It

mised bride of this young Scot. Preparations are soon made for their nuptials, in the midst of which comes in an old witch, Madge by name, who reading the palms of all the lads and virgins present, foretells, among other things, that Effie will be the wife, not of the young Scot, but of Gurn. The former is soon left alone. He is half in love with the sylph, or rather with a certain vision of his sleep, for such to him does Taglioni seem. Well, while he is musing, up rises a distant window, and the sylph appears therein. By mysterious means she sails down to where stands her beloved. She appears sad, for he is soon to marry Effie. Notwithstanding her sadness, he resolves to abide true to his Scottish bride. Taglioni now goes through some steps of surpassing grace to win him. is all in vain. And yet if there be any thing which may worthily cheat a young man into forgetfulness, not only of his vows but of all the past, it is the style of Taglioni. She now folds around her the cloak which Effie had accidentally left behind. This trick succeeds. The recreant Scot salutes the sylph's lips. Gurn happened to see this. He gives notice to Effie and her companions that the Scot is billing and cooing with an unknown damsel. They rush in. The sylph had swiftly seated herself in a large arm-chair, over which, for concealment, is thrown Effie's cloak. denly jerks up said cloak, but lo! the form has vanished. Mighty is the machinery of the Academie Royale de Musique. It is complete diablerie. There is nothing like it in all the world.

Gurn sud

I shall not detail the various events which take place ere the Scot finds himself, alas! quite disloyal to his first love, and led on, captivated by the sylph, far away into her own fairy realms. I think that never was stage scenery arranged, so as, even in any remote degree, to equal that which these realms present. It is executed by French taste, out of abundant governmental funds; and its ambition is to outrival any thing of the kind in Europe. It is indeed unique and magnificent beyond all parallel. In the theatres of my own country I had been taught to think it a pretty clever feat, if but one good-looking actress were made to soar, by the aid of ropes and wires, from the nether to the upper regions. But fancy to yourself an entire score of French nymphs, flying at the same moment through what seemed the heavens, near and far away, over meadows and among groves, while approaching on the earth from the distance, appears a band of some forty or fifty others, each in white, adorned with rose wreaths, and beating their Psyche wings, as, with Taglioni at their head, they advance and retire in every line of beauty and of grace. What a magnificent succession of tableaux could their successive positions have been, transferred to the canvass! Could only the lines written by Taglioni on the un

retaining air have been traced on paper, they would have formed a study for any sculptor or painter. All seems enchantment. It is airy, and wavering, and noiseless as a dream. You hear not the fall of a single footstep. All is in motion, and all is in deep stillness. Surely there could be desired no more perfect realization of fairy land than this. The French do these things well. They understand exactly what will delight in this luxurious centre of all the world, where thousands on thousands congregate for no other mortal end than mere amusement. The ballet is a work of art. It must be executed on a grand scale, and with nicest delicacy in all its minutest details, that it may please the artificial tastes which have been created to enjoy it. It is so executed; and every night is it witnessed by thousands, thronging the immense theatre to the very roof.

The part of the young Scot was performed by an Italian named Guerra. He dances with vigour and extreme legerity. His elastic springs surprise you. His pirouettes astonish. Therein lies his genius. He twirls about swiftly and painfully long. Indeed, the wags of the theatre declare that Guerra would pirouette until doomsday did not the Police close the house each night at twelve. He, however, discloses a consciousness. He seems to know that he dances well. Like Madame Julia, his attitudes are continually saying, "think of that." It neutralizes half the effect of his fine

motions.

But what is the denouement of the tale? the Scot is in fairy land. There, strange to say, the sylph plays the coquette. She delights him with her motions, but she vanishes away whenever he attempts to approach her. In these scenes is Taglioni again inimitable. It is as a sylph that she should always be seen. It is only thus that all her grace and lightness can shine out. It seems to be a character necessary for the success of one who, though upon the earth, seems, so far as motion is concerned, to be so little of the earth. The coquetry of Taglioni, the sylph, is the only amiable coquetry I have ever seen. It enabled her to reveal some new capacities of her finely moulded form. It was soon, however, to be subdued. The Scot having sought out and requested the above-mentioned Madge to give him a charm whereby he might secure the sylph, receives a crimson scarf. This he found occasion dexterously to fling around her. Embraced within its folds, her wings fall from her shoulders, and she falls dead to the earth. With the loss of her liberty has passed away her life. The Scot, of course, is inconsolable. Her sister sylphs now cluster around the lifeless form, enshroud it in a transparent veil; and while with it they slowly ascend heavenwards by the mysterious propulsion of their wings, the cur

tain drops. Thus ends the Sylphide; and you retire from it to your solitary chamber, doubtful, perchance, whether what you have for the last hour witnessed, be some pleasant vision of your slumbers or a substantial reality. J. J. J.

SONG.

"I NEVER KNEW HOW SWEET a light."

I NEVER knew how sweet a light
Could beam from woman's eyes,
Till I beheld thine own, more bright
Than stars in summer skies.

I never knew how sweet a tone
A woman's voice could sing,
Till I had listened to thine own
More soft than notes of Spring.

I never knew how sweet a grace
In woman's form was seen,
Till in thy motions I could trace
The bearing of a queen.

I never knew what charms could be
Combined in only one,

Till first my heart confessed in thee
Thy sex's paragon!

HERMION.

LEAVES FROM A LADY'S JOURNAL.

No. 6.

BY GRACE GRAFTON.

Sabbath obligations of Catholics-Sunday in Zacatecas continued-Bull-fighting, with some of its varieties- The theatres.

CHURCH going in Mexico is very different from church going in the United States, though there it is equally, I may say far more, a matter of strict religious obligation: nothing but absolute necessity can excuse a catholic for neglecting to hear mass on every day that the church requires it, be it Sunday or feast day; but if he hears one entire mass, occupying the space of thirty or forty minutes, his religious duties are complied with for that day, the remainder of which may be devoted to every species of amusement within his reach. Labour is forbidden; but with catholics pleasure is the very essence of the Lord's day. Is there a Plaza de Toros ?— on Sunday it is open, morning and afternoon. Is there a Theatre? -on Sunday night behold a fuller house than on any other night in the week. It must be evident to every one who ever passed a sabbath in a catholic city, that on this point they have no religious scruples whatever; they have never been taught the commandment which says, "keep holy the sabbath day;" or they put a different construction on the words "keep holy" from that which they bear with us. Thus, in following pursuits, which in a community like ours would be in defiance of religious law and of public opinion, they commit no breach of propriety, are guilty of no dereliction of principle, and so far are innocent, and justified in adhering to their own peculiar customs. Nor is it to this particular distinction in the religious usages of the catholics that ought to be attributed the laxity of morals that is observable in their communities; because we do not find that a strict observance of the sabbath leads to ge. neral purity of morals or propriety of deportment, and it does not appear that the open and social enjoyments of which all partake in the unrestrained glee of their hearts, can have a more prejudicial effect on the character than the rash defiance of public sentiment, or weary discontent, or hypocrisy, to which rigid restrictions give rise when injudiciously exercised over the young and the thought

less. This subject has been so ably handled in an excellent book of travels published last year,* that it would be presumption to make further comment upon it; unless it be to offer the humble tribute of my approbation to the clear-sighted, unprejudiced opinions contained in the interesting work alluded to. It would be well to imitate so fair an example, and look round on the follies and vices at home whilst we criticise the gross errors of other nations, and thus, in viewing our own defects learn to look with charity on those of others. Let us then mingle some lenity with our disappro bation as we proceed to follow the Mexicans through one of their strange, incongruous Sundays.

In the midst of the crowded business of the plaza, and the thronging backwards and forwards to mass, a singular procession comes out, a kind of living advertisement to announce the bull-fights which are to take place in the afternoon. This is composed of the heroes of the arena. The picadores, whe fight on horseback; the toriadores, who fight on foot; and the matador, all mounted, and dressed in their appropriate costumes; preceded by the locos (buffoons) on foot, fantastically attired, dancing, and playing a thousand ridiculous antics in time to the noisy music which accompanies. them. A foolish parade it is; yet sufficient to fill the balconies with gazers, and to collect a crowd of the lower orders, who buzz around them, and join in the tricks of the buffoons. They drive the market folks to the right and left as they sweep through the plaza, and the mass-going ladies are fain to slip round out of the way to avoid them.

At two o'clock the shops are shut; the citizens retire to dinner, and drop off into the tranquilizing siesta, which seems to spread a calm over the town: the bustling and thronging is over; the donkeys disappear; the beggars crawl off to their hiding places; the very market women hang their heads like their own drooping lettuce. But as the hour draws nigh which summons them to the bull-fight, the people swarm out again in their holiday suits, and pass on towards the point of attraction, leaving the streets deserted, and resting in something like the stillness of a Sunday afternoon as it settles on a Protestant city. As it is necessary for the curious and the inquiring to move with a people into their scenes of diversion as well as into their places of worship, we will give up this more congenial season of temporary repose, and follow the senseless herd who are crowding into the amphitheatre.

There is something rather imposing in the word amphitheatre, which you fancy must lead to a building worthy of the name. Not

"The Old World and the New."