DESCRIPTION OF THE ENGRAVING

OPERA DRESS.-The gown is of straw-coloured satin. A low body made to sit close to the shape, square at the back, but sloping a little in the centre of the bosom; it is trimmed with a double fall of blond lace, and ornamented with knots of gauze ribbon, one on each shoulder, and one in the centre of the breast. Short sleeves of the usual form. The trimming of the skirt consists of a deep flounce of blond lace; it is headed by a rouleau, on which knots of gauze ribbon are attached. The headdress is a silver gauze turban of a moderate size, decorated with the plumage of a bird of Paradise. The mantle is of cherry-coloured satin, lined with dark green velvet, with sleeves of the mameluke shape, ornamented with gold buttons.

NOCTES TWANKAYANÆ.

NO. VI.

The Chamber-Miss Bluemantle and Signora Harmonica. Miss BLUEMANTLE. Before any more of our Council arrive, I wish to have a little chat with you, Signora, about the remarks you were pleased to make at our last meeting concerning Miss Taylor's acting. The other evening I went to Covent Garden Theatre to see Nell Gwynne; and although I entirely agree with your remarks on the piece, I cannot coincide with your opinion of the actress.

The SIGNORA. Let me remember. I think the principal charge I laid against her was for being artificial. Was it not so?

Miss BLUEMANTLE. True, you not only censured her for being artificial, and for "treading the stage to a mathematical nicety;" but I conceive these to be the highest compliments you can pay a performer. Allow me to ask, what is acting? Is it not the art of represent ing by artificial means the realities of life?

Miss BLUEMANTLE But I must have the last word, and that shall be in praise of the talents of Miss Taylor. But I have not heard your opinion of the lovely Apollo who made her first appearance in that character on the same evening.

The SIGNORA. Why really the representative of the god of "sweet concords" seemed so frightened, that I was all in a sympathetic tremble myself, and could scarcely form a correct judgment. But if the rest of the audience's opinion may be gathered from the applause with which Miss Romer was at various times greeted, I should say that her success was complete. She repeats the character shortly, when I shall criticise her most closely. So let her beware, and get rid of some of her modesty, for I can assure her she is more than equal to the task. I wonder where Bloomer and Modish stay?

Miss BLUEMANTLE. If they do not make haste, we must adjourn. Hush! I think I hear one of them coming. Enter Mrs. Bloomer.

Where have you staid, Bloomer?

Mrs. BLOOMER. Why, I mislaid the Comic Magazine, and a book of songs, by Mr. Brandreth, out of which I intended to read some extracts, and I staid to look for them. I shall, however, indulge you with an extract from the Second Series of the Chamelion. It seems to be Highland Legend :

a

"The name of M'Gregor became a doomed one, and the clan whose patronymic it was, an outlawed body, in revenge or in punishment of some real or alleged excesses committed by its leading members, so early as the commencement of the fifteenth century; and, while their possessors were marked out for the vengeance of the law or the court the same thing then-the lands were gifted away to the prevailing minions of power, and their favourites and dependents. A natural son of the Duke of Albany laid hold of the district called Balquidder for his share of the spoil, while a decree of the Council of State, in which body his father's influence was all-powerful, with eastern sang froid proclaimed a reward for every head of a M'Gregor, properly authenticated,' that was forwarded to its President. While the state condescends to be paymasters, the cutting off the heads of defenceless Nomen is always too profitable a traffic, not to have many followers. A certain laird of Drumscrag cultivated this commerce of exchanging heads for 'marks' with so much success, that he soon got a title from a people, whose language has more nicknames than any other ever spoken, expressive of his skill in the vocation. Like an industrious man, he always carried his own goods to market. On one occasion, while he was proceeding on horseback with a sackful, and their certificates, he was met or overtaken by a brother Highlander, who civilly inquired, in the course of conversation, what he had got in his bag. Duncan of the Heads' boasted, pedlar-like, of his commodities but must have felt rather astonished at the speed with which his incensed fellow-traveller set about adding the owner's own precious one to the number. This man had purposely waylaid him. He was a M'Gregor, and the bloody heads of his namesakes found a decent grave, and Drumscrag a deserved death on the spot."

The SIGNORA. Of course: but the grand secret is to arrive at "the art that conceals art," a pitch of excellence which I conceive Miss Taylor has not yet acquired. Besides, you have not taken genius into your account. acting can be perfect without the combination of both. Miss BLUEMANTLE. Agreed: but many are apt to lay too much stress upon genius. It certainly assists conception, but it is by art, and art alone, that that conception can be embodied. Take, for instance, Mr. Kean, one of the best examples of genius and art combined it is perhaps possible to cite. I have heard it often said that he acts from impulse. It is easy to disprove this. Why does he embody the same passages in precisely the same manner every time he has to utter them? Because, although his genius conceives the beauties of his author, his consummate art teaches him the most effective means of embodying them, which means he employs on all occasions. It is a well-known fact, that before any striking scene, Mr. Kean disposes the lights off the stage so that they may fall full upon his face. Is this impulse? No: so far from being excited by the passion he may be pourtraying, he is getting his features into the focus of the light. Now I beg to ask, of what possible avail would the genius of Mr. Kean's conceptions be, if in the first place he had not acquired the art of expressing them by his features ? and in the next, the judgment to take the best means of exhibiting them to the audience.

The SIGNORA. But you are giving an instance of a union of genius and art. Now it is my belief that Miss Taylor is made up of the latter, and possesses very little of the former.

Miss BLUEMANTLE. I will admit that for the sake of argument, although I cannot agree with the opinion, and if you state

The SIGNORA. My dear Lady President, if we pursue this discussion much further, it will occupy a double number of the "Maids, Wives, and Widows' Magazine."

SKETCHES OF SOCIETY.

No. X.

ROSE FIELDER.

A VILLAGE SKETCH.

BY MISS F. E. LAGY.

"Deprived of all save innocence and Heaven."

sure,

"Well, now, and if I warn't quite glad to see little Rose Fielder at church again to-day: 'tis the first Sunday arter the burying Neighbour; and to be the poor thing cried almost all the time. But Lord! who can wonder arter sich a sad loss? both father and mother, you know, took off in less nor a week;

and all on account o' the cruel disorder as ha' laid so many low in these parts."

"Ah, Neighbour! but what a pity she han't no kinsfolk hereabout as would do summut for her; for you see, though they says old Fielder wur a man tolerable well to do in the gardening line, yet he was took off all so sudden like, that little Rose would ha'

been quite at her wit's end if it hadn't been for good Mrs. Meddle, as keeps the tidy shop by the bridge; but the kind-hearted body ha' took the girl a bit, just till things gets to rights: but Rose must look to be doing for herself soon, you know. Between you and I, Neighbour, 'twere rather a bad job, as the old folks humoured her so; because she wur the only one, I reckon; for it 'll be all the worse for her when she goes out into the world, poor child."

Such was part of a conversation between two rustic matrons that I chanced to overhear, as leaning over the low church-yard wall I contemplated the picturesque scenery of a little village through which I was passing, in a pleasant excursion a few summers ago.

To the traveller for recreation, the most trifling incident seems to proffer claim to the ever wakeful attention; the little touching history, therefore, accident had thus briefly unfolded, could not fail of exciting its proportion of concomitant interest.

appearance denoted the flight of barely fifteen sum

mers.

Rose Fielder was was not particularly pretty, but the lock of neglected hair resting upon the soft rounded cheek, still wet with tears, and a furtive glance of the downcast eye, that told of sunny hopes slumbering in the youthful heart, surcharged by its first real sorrow, combined with her situation to bestow the more attractive charm of innocenee and nature.

I observed her as passing slowly on; she listlessly plucked from the hedge a wild blossom that in a few

moments after she let fall to the earth; an emblem,
perhaps, of her own future lot-to become the sport of
every passing gale, or crushed by the careless footstep.
sation now recurred, from which I had learnt that
I was again left to my meditations. The conver-
Rose had been the sole pride of her deceased parents.
not, it is probable, decreased, as years enfeebled their
whose fond compliance with her little humours had
judgment, and that perhaps from this very natural and
common cause she had been rendered what is usually
termed, a spoiled child.

life's rough mazes-the many chilling disappoint-
I pictured the young orphan in her early career of
ments, or the surprise at some little personal advan-
tage, or piece of youthful ingenuity, so often magnified
into perfection by parental fondness, now scanned by
the cool observance of the uninterested stranger, or,
perhaps, wholly unnoticed; together with the occa-
sionally expressed solicitude of parents, and natural
display of preference towards their own, that uninten-
tionally wounds the orphan, with the remembrance of
hearts which had ceased to beat.
having also once swayed affectionate prejudice in

mate departed friends; but not so keenly to regret It is the world only that can teach us justly to estiwho loved us--spite of our faults. And, ah! those who appreciated our virtues as those, alas! Rose Fielder, should ever a wayward spirit have often hush justly awakened censure, how (if your heart resulted from the indulgent pleading that might too The village communicants were now walking onbe tender) will you recall, bitterly recall those hours, wards, and evening service being just over, the church- when seated by the parental hearth, you, in the impeyard became sprinkled by the usual mixture of holiday tuosity of inexperienced youth, might deem the samerustics, thriving farmers, village lasses, and--village ness of your life so irksome, and sigh to exchange the belles; the characteristic appearance of some of whom monotonous repetition of domestic duties for the might perhaps at any other time have called forth my advantages of seeing the world, and perhaps bettering more sportive comment: but your mind was too much occupied with the recent detail to admit of casual interruptions. I was just yielding to my reflections upon the subject, when my attention was again arrested by the voice of a female, who, as she passed, was concealed by one of the more stately edifices in commemoration of the departed. "Come, come, Rose," said she, “you mustn't give way so child; to be sure, 'tis a very sad loss you've had, and every body makes allowance just at first; but all this won't do among strangers, when you go out to better yourself in the

world."

my

At this moment the person of the speaker became visible. She was a respectable middle-aged woman, and was accompanied by a young girl, clad in tolerably decent mourning. After all I had heard, I could not be deemed very inaccnrrate in my conjecture that I now beheld the very identical "good Mrs. Meddle, who kept the tidy shop by the bridge," and that her companion was the poor recently-made orphan, whose

fortunes. Should some unkind reply, or ungrateful speech, wrung from you in the moment's irritation, ever rise to your remembrance, how then, will remorseful feeling suggest the repentant palliative of dear father, pray pardon my undutiful conduct." Yes "Dear mother, think no more of my hasty words-yon may wish to recall those moments to say this, and you will then wish—in vain.

Were but the uncertainty of all human existence ever in our remembrance, how many mental pangs might we not spare our fellow-creatures, and how many by far the most bitter of remorse might we not spare ourselves.

The pensive tenor of my reflections was aided in no small degree (such is the human machine) by the combined effects of outward causes. The Sun was now glancing his last ray of long lingering brightness on the distant sloping meadows; softly twittering birds, mingled at intervals with the low mournful music of a rambling brook; and multitudes of winged

Here my little village maiden paused, whether to take breath, or to afford her companion an opportunity of expressing congratulation or awe at the prospect of such extraordinary elevation, I cannot say; for I just then turned away, leaving Rose to the contemplation of her airy fabric of earthly grandeur and felicity, sitting in the little back parlour, making a gown for Mrs. Meddle, who "kept the tidy shop by the bridge!" but the vagrant smile upon my cheek was softly reproved by a rising sigh. "Poor Rose Fielder," thought I, soon wilt thou be on thy eventful happy journey; and, oh! the golden light of Hope gilding the

fairy way! and the bright-bright sky lighting the gaily springing flowers. Alas! poor Rose Fielder ! poor Orphan! should'st thine prove the rugged way, and the changeful sky, and the withering flowerspoor Orphan!--but the eye of Providence still views thee!"

Anacreon warbled the charms of Bathullus,

In verses as sweet as the zephyrs of spring; And Lesbia's name was entwined by Catullus,

With the sunniest flowers that his fancy could bring.

Wine, Pleasure, and Woman's soft beauty awoke
The voluptuous music of Horace's lyre;

And each Bard whose bright fame thro' Time's darkness has broke

Had some idol of love all his songs to inspire.

But the Children of Song now-a-days, more sublime,

Quaff their Hippocrene draught from some Publisher's purse,

And a bill on some bank best awakens a rhyme,

And the Booksellers' shelfs' their Parnassus of verse.