names of the vocalists are hardly known to Fame at present, they are creditable performers, and deserve every encouragement.

opera of "Maritana." The title of "Mary | tion of numerous audiences, and, although the Turner" is a miserable attempt at punning; but after witnessing the piece we are able to report that it is certainly extravagantly amusing, and a gay, elegant, and cheerful production, well acted, and with the music well sung. The company includes Miss Fanny Josephs, Miss Wilmore, Miss C. Saunders, and Miss Clinton, and a numerous corps de ballet. Mr. H. J. Montagu and Mr. Robins are tolerably good in their several burlesque parts. The novelty for Christmas is a pantomime, with the well known theme and title of "Valentine and Orson." (Why not "Romulus and Remus," since new subjects for pantomimes are so scarce?) The prologue to the Holborn pantomime has been written by Mr. Burnand with a certain sprightliness and wittiness not usual to this sort of composition, and, altogether, the pantomime possesses superior attractive elements, and is well worth seeing.

Apropos of the burlesque libretta, we have to notice that latterly an improved form of this class of entertainment has become popular. We allude to Offenbach's opera-buffas, of which the best specimen we have seen is "The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein," at the Theatre-Royal Covent Garden, produced by Mr. John Russell, with magnificent scenic appliances. "The Grand Duchess" (in which Miss Julia Mathews's début as the fascinating Duchess was an indisputable success, and Mr. Harrison's return to the scene of his long career of management most favourably greeted) has been succeeded at Covent Garden by a new Christmas pantomime, entitled "Robin Hood and the Babes in the Wood," in which the family of the Paynes, great in grotesque pantomimic action, appear. Miss Amy Sheridan is the heroine, as Mr. J. Clarke is the hero of the new pantomime-burlesque. Reverting to Offenbach and burlesque-opera, we should notice that it is not confined to the theatres proper, but may also be seen at some of the day places of amusement, such as the Gallery of Illustration and the Polytechnic Institution. At the Gallery of Illustration, Mr. and Mrs. German Reed have produced several of Offenbach's operettas, with a good corps of opera-buffa vocalists, in addition to lending their own valuable services to this kind of piece. So successful have Offenbach's works proved in London, that Mr. and Mrs. German Reed have opened a new establishment. It is called the new St. George's Opera House (into which St. George's Hall, in Langham Place, has been converted). Here are played three pretty light operas on the same evening, viz., Offenbach's Chinese extravaganza, originally produced at the Gallery of Illustration, entitled " Ching Chow Hi" Offenbach's burlesque-operetta of "Puss in Petticoats" (the latter being quite new to this country); and a new English operetta, the music by A. Sullivan, the libretta by Mr. Burnand, entitled "The Contrabandesta." In these light musical pieces Mr. and Mrs. German Reed's opera-company disport to the gratifica

An amusing little piece, with a kind of burlesque tendency, has been for some time performed in the theatre of the Polytechnic Institution. The action (represented by means of transparencies and assisted by a legend in the Ingoldsby style, well recited by Mr. Millard) tells the romantic story, De La Motte Fouque's "Lurline." Professor Pepper's new invention is effectively employed in introducing the figures or shadows forming the dramatis persone of the piece. The agreeable voices of several younglady vocalists, and the piano-playing of others, together with a good chorus and charming scenery, claim for "Lurline" all the popularity it has achieved. While the Polytechnic stage appears capable of dramatic effects (albeit the latter all belong to a world of shadows) it is converted to the more useful purpose of illustrating sedater subjects than burlesques or operas. Lately has been produced a series of magnificent pictures or transparencies, illustrative of Abyssinian scenery, manners, and customs. Mr. Baines's or Mr. Pepper's excellent elocution imparts a certain vitality to the figures that are summoned on to the Polytechnic stage in this new entertainment, replacing "The Paris Exhibition." The lecturer causes the Abyssinian dramatis persona almost to speak for themselves, and we see King Theodore and his sable Court, with his unhappy captives, all appearing in a ghost-like form before us, thus impressing the audience with vivid notions of the barbaric country and monarch who has caused our Government so much trouble.

BEETHOVEN ROOMS.

66

E. H. M.

We were present on the 19th ultimo at one of the most pleasant ballad-concerts of the winter season, supported as it was by several old favourites, amongst whom we may mention Miss Banks, whose song, I wandered by the brook-side," was an agreeable reminiscence, and nicely sung; Mrs. A. Cooper gave "Robert, toi que j'aime," with due dramatic taste; Mr. Chaplin Henry's song of the evening was the genial old ballad of "The Vicar of Bray;" the trio, "This magic-wove scarf," from "The Mountain Sylph," and "The spinning-wheel" quartette, from "Martha"-in both of which Madame E. Cole and Mr. Alfred Hemming generally distinguished themselves, were the principal achievments of the concert. The promising tenor voice of Mr. Hemming will claim for the possessor a career in the front rank of musical artists. Solos on the harp and pianoforte by well-known performers varied the evening's entertainment, which was fully and fashionably attended.

E. H. M.

THE SCARLET LADY.

(A CHRISTMAS GHOST STORY.)

Not far from the old county town of a north ern shire stood Burfield Manor-house-a queer old place it was, and though well kept up by its proprietor, it bore on its face those signs of age which are so much more esteemed on the faces of buildings than on those of individuals. I well remember how awed I felt when I alighted, one day during the Christmas holidays, at the large hall-door, on a visit to Annie Burfield; and how shy I was when the stately old squire and his kind lady received me, and gave me a cordial welcome, at the same time thanking me heartily for my kindness to their only child, of whom they were devotedly fond. Annie Burfield was my friend, and school protégée; for, being two or three years older than she, I was able to afford assistance and protection to the shy little stranger, who had never before left her quiet home, and felt bewildered among all the noise and bustle of school nd school-life.

I was greatly delighted to roam with little Annie all over the large old house; and many were the family stories which she would retail for my benefit as we wandered through the long, gloomy corridors of the mansion. Among all these stories there was none which haunted my fancy like that of "The Scarlet Lady," who was said to appear to the Burfields before the death of any member of the family. This lady had been the wife of Sir James Burfield, who lived in the reign of Henry VIII. If history did not belie her she was not one of the best of women, and it is certain that she expiated her crimes at the stake, where she was burned to death. When led to execution she was dressed entirely in scarlet velvet, hence her name of "the Scarlet Lady." Her appearance was generally accompanied by loud screams, as of someone in pain, and was held to be the sure forerunner of some great evil, if not death, to that unlucky personage to whom she appeared. Annie and I, according to our urgent desire, shared the same bed, and very much more cosy we thought it. We occupied a long, low room, at the end of what was called Queen Elizabeth's gallery, from her august Majesty having been lodged in that part of the house during one of those numerous visits with which she was so fond of favouring, or I should rather say afflicting her loyal subjects. The room had an oriel window, which looked out upon the park-a very pleasant prospect it was, especially in summer, when the park was covered with its carpet of rich, short turf, and the sun lit up the fine old trees, among whose branches the birds sang merrily, while the deer browsed at their feet; now the whole scene was whitened by its

thick covering of winter snow, while the grey sky lowered gloomily above, but still the prospect was a pleasing one in its way. And the room? Ah! the room was always a pleasant one, with its quaint, old-fashioned air, its large, open fireplace, and its comfortable furniture.

One night when we were safely in bed, tired out after the dancing and excitement attendant on a party at the neighbouring house of Sir Henry Halford, we were aroused by a horrid sound of loud cries, we awoke in a great fright, clinging to each other in our terror; we both trembled like aspens, and Annie whispered to me "Oh dear! Sarah, what can it be?" We lay still, for we were afraid to cross the room and ring the bell, or even to call out. During several minutes, which appeared hours to us, all was silent; but again the dreadful sounds were renewed, this time appearing to proceed from the window. It was a bright moonlight night, and as we looked, the moon, re-appearing from behind a cloud, cast her pale rays full upon a scarlet object in the window; it was enough for us; here were all our worst fears confirmed. "The Scarlet Lady" stood revealed before us in all her direful and portentous presence. We felt tongue-tied, all power of utterance left us, the cries to which we would fain have given birth died on our lips, leaving a horrible stifled feeling, as if some garrottters had got hold of us. We hid our faces under the bedclothes, expecting to be pounced upon by some terrible monster and afraid to show our faces lest we should see something still more terrible. How long we lay in this way I do not know, but sleep, though broken and disturbed by frightful dreams, at length overcame us. When we awoke it was quite light, and the maid had come in to call us and assist us to dress; the first object on which our eyes fell, as we were trying to collect our scattered senses, was Mrs. Burfield's scarlet opera cloak thrown across a chair in the window! Here, then, was our mysterious vision of the night, our dreadful and woe-bearing spectre explained, at least so far as "The Scarlet Lady" was concerned! We both felt rather ashamed of ourselves, and proceeded quietly with our dressing. On reaching the breakfast-room door we were met by Mr. Burfield, who, on bidding us good morning, said to Annie, "I fear my little girl has been disturbed by the bull, who broke loose last night. Is it so, Annie? You look as though your head ached, and Miss Tylor does not seem much better." How ashamed we felt as we narrated our story to the Squire and Mrs. Burfield, who made us both return to our beds and take doses of very unpleasant medicine; the worthy lady was much

il they are not already under espionage, Mr. Pollaky, or some other "inquirer," would do well to keep an eye.

Which of our suffering housewives will not thank us for the following hint, which we cut from an exchange? "The people of New Orleans are going to establish co-operative kitchens to rid themselves of the servant-girl nuisance; while others, happily free from this species of domestic trial, and desirous of adding another grace to those which already "adorn them at

home," will be glad to learn that Mrs. Stirling the accomplished and graceful actress, is about to commence a class for ladies in reading-no, slight art to acquire for the household and society. Many well-educated ladies of rank and refinement have already learned from Mrs. Stirling the difference between "reading" and reading, and testify strongly to her ability in teaching, and to the high quality of the artistic and intellectual enjoyment they derive from her lessons in Tennyson, Browning, and our minor poets.

LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES.

"BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE."

Baby and I were going to Uncle Brown's to spend the day. I hardly know which anticipated the most pleasure from the visit. Baby -though she had such an infantile pet namewas three years old; but then she was our "only one," and we loved best to call her Baby. Baby was fully conscious of the pleasures of a visit to Uncle Brown's large farm. For there were chickens, little pigs, cows, calves-and best of all, the lambs to see. And Baby knew, too, that her boy cousins, Johnny and Georgie, were never tired of showing her all these, or in any way administering to her pleasure. And I, too, as Baby's mother, entered into her pleasure of these things, with thoughts of nice long chats with Cousin Sue, on domestic matters, and the pleasant walk I should have over the hills and through the meadows.

And so I put Baby to bed the night beforehand; she prattling of lambs and chickies, and stopping in the middle of "Now I lay me," to ask if Uncle Brown would show her the colt. And I, looking with an anxious eye at the dark clouds rolling in the west, said-"If it rains tomorrow, Baby, we'll go next day."

"Oh, but I dess it wont," lisped she; and shutting her eyes was fast asleep in two minutes. But in the morning, though it did not rain, the thick fog covered everything. The trees dripped with moisture, and the sun vainly strove to penetrate the mist. "Shant we go, mamma?" asked Baby when I dressed her.

and I to clearing the table. By-and-by I saw that the fog lifted itself somewhat, and that at times the sun almost peeped through.

Baby," I said, "if the sun comes out and the blue sky shows, we'll go to uncle's to day."

After that Baby ran to the door and window many times in an hour, to see if she could find any blue sky. Seeing me watching the clouds with an anxious eye. She came to the door, and putting her little face, with its brown bits of curls shading it, outside the door, called out "There's blue sky somewhere, mamma." I suppose a rift in the fog showed it to her, for she called instantly-"I don't see it now, but it's somewhere. Let's get our things and go, mamma-the blue sky is coming."

Sure enough in an hour it was all blue sky, and Baby and I were on our way to Uncle Brown's.

Three months after, and I stood beside Baby's little crib, but not to hear her repeat with lisping tones her little prayer. The little brown curls I was so proud of were not then stirred by the soft breath of slumber. The little busy, restless fingers were very quiet then, for Baby was sleeping the sleep that knows no waking here.

Oh! ye mothers who have stood thus beside your darlings, only ye can pity me. And she was our only one! As I stood watching the precious form, "something brought her words back to me-"There's blue sky somewhere, mamma." "Oh, my Baby!" I cried, "your sky is all blue now, and mine is so dark. For a moment the little face looked as lower- the bitter tears came like rain. They did my ing as the clouds; but Baby was too sunny heart good, and beside my dead baby's form I herself to look cloudy long, and eagerly cried-prayed that God would help me bear my sorro v, "But we'll go to-morrow, and that will do just

"I am afraid not," I replied.

as well!"

Darling Baby, how often did her patience, her cheerfulness over disappointments rebuke me! After breakfast Baby went to her play,

And

and that, above all, my grief would never make me selfish; that the love that I gave my child might go out to others to bless them. God heard me he helped me.

Do you think I have forgotten my child when

E

I tell you that I have been very happy since | school fifty miles away from the quiet inland she died? Not so. Her memory is the one village where he had attended the academy for precious thing of my life. Yet I see the blue half-a-dozen years. sky. Sometimes the mist comes over it. Sometimes it seems very dark to me. Yet I know it's somewhere. Behind the clouds, maybebut it's there. By-and-by I shall see it. "Blue sky" means God's love to me. I don't always see it, I can't always understand why the way is dark and the clouds cover me, but God knows. Behind it all is the blue sky: and soon I shall see it; and so I try and walk by faith-often stumbling-often soiling myself with earthly matters. Often walking with un- | certain steps; yet when the way seems darkest, and I grope blindly, lo! the blue sky; and Í see God's hand is leading me on.

Oh, ye sorrowing ones, lift up your headsGod's love is over you. By-and-by soon, if ye look up for it-you will see the blue sky.

"I'LL DO IT."

BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.

It

The river went on its road to the sea. heard the call afar off, and felt the mighty swelling of the great tides that waited to receive it in their arms.

The day was in the late summer, beautiful in the heavens, rejoicing upon the earth.

The old life was slipping away from him, the new one coming to him vague, large, untried, and he panted with a boy's eager longing to enter upon all that was new, strange, attractive in it. He was not given to sentiment of any sort; but amid all the keen, eager, swarming thoughts of the future that awaited Tom Burk, something else made itself felt, some haunting memories and regrets for the old life slipping away gave to the familiar scenes-to river, and hills, and green reaches of fields-a new power and sacredness.

All these things had brought the boy down to the river this afternoon. one more good time with his rod and line before He would have he went away. But the vague restlessness of his thoughts and feelings imparted themselves to his movements.

He heard the birds singing among the groups of willows and young oaks along the banks; he listened to the low psalm of the waters going down to the sea; he heard the lisp of winds in the branches, and something tender stirred in the heart of Tom Burk, and softened the round, had never worn before. immature face into a thoughtfulness which it

"For the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Was it all over for him? he asked himself; All this was in the feeling if not consciously the climbing the cherry-trees in summer, the in the thought of Tom Burk that afternoon, as nuttings in the autumn, the skatings in winhe wandered along the banks of the river, paus-ter, the snow balling, the rides on the loads of ing sometimes a few moments on a green edge of shelving bank, and dropping his fishing-line into the water, and swinging it there, but not waiting long for a nibble, though he was an expert angler.

new-mown hay from the meadows to the great
brown barn, the glorious times in the play-
ground, and all the rollicking fun and sport that
had been his delight ever since he could remem-
ber?

about his heart.
And then he felt a strange strain and ache
straightening himself up, and his blood glowing
What did it all mean?
under the reddish tan of his cheeks.

a tall, lank, grizzly-headed man with a scorched
At that moment Tom Burk caught sight of
straw hat, and trousers of faded blue, slowly
driving a team down the river road.

Nothing remarkable in this boy on a first glance, nor perhaps afterwards. A head that promised well, surrounded by a crop of thick, light air, strongly suggestive of stubble; a gait somewhat slouching, and giving a general impression of a rather loutish, loosely-built figure, though time would probably tighten the joints and add tension to the muscles; a skin tanned to a sort of red brick colour; eyes of a bright hazel, the best feature of the face; a bowed to him pleasantly, and passed out of The farming-man looked at the boy, then straw hat surmounting all this, and a grey sight with the horses and waggon; but that shoddy suit, just befitting a school-boy of four-sight had touched the key-note of another teen years.

Just here the life of Tom Burk was hovering. He had the faults and the virtues of that stage: with a good deal of roughness, immaturity, and obstinacy, there was a certain downrightness and sincerity about the boy, which promised a sound, vigorous manhood.

He hated, to use his own strong, if not elegant English, "a sneak." He scorned a mean, treacherous act, and you may be certain if a boy does not do that, there is every danger that he will go to wreck in his manhood.

This day formed an era in the boy's life. The next he was to leave home for a boarding

memory in the soul of Tom Burk.

fellows, had robbed that man's cherry orchard, Some months ago he, with a half-dozen other siripped the trees of all the ripened fruit. plan was concocted on a holiday afternoon and The executed that very evening. It happened to be with a lace of gray clouds over it, and the boys a favourable one for the undertaking, a moon a half-day of rough sport. Nobody thought were just ripe for a frolic, as they called it, after it was "mean," " stealing," at the time. he had put it away with some of the maxims of such a suspicion had flashed across Tom's mind the school-boy morality.

If