at unprecedented odds—seven to one—what
more natural than that his feelings should be
translated by hurried and agitated music,
by fiddle gallopade and scamps of bows?
Again, what so natural as that when
smugglers, or robbers, or captives trying to make
their escape, should, when moving lightly on
tiptoe past the unnatural tyrant's chamber,
be kept in time by certain disjointed and
jerking music, with a grasshopper or robin-
redbreast rhythm? Again, what more
desirable than that when the greyhaired count
in the braided frock, whose early life will not
bear much looking into, turns to the villagers;
and, in tones that seem to come from the region
of his boots, says that "Adela is indeed
his chee-ild!"—what so becoming as what is
called "A chord!" of a startling character,
making listeners jump from their seats?
Still more in keeping is that slow,
agonising strain which steals in when all the
guests are crowding into the drawing-room,
with horror and consternation in their
countenances, and gather slowly about the
lady in white, whose father, husband, lover,
or brother has just disappeared, or been shot
in a duel, or absconded. Sad uplifting of
hands—characteristic grouping, and effective
tableau, as the drop-scene comes down
slowly to the agonising music, closing in all
decently!

All these primitive elements still endure,
with a vitality most unaccountable. Not
only endure, but are positively rejuvenescent:
and, like wicked Doctor Faustus in the play,
are ever changing their grey hairs and stiff
joints for hale and vigorous youth. No signs of
decay or extinction from over-longevity in
that transpontine region. They are as
Shakspearean weeds, of idle growth.

After a short rest, they seem to have taken
in an additional lease of healthy life. All
the old elements are there, only mixed hot
and strong and spiced with inflammatory
drugs, just as they season people's drinks
alcoholically at distinguished gin palaces.
And to certain mysterious compounds which
have lately seen the light with approbation
in countries, as well cis as transpontine, we
would crave attention, as being gems in their
peculiar line.

Room at first starting for a bleeding,
frantic, shrieking thing bearing the title of
Ada the Betrayed; or—hard enough to
lay on extra horrors after this, and yet it
has been done—or the Murder at the Old
Smithy. The murder at the old smithy!
Apt and fitting locale for the horrid deed.
Learmont senior is abroad, has property, and
is likely to come home. Learmont junior,
known as the Squire (about as wicked a
monster as ever trod the boards) being
unmistakeably related to that Sir Rowland who
was so cruel in regard to the Children in the
Wood. He has ruffians in his pay like that
baronet—one of evil nature, and the other of
a softer species, being altogether an improper
instrument for the purpose. The job, as it is
called, is to be done at the old smithy, where,
curious to say, the venerable Learmont
intends to put up at in preference to a hotel.
And here he is discovered sitting wearily
after a long day's travel with his little
daughter, which is the first appearance of
Ada the Betrayed. Says the child to her
aged parent:

"Father, I can't help looking on this place
with horror. It is dark and silent as a
tomb."

To her Learmont senior:

"Your chee-yldish fancy is disturbed by
long tee-ravel. Kneel, my chee-yld, and pray
that the sainted image of thy murther may
watch over and gee-ard thy slumber-r."

To which succeeds this striking picture:
—Ada kneels in prayer; gradually her
head drops upon the couch; father and
child sleep; blue fire; soft music; spirit of
Ada's mother rises, waves her arms in
benediction over her, and descends; short
pause; stage dark; murderer enters through
the folding-door cautiously; he is masked;
carries a stiletto and lantern; approaches the
couch and gazes on the sleepers. The strong
man's heart is softened: we have all that
tender corner in our hearts.

"My poor old master," says the mild
ruffian, "is it thus I am about to reward
your many years of kindness? No! no! I
cannot do it."

Neither does he; for the fellow ruffian
appears opportunely, and, after an interchange
of epithets, undertakes the task himself with
so inconvenient an instrument as a great
forge hammer. So effectually is the work
accomplished, that Learmont senior has only
time to make the following remark:

"Ada, my chee-yld! bless—bless—bless—"
(dies).

The cruel ruffian (also, it is evident, lent
from the Children in the Wood) is about
what he calls stopping the mouth of Ada the
Betrayed; but, at that instant, the spirit
arrives opportunely in company with blue
fire, and puts a stop to further iniquity.

But inscrutable are the ways of Providence.
Who would dream of there being an insane
woman, known as Mad Maud, going at large
in the village, who has a hoarse sea-captain's
voice, and knows by a mysterious instinct,
that some villainy is afoot? The Old Smithy
is a-fire, and the cracked lady heads the mob
rushing to the scene. Says Mad Maud
(wildly):

"Hark to the death-cry! See, the blood
flows in torrents!"

Wicked ruffian rushes at her.

"Idiot!" he says, "what do you mean by
this croaking? Silence! or, I'll make you!"

Make her what?

"There is blood upon your hands,"
continues Mad Maud. "It will cling to you
through life, and send your black soul to
perdition."