countenance, but apparently calm, and we descended to a private room to dinner.

I never knew a man who got over painful emotions more rapidly than Bagshaw. He had a power equal to that of "The Duke" in banishing unpleasant thoughts from his mind, and on no occasion do I remember him in a merrier mood than during this dinner. We had everything in season, the hock was first-rate, and Bagshaw told some of his best stories better than usual, for though they related to personal adventures which we had heard before, they were so altered in the telling as to appear quite new. But the moment for separation came, and in the friendliest manner-dashed, it might be, with a touch of sadness-Bagshaw wrung both our hands, and uttering only the word "Remember!" -I knew what he meant got into the cab which was to carry him to the Dover mail, leaving Blunt and I to talk over the singular circumstances under which our friend had been involved in this duel.

Not know

On the morning of the fourth day after Bagshaw's departure, I received a letter, bearing the Dover postmark, the address of which was so badly written that I wondered how it ever reached me. ing the hand, my first thought was that it came from the Belgian baron, Bagshaw's brother-in-law, and I feared the worst. On opening it, however, my fears were dissipated by the sight of the initials "Q. B.," though they bore very little resemblance to Bagshaw's usual signature; the letter itself, too, was a terrible scrawl. It ran thus:

"Ship Hotel, Dover, Friday. "Here I am again,-safe, if not sound,-for M.'s third ball passed through my right arm just above the elbow. It is only a flesh wound, but I am obliged to write with my left hand. I dropped him too,-but, I am thankful to say, he is not dead. After he was down he made me a complete apology, so my honour is restored. I hope to reach town to-morrow night, unless fever supervenes, and keeps me in bed. Come to me at Ruddle's Hotel in the Blackfriars-road and ask for Captain Battersby. I am obliged for the present to remain incog. till I know for certain that M. is out of danger. Bring Blunt with you.

"Q. B."

I communicated the contents of this letter to Blunt, and we mutually expressed our satisfaction that nothing worse had happened. At nine o'clock that evening we went to Ruddle's Hotel, and learned that "Captain Battersby" had arrived. We found him-that is, Bagshaw, -in a small, private room, lit only by one lamp, which was covered with a green shade and shed a sickly ray. Bagshaw had just dined, but a glass of brandy-and-water was before him; he seemed very pale-quite chalky in fact, as if he had lost a good deal of blood, and his right arm was in a sling; his voice, too, was much subdued, and he smiled in a ghastly kind of way.

"Glad to see you-my dear fellows," he gasped-" take care of this arm-I've still got-a hand for you-though not one-apiece. I'm afraid-the journey-has-been a-little-too much for my strength

-but I-dare say-I shall be-better-presently-what-will youtake?"

We urged him not to excite himself, and by degrees he began to rally. There was no fever, he said, only weakness-and he felt that the brandyand-water did him good. Its effects, indeed, were quite marvellous, for in less than half an hour he appeared quite himself again; his voice had resumed its usual tone, and he was able to relate some of the particulars of the duel. He did not, however, add much to the account which he had written, but told us that he had received a letter from Van Schamp that morning, before he left Dover, to say that his late antagonist was much better.

"I perfectly exonerated her," he said, " and Maxwell was quite satisfied that my visit was a purely innocent one, but, of course, under the circumstances, I can't see her again. Indeed, it would be of no use trying to do so, for she has taken refuge in a convent. The fact is, she is a Catholic! You can give me back that letter-and the others. If I can stand the journey I shall go down to-morrow to my father's in Wiltshire. I haven't been on very good terms with the old gentleman lately, and that thought haunted me a good deal while I was at Ostend."

This show of feeling was creditable to him, and both Blunt and I looked as if we thought so; not to fatigue him we then took leave, promising to see him off next morning.

We breakfasted accordingly at Ruddle's; Bagshaw seemed much better, the colour had returned to his cheeks, and his arm, he said, was going on very well. He had a narrow escape, however, of being thrown back again, for just as he was stepping into the Wiltshire Telegraph an awkward porter ran against him with a heavy carpet-bag, striking him on the right shoulder. I expected to have seen him drop, but he took no notice of the accident, his attention being, apparently, absorbed at the moment by a very pretty girl at the bar of the hotel, to whom he was in the act of kissing his hand.

"How uncommonly well Bagshaw bears pain," I remarked to Blunt, as the Wiltshire Telegraph drove off.

"Uncommonly!" said Blunt, drily.

Well he might say so; for, about six months afterwards, we both discovered, what various circumstances had led us to suspect that there was nothing the matter with Bagshaw's arm.

To use his own words: "the fact is," there had been no duel-he never went to Ostend-but had run up a bill at Dover instead-Laura was a creature of his imagination, and there never was such a person as Maxwell!

How this all came out arose from the fact of my being applied to, to pay the cheque which was returned to the gunsmith, with " no effects" written across it. The pistols, I suspect, found their way to the pawnbroker's.

SHALL THE RUSSIAN REACH THE BALKAN MOUNTAINS?

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

ON Hæmus' hills of ancient fame we stand*-
Grand towers and ramparts reared by Nature's hand,
To bar from Northern hordes, whose savage ire
Would waste the blooming South with sword and fire.
Night caps each pinnacle of snow,

On which the moon doth glory throw,
Like beams wreathed round the sainted head,
Most meekly, purely, softly shed;

And stars, still sentinels, are keeping
Watch o'er the giant mountains sleeping;
No sound to break their slumbers, save the dash
Of yon wild torrents that, like diamonds, flash
Down the steep toppling crags, while echo still
Wails back their voice from each dark hollow hill.
No more from clouds the eagle sends his shriek,
But folds his wing on yon high splintered peak.
Through chasms and gulfs the night-winds faintly sigh,
The moveless pines stand sculptured on the sky;
Below, Maritza trails its silvery line,

While, shimmering 'neath the moon,

Like a still smooth lagoon,

Far to the East the Euxine's waters shine:
There Gaul's and Albion's guardian fleets are riding,
Though nought the ken descries,

Save, hung 'twixt waves and skies,
Some star-lit sail, like a white spirit, gliding,
Along the blue flat sea,

All slowly, silently.

Grandeur and Solitude on these vast steeps
Have made their throne, and hermit Quiet keeps
His vigil here, and Night, nor sad, nor dull,
Crowned with her stars, makes terror beautiful.

And shall the Invader reach this mountain mass?
And through these gates shall Russia's myriads pass?
Fancy beholds them now-their legions come,
Like the thick Persian host,

That blackened Græcia's coast,

And sent from hill to hill its bee-like hum.
Men bold of heart are here, and strong of hand,
As those in Sparta's ne'er-forgotten band;

* The Balkan range-the Hamus of the Greeks.

But different shall their doom be; Britain, Gaul,
And Othman's children, do not fight to fall:

No slain Leonidas,

No sad three hundred brave,
Shall choke this rugged pass,

Or fill a gory grave;

For power, as well as valour, on our side,

We'll crush the Vandals, bow the Northmen's pride.
See! late so lone, each rock is swarming now
With dauntless warriors; on the crag's tall brow
The cannon bristles, ready to give breath

In deep-tongued thunder, and to belch forth death.
Back, Northmen! to your wilds, nor tempt your fate;
For if ye enter here,

Blind, rash aggressors! it will be too late;

Few shall survive to tell the tale of fear.

How changed the scene! peace, solitude, no more
Brood o'er the Balkans; far and wide the roar
Of red-mouthed cannon sounds through each defile,
Alive with fire seems each high craggy pile:
Here from black pines a column swift advances,
There a long hedge of glittering bayonets glances;
The cheer of Gaul and England, the loud cry
Of Islam's followers, wildly mix on high:
The startled wolf hath fled;
War's clouds around are spread ;
The stream, so pure before,
Is running stained with gore,
And Death and Havoc close
Alike o'er friends and foes.

Shall Stamboul fall, and savage Cossacks ride
Through Europe's garden on their steeds of pride?
Right yield to Wrong? fair Civilisation bow ?-
Thou God of battles! smile, decide it now!

The wall of brass that England rears,
Scotia's claymore, the Moslem's spears,
Gaul, active, skilled, with guns that make
The mountains and our foemen quake,
Have foiled the myriads there!
Let shouts now rend the air,
As back from Balkan passes,
In broken, bleeding masses,

The vanquished Russians swift retire ;
Up! on their flying squadrons fire!
Drive them to whence they came-t
-the land of bears;
The Eden of the South shall ne'er be theirs :
Tell them and him, the guilty cause of all,
Aggressors thus shall bow, and tyrants fall,
Insulted Europe thus hath vengeance hurled,
And thus shall Justice triumph in the world.

REVELATIONS OF THE FRENCH OPERA.*

THUCYDIDES has written that she is the most virtuous woman of whom the least is said. The ladies of the Opera are, according to M. Véron, ancien directeur of the French Opera, those of whom the most is said. It is to them in particular that he tells us the unjust and ungallant definition of a woman, "La femme est une créature humaine qui s'habille, babille, et se déshabille," applies itself-a definition which, unlike the fair ladies in question, would manifestly lose by translation, as the play upon the words could not be preserved.

Are the ladies of the Opera then modern illustrations of the wisdom and truth of the Athenian's apothegm, or do they contradict a saying only true some 400 years ago? If much was said in those times of the Glyceras, the Lais, the Phrynes, and the Aspasias, does it at all follow, because much is said in modern times of the Taglionis, the Elsslers, and the Duvernays, that they in any way resemble their antique predecessors? M. Véron will tell us. He is in the humour for revelations. In whatever position of life he has been placed, he says, he has been assailed and calumniated. He will reply to these attacks by exposing the system. Not that he pretends to have come off scathless. "In France," the Director tells us, "most of our statesmen manifest, no matter how old they are, a certain taste for gallantry. The position of minister is more especially sought for in order to dazzle the vanity and the hearts of the fair sex, or to carry by assault the beauties of the coulisses." Most worthy object of ambition! the height of political success is to be temporary master of a pair of legs or of a melodious throat! We can fancy the sneer that would curl on a Guizot's or a Martignac's lip. Even a director is not invincible. 66 'Opera directors," M. Véron tells us, "have hearts like other men, and all the resources of coquetry are brought into operation to become master of the place. The love of a director meets with a constant excitement in the successes of her whom he prefers, and in the decent reserve which is imposed upon him in the presence of people at once curious and fond of scandal."

Such preferences might possibly be kept secret from the eyes of men, but they would never be lost to rival choregraphists. The director was upon one occasion rendered sensible of this fact in a remarkably ingenious manner. It was not customary to give benefits at the Opera, but when benefits were given at other theatres, to the Mars, the Duchenois, or the Branchus, the artists and the repertory of the Opera were placed at their disposal. One day Madame Pradher had a benefit at the Opera Comique. After having asked from the Director the services upon that night of Nourrit, Levasseur, and Madame Damoreau, she added, in the most innocent manner possible, "That is not all; you have a charming dancer, who in my opinion has almost as much talent as Mademoiselle Taglioni; I hope you will allow her to dance at my benefit.” "She then named," says the Director, "confidentially, the one who obtained my more or less secret preferences, and more or less discreet attentions. I

* Mémoires d'un Bourgeois de Paris, par Le Docteur L. Véron. Tome Troisiéme.