Because, being a blonde myself" (the n here
so nasal that Miss Moffatt appeared to be
seized with a sudden cold in the head), "we shan't
clash as to colours."

"As to colours?" said Mabel.

"Yes. I consider that so important. But
one never can get the English to think of these
things. For instance, when I wear blue, you,
playing in the same piece, would naturally wear
cerise or amber, which would go so charmingly.
But the fact is, we English are not artistic."

"Ain't we?"

"Oh dear no. We have no goût, no finesse,
no je ne sais quoi. To any one accustomed to
the foreign theatres we are sadly gauche and
unfinished."

"Well," rejoined Mabel, quietly, "I hope
the Kilclare people have not been accustomed
to the foreign theatres; and in that case they
won't find us out."

Whereupon Miss Moffatt looked a little
puzzled, and held her peace.

Rap, rap, rap. Mr. Trescott knocked sharply
with his bow on the table before him. "Now
then, ladies and gentlemen, music of Macbeth.
I've been here since ten o'clock, and I can't
afford to waste my time for the sake of other
people who can't get up to breakfast. Now
then, if you please. First singing witch."

Miss Moffatt, who had a very high squeaking
voice, was the first singing witch, and Miss St.
Aubert, who had a very deep and hollow one,
sang the music of the second at the wing: it
being found impossible to disguise the flowing
robes of Lady Macbeth effectually by means of
any cloaking or drapery.

So the rehearsal went on. The music was
familiar to all, and as they most of them had
tolerably correct ears, the effect was better than
might have been anticipated, except that old
Mrs. Copestake could not be induced to leave
off as soon as she should have done, but
insisted on singing the bits of symphony that
ought to have been confined to the violin.
Then followed the rehearsal of the tragedy on
the stage. As neither Mabel nor her aunt
had anything to perform in it, they returned
home together, leaving Jack, in a canvas blouse
bedaubed with many colours, putting the last black
touches to the background of the blasted heath.

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

THE BRISTOL RIOTS.

On the 29th of October, 1831, that inflexible
anti-reformer, the eccentric, sour-faced, shambling, learned, ungainly, Sir Charles Wetherall,
was to arrive in Bristol to open the assizes. The
secret political unions of the West of England had
been for some time before preparing to give him
such a rough welcome as might convince that
eccentric old Tory lawyer that there was no
reaction against the Bill for which the struggle had
been so long and so fierce. The Bristol
magistrates, alarmed at the popular menaces, had
begged Lord Melbourne to send troops to escort
Sir Charles into the city, and their request had
been granted. An unsuccessful attempt had also
been made by Lieutenant Claxton to form the
seamen then in port into a body of special
constables, but this scheme had been crushed in the
bud by the Radicals, who became irritated at
these tacit threats of their opponents, and were
determined to show what their real feeling was.
The ballad-singers and placard-stickers had been
for weeks exhorting the populace of the ancient
city to show their opinions of the Tory recorder.
Even the astrological prophets in penny
almanacks had been urging to violence. There can
be no doubt, indeed, that the recent three days'
revolution in Paris had affected men's minds
deeply, and that even quiet people, when the
House of Peers arrogantly threw out the
Reform Bill, began to think that only terror could
ever induce the privileged classes and the great
landed interest to widen the basis of the
constitutional pyramid. The will of the people had
been defied; it was now savagely bent on asserting
itself. A Bristol mob has always been
dangerous and fierce; Irish and Welsh sailors
lent it fire, colliers and boatmen brute courage,
shipwrights and the higher order of artisans
intelligence, and at this time political emissaries
from Birmingham had given it all it needed for
ruthless mischief and destruction—organisation.

There are always certain small events that, like
stormy petrels, announce a political storm. On
the 24th, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, especially
obnoxious to people from his wealth and his
recent vote in the House of Lords, had been pelted
by the mob while returning from consecrating a
new church at Bedminster, and had to be
guarded to his carriage by a party of gentlemen,
who volunteered for that purpose. The
magistrates, alarmed at this, swore in two
hundred special constables, and hired another
hundred. Well-dressed agitators had been seen
at night going from beer-shop to beer-shop
exciting the people against the recorder, who was
reported to have said heartlessly and in public
that six shillings a week was quite enough to
support in comfort a labouring man and a large
family. Idlers from Birmingham and other
centres of discontent had been observed in the
streets. A warning proclamation was accordingly
issued by the mayor, exhorting all honest
citizens to forget their political differences, and
rally round the standard of peace and order.

On the morning of the 29th of October
preparations to put down a riot were made with
the Tories' usual irritating timidity. Two troops
of the 14th Dragoons were marched into the
cattle-market, and one troop of the 3rd
Dragoons into the court-yard of the jail. The
special constables were also assembled in the
area of the Exchange, and staves distributed
among them. On Sir Charles's arrival at
Totterdown, and on his getting into the sheriff's
carriage, he was received with yells, groans,
and angry hisses. At Hill's-bridge the vehicle
was pelted, and in Temple-street, just by the
leaning tower, and not far from Redcliffe church,
viragoes at the windows screamed out their