one sees digging potatoes in Perthshire, but
still a most fascinating something else. The
little creature seemed to enjoy it so herself;
smiled, not with the dancer's stereotyped grin,
but a broad honest childish smile, as she leaped
down, made her final curtsey, and bounded
along through the exit under the boxes.

There — among the group which seemed always
hanging about there— the ring-master, the clown,
and one or two young men— there crept forward
a figure in black, a young woman, who met the
Highland fairy, threw a shawl over her, and
carried her off; a performance not set down in
the bills, but which seemed to entertain the
audience exceedingly.

The next diversion was a " Feat on Bottles,
by Monsieur Ariel," who shall here go down to
posterity as a proof of the many ingenious ways
in which a man can earn a livelihood if he chooses.
Two dozen empty bottles —ordinary "Dublin
Stout" — are arranged in a double line across a
wooden table. Enter a little fat man, in tights,
and an eccentric cap, who bows, springs upon
the table, and with a solemn and anxious
countenance proceeds to step, clinging with his
two feet, on to the shoulders of two of the
bottles. This is Monsieur Ariel. He walks
from bottle to bottle, displacing none, and never
once missing his footing, till he reaches the end
of the double line, then slowly turns, still
balancing himself with the utmost care, as
is necessary, and walks back again amidst
thunders of applause. He then, after pausing,
and wiping his anxious brows, proceeds to several
other feats, the last of which consists in forming
the bottles into a pyramid, setting a chair on top
of them, where he sits, stands, and finally poises
himself on his head for a second, to the breathless
delight of all observers, turns a somersault,
bows, and exit Monsieur Ariel. He has earned
his nightly wage, and a tolerably hard-earned
wage it is, to judge by his worn countenance.

But I cannot specify each of the performances,
though, I confess, after-events photographed
them all sharply on my mind. So that I still can
see the " Dashing Act on a Bare-backed Horse,"
which was a series of leaps, backwards and
forwards, turning and twisting, riding the beast in
every sort of fashion, and on every part of him,
except his ears and his tail; indeed, I think the
equestrian gymnast was actually swept round
the ring once or twice, clinging with arms and
legs to the creature's neck. And the " Comic
Performing Mules!" how delicious they were
in their obstinacy! Perfectly tame and quiet,
till one of the audience, by invitation, attempted
to get on their backs, when, by some clever
evolution, they gently slipped him over their noses,
and left him biting the ignominious sawdust.
One only succeeded — a youth in a groom's dress—
who, after many failures, rode the mules round
the ring; on which there was great triumph
in the gallery, which felt that "our side" had
won. For me—I doubt — since do I not in the
next scene, the " Grand Hippodramatic Spectacle,
entitled Dick Turpin's Ride to York," behold
that identical youth, red-headed and long-
nosed, attired, not as a groom of the sixteenth
century, but as a highwayman of the seventeenth,
and managing a beautiful bay horse, at least as
cleverly as he did the Performing Mule?

This Ride to York — my nieces remember it
still — and declare that Robson — alas, poor
Robson! — could not have acted Dick Turpin
better. And for Black Bess, her acting was
beautiful, or rather it was not acting, but obeying.
The way the mare followed her master about,
leaped the turnpike at Hornsey, crawled into the
ring again — supposed near York—with her flanks
all flecked with foam (and white chalk), drank
the pail of brandy and water, and ate the raw
beefsteak, was quite touching. When, at last,
she sank down, in a wonderful simulation of
dying, and poor Dick, in a despairing effort
to rouse her, struck her with the whip—my eldest
niece winced, and muttered involuntarily, " Oh,
how cruel!"—  And when, after a futile struggle
to obey and rise, poor Black Bess turned, licked
Turpin's coat-sleeve, and dropped with her head
back, prone, stiff, and dead most — admirably
dead — my youngest niece, a tender-hearted
lassie, freely acknowledges that — she cried!

The last entertainment of the evening was the
Flying Trapeze.

Not everybody knows what a trapeze is;
a series of handles, made of short poles
suspended at either end by elastic ropes, and
fastened to the roof, at regular intervals, all
across the stage. These handles are swung to
and fro by the performer or his assistant; and
the feat is to catch each one, swing backwards and
forwards with it, and then to spring on to the
next one, producing to the eyes of the audience,
for a brief second or two, exactly the appearance
of flying. Of course the great difficulty lies in
choosing the precise moment for the spring,
and calculating accurately your grasp of the next
handle, since, if you missed it——

"Ah," said my eldest niece, with a slight
shudder, "now I see the meaning of those
mattresses, which they are laying so carefully
under the whole line of the trapeze. And
I understand why that man, who walks about
giving directions, is so very particular in seeing
that the handles are fastened securely. He looks
anxious too, I fancy."

"Well he may. He is Signor Uberto's
father."

"Then, is it anything very dangerous, or
frightful? Perhaps we had better go?"

But it was too late, or we fancied it was.
Besides, for myself, I did not wish to leave.
That strange excitement which impels us often
to stop and see the end of a thing, dreadful
though it may be, or else some feeling for which
I was utterly unable to account, kept me firm in
my place. For just then, entering quickly by the
usual door, appeared a small slight young man,
who looked a mere boy indeed, and in his white
tight-fitting dress, that showed every muscle of