for 'tis most plain
That what I say is right."

Mr. Money, a little dapper man was dancing at the York assembly with a tall lady of the name of Bond; on which Sterne said, "There was a great bond for a little money."

A lad delivering milk, was asked what made it so warm. "I don't know," replied he with much simplicity, "unless they put in warm water instead of cold.”

INDIA AND BRITISH SHAWLS CLEANED, the Brilliancy of the Colours preserved, and dressed by French process, making them look equal to new. Dresses and Cloaks cleaned without picking to pieces. Black dyed for mourning every Wednesday, and returned in a few days, when required. Bed furniture and Drawing Room suites cleaned, dyed, and finished in the most approved method, by

arose. Never had there been a more brilliant audience.

(To be continued.)

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