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The doctor

with arms extended towards her. She flew into them. gave a sign to the orchestra. The thrilling notes of the "Genesung Waltzer" smote the air.

"Go on," whispered he into my ear, and away we went, round after round, to the top of the room and down again, with fearful agility, but also without effort. It was as if we were carried by a whirlwind of magic. The dance of death, which Holbein has represented with such appalling reality, was nothing to this.

During a few lurid intervals I recollected the case of that lady, who, whilst in a cataleptic trance, had all her senses concentrated in the ends of her fingers and toes. But here was a different case. My sleeping partner's frame was as elastic, as soft and yielding as ever. Her arms hung tenderly over mine; and yet I felt as if I could not unclasp them. At times I thought our feet were winged, so lightly and smoothly did we glide. Her pace grew quicker-the smile brightened more and more at every step-the swimming eyes threw round flashes of lightning through the tiny dilated membranes. Did she fancy she was carrying me upwards? At other moments the returning sense of my own weight, her compressing lips, her darkening eyelids, the slackening step, were signs, as if she was going to give up the struggle; hurled down by the burden, she tried in vain to lift up and whirl away into another sphere.

"How long is this to continue?" gasped I, through my choaking

throat.

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'Hush! hush!" was the reply of the doctor, who followed our course with fixed eyes on her face. The curious spectators pressed round.

"More room, more room!" exclaimed she. The music began to slacken. "Quicker, quicker," was her word of irresistible command; and away did we dash again, as if to go through a fresh dance. At last she ap peared to betray signs of exhaustion-her steps began to halt limpingly -the lips closed-the lids grew black, and she sank into the arms of the doctor.

What followed I did not see, for I, too, had lost all consciousness of what was passing. When I awoke I found myself in my bed, with the anxious looks of my mother and sister upon me. I tried to speak-to question them. Their imploring eyes forbade the attempt. Had I passed hours, days, or weeks in that trance? I could not answer, but I felt I was ushered into a new existence.

A strong constitution soon mastered the evil. When led for the first time into the open air, dizziness, languor, and renewed susceptibility of strong impressions created that feeling, of which Heine speaks in his ode to Norderney, when he says,

Mir ist, als sass ich winterlange,

Ein Kranker, in dunkler Krankenstube,

Und nun verlass ich sie plötzlich,

Und blendend strahlt mir entgegen

Der smaragdne Frühling.

It was not the spring, but a most luxurious autumn. The peaceful island had resumed its everyday's appearance. Not a single visiter remained behind. The larger houses, the casino were closed, the doors and windows shut, the walks neglected, the trimmed gardens left to the

sport of the wind. The fishermen had returned to their usual occupations, and with it recovered their wonted independence, hilarity, and frankness. The sun shone brightly-the sand sparkled like diamond-dust-the sea, boisterous as it had been during the whole season, had now become one liquid mirror. Every thing spoke of ease, calm, and repose. Was it catching? Did my mind become so tender, so yielding through illness, that the first glimpse of the external world attuned it into harmony with itself? Had memory been unstrung? I know not, but I continued tranquil, resigned, and avoided all mention or allusion to the past. It was fortunate I did so; for when strength returned, despair and consternation came upon me with so overpowering a shock, that many a stronger mind would have been undone for ever. I learned that Mrs. Hanmer left Norderney on the morning which followed the event above referred to. Before leaving, she sent the doctor to assure us of her unchanged friendship, and to implore me in the name of all that I held dear on earth, to forget Tooney, and never to follow them or endeavour to trace their steps. The doctor at the same time assured my family that he expected the very best results from the last crisis, and promised to give us soon the news of the complete recovery of his patient.

Two years have now elapsed since that eventful period. I have religiously kept the promise of making no effort to find out the fugitives. No letter, not even the slightest intimation have I received from them. The ring has not been returned. Last winter I heard accidentally that Mrs. Hanmer was at Rome. I wrote to a friend to tell me all he knew about them. He answered that Miss Hanmer was the leading beauty in every gay circle. She had recovered completely. The bloom of health had again revisited her cheeks. No party, no excursion, no amusement was thought complete without her participation and leadership. Her equestrian feats on the Monte Pincio, her daring temerity at the chase in the Campagna di Roma, brought into fashion by Lord Chesterfield, her exploring industry among the ruins of the eternal city, were the theme of every body's admiration and eulogy. During the gaieties of the carnival, no one was so conspicuous in unrestrained buoyancy of spirits. With her did the Duke de Leuchtemberg vie in the unlimited shower of early bouquets. From her balcony the hail of sugarplums poured most incessantly and most abundantly. At balls she was the cynosure of all eyes-her presence enlivened the dance-she joined in it herself most heartily. "But," added my friend in conclusion, "there are, to my mind, a few drawbacks-she is a shade too masculine, and inclined towards embonpoint at no distant period. Then she has a most invincible and provoking habit of drooping her eyelids, and thus concealing her charming eyes. And what to an inveterate waltzer like yourself will appear a most unpardonable sin, although a most graceful dancer, waltz she will not-no earthly inducement can prevail upon her to do so -and this for no assignable reason but some unaccountable whim or obstinacy engendered and confirmed by a too great familiarity with success. Of admirers and suitors she has many and to spare. Among the latter there are two, between whom fortune still holds an even balancea ruined Roman prince, and a wealthy ex-sheriff of London."

Upon the reception of this letter, I wrote to my friend again, confiding to him as much of my history as I thought meet, in order to

elicit further details-and for an answer, I received from him the following distich:

Nell' onda solve, e nell' arena semina,

Chi fonda sue speranza in cuor di femina.

Which I paraphrased in this way: "If I ever see Miss Hanmer again, it will be probably at one of those roofless palaces, where a dozen broken statues and a few musty pictures stand in lieu of all comforts of refined life-it will be at a whist-table, opposite to a cardinal, herself retailing to an old crone anecdotes about the pope, whilst tantalising with a smile a monsignore, sporting for the first time the glory of red stockings; or, when I go in a few years to the November banquet at Guildhall, it will be, perhaps, my bitter lot to recognise in the massive and redundant' Lady Mayoress dispensing the civic hospitality, the once sweet, delicate, and poetical Tooney."

"And pray what is the moral of your tale?" asked the friend to whom I gave the manuscript of the above-sketched history to read.

"Not one, but many," answered I. "I might pour upon you a shower of quotations, as exponents of its meaning. Take, for instance, that from Shakspeare, with a slight variation. There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, if not taken at the flood, leads on to misery.' But I sought no moral beyond that with which I started, and that is, that if the passionate fondness for WALTZING disturbs the economy of health, it carries with it an antidote, for by WALTZING you may set all right again."

"If so," exclaimed my friend, "dismiss that thoughtful and moody temper, in which I have latterly seen you indulging but too much; otherwise I shall think that the mesmeric influence has migrated from her into you. And at our next ball we shall dance the Tausend sapperment Waltzer, till the echo of our frantic steps rebounds and shakes the seven hills of the eternal city to their very foundation."

"Yes," sighed I out, trying to chime in with his merry ravings, "provided that the now raging Polkamania will admit even of so slight a

satisfaction."

"Caught-caught in your own trap," exclaimed he. "You acknowledge therefore that your universal conqueror may possibly be superseded, if he has not already been dethroned."

"By no means," answered I; "the Polka is only another version of the Waltz. The characteristic of power is to multiply itself. This new Bohemian or Polish dance is only one of the numerous progeny which may be expected to issue from so prolific a parent. Twenty years ago, how few could waltz. Now people run riot with it. In order to advance in perfection, they must needs invent something harder. In this they follow Bacon's well-known precept. At first they practised with helps, as swimmers do with rushes,' and now they practise with disadvantages, 'as dancers do with thick shoes; for it breeds great perfection if the practise be harder than the use'-the only legitimate use of all these transmutations and improvements being to render the parent stock still more perfect, and then the WALTZ will prosper and flourish, while its redundancies and offshoots may luxuriate for a season, and then must infallibly die away."

"TALK OF THE DEVIL

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD, ESQ.

It hath not appeared.

SIGNOR RODERIGO.

THIS notorious maxim, the half whereof is as expressive and intelligible as the whole, has, time out of mind, taken upon itself to assert that its hero will appear whenever he is talked about; in other words, that if men will rashly admit him into their mouths he will infallibly start up before their eyes. In the drama of life, the stage direction "Enter the Devil," is sure to be followed by an exclamation from all the characters, "Your worship was the last man in our mouths."

Nothing is more false; not the hero of the maxim himself. Nay more, nothing is more contrary to the fact, as it is made familiar to every one of us, by daily repetition, in ordinary life. Thus, it is not only false, but we know it to be so. To that the Unmentionable appears when he is mentioned, is to figure as the pet son of that Father of Lies. And yet we go on, not merely handing down the falsehood as a fact, but applying its philosophy to all conceivable occurrences as fast as they

arise.

say

We are talking of Jim and Jim knocks at the door. We were just thinking of his grandmother, and she goes by at that moment in an omnibus. We are speaking of thunder, and a clap shakes the house! Talk of the devil!

Jack comes up to us in Piccadilly, just as we are celebrating his rare merits-talk of the devil! but we have puffed him thereabouts to the very clouds, scores of times, when Jack has been at Mile-end or Morocco. Tom bolts into the room at the very instant we were abusing him-talk of the devil! but we have torn his character to ribands behind his back, and left him without a rag of respectability on a hundred occasions, when Tom's hand was never near the handle of the door. Enough that it happens once. The man is "always tying that shoe."

Common existence is necessarily full of coincidences, and common flesh and blood is necessarily full of wonderment; but if things and people would come when they were talked about, the world would burst at once into an extraordinary fit of gabble, and some of us might possibly begin to speak on rather forbidden subjects. Which virtuous man would begin to chatter about his neighbour's wife, or which of the incorruptibles would take to discoursing upon bribes, it would be invidious to guess.

But do we not, as it is, talk sufficiently of the desirables without getting them? and do we not also love to talk abundantly of the miserables? but here we have better luck, and very frequently secure them by so doing.

Talk of the devil and he will appear, whether he is talked of or not, if it suits him. A maiden lady of our acquaintance was always talking of young aristocrats, captains in the guards, and handsome commoners with large estates; this for a dozen years; but they never appeared-never

once in all that time. And now she is talking night and day of small red lamp'd surgeons, in a state of celibacy, or single banking-clerks with a genteel turn and a rising salary—but although her teeth are wearing out with talking of them, even these do not appear. Perhaps there are a good many night patients or no holidays at the bank now-at all events nothing happens à propos.

And as for McGammon, who is always talking of honesty, let us ask of any reader who knows his habits whether he can be proved to have spoken twice on any other subject since he returned from transportation. Honesty is always in his mouth; he fastens his teeth in it, and his tongue takes kindly to no word but that. But did honesty ever appear in his conduct! If you observe-and it is rather curious-the figures are all wore off his satin waistcoat on the left side-the result of a constant application of the hand to the heart, when he quotes his one line of poetry, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" but-without the least disrespect to a few other persons whom we hear of―he is the greatest rogue in London.

Talk of the devil! Talk of truth, and see if that will make its appearance. But no such examples as the above will convince the true be→ liever that the thing spoken of will not be a thing witnessed-now, or by and bye; that the person talked of will not appear, if you wait long enough. Old Mrs. Christian Smith believes devoutly. It is a point of her religion to rest implicit faith, and to be blind to all failures.

"This lamp-glass is an old servant," says one of the household, "I have often wondered it never got broken!"

"Ah!" sighs Mrs. Christian Smith, “I wish you had never mentioned it-it's all over- -that glass is doomed."

"What a while," cries that giddy Tabitha (to be sure she is young, being barely turned forty), "what a long, long while we have had these teacups. I can remember them for thirty years."

"My child," weeps the devout believer, "mark what I say those cups will go! !"

It has sometimes occurred to us that the reason why widows are not inclined to talk much about their deceased husbands, but are rather determined, Spartan fashion, never to say a syllable about them, is the fear lest they should come back. Widows have a profound faith in the practical philosophy of "talk of the devil!" "An excellent creature, my

dear madam; but consider my feelings, and say nothing about him." Of our male acquaintances, by much the most superstitious in this regard, is Shivers. He has an entire and conclusive faith in the universality of the devil's appearance when duly mentioned. If you talk to him of the hero of Waterloo, he looks as if almost ready to ring the bell, and order the door to be opened for the Duke of Wellington. Nay, to talk is not always necessary to think is enough.

"How unlucky," he says, "that I should happen to have thought this morning of that wine-bill, run up before I was married, after forgetting it for five years. The man will certainly send the account in to-morrow, or perhaps call himself with it to-night. Having driven it from one's mind, to pay would be provoking."

"What of the railway shares they were going to rob you of ?"

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Stop!" cries Shivers, "not a syllable more about them. I have heard nothing of their rascally proceedings for these six months; but

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