Various are the dances, brilliant the costumes.
But for us, British tourist and exile from
home, whom as is well known splendour
dazzles in vain, the most remarkable performance
shall be The Highland Fling! Exotic
highland fling, torn from thy native wilderness,
how hast thou blossomed out from
sober heathery plaid and bagpipe, to satin
crossed with silk, and the crash of a full
operatic orchestra! Marvellous truly is the
apparition of four-and-twenty dancers, male
and female, clad in short white satin petticoats
— not wholly guiltless of crinoline— checked
with blue ribbons, and wearing each a black
velvet reticule on his or her stomach! Which
black velvet reticule, the light of Nature enables
us to recognise as the Italian for philabeg.
Marvellous, too, is the agility with which the
dancers twist and jump and toe-and-heel, with
some far off resemblance to a break-down nigger
dance; none— absolutely none— to a highland
fling when its foot is on its native heath, and
its name is McGregor! But we (colto pubblico)
accept it all as a vivid life-like representation
of the mode in which those islanders enjoy
themselves. We roar, we shout, we applaud,
we encore furiously, the satin-kilted. And in
the final melée when each corps joins in a
grand general winding-up pas, we salute them
with special and still increasing fervour.

And now a majestic strain salutes the ear.
A strain which causes in the British tourist
mind a horrible doubt as to whether he is
asleep or awake, sane or insane. That
beginning is like—— And yet— no. It must
be though! Tum, tum, tum, tum-ti-tum. To
be sure, " God —save— our— gr? — c?ous
Queen." Of course, The National Anthem—
with a difference. With, in truth, several
differences. But we file out of the Pergola
humming, whistling, or singing, our version of
it, in high good humour and satisfaction. O,
by-the-by! There is another act of the opera to
come, isn't there? Ah, never mind. We have
seen " Shakespeare; a grand ballet," and that
shall suffice us.

As we leave the theatre, a man steps up to
us and says, " Signore, your pardon, but I am
a new man here (un'uomo nuovo) and— might I
ask you what that first piece was about?"
"Romeo e Giulietta!" " Oh, ah, thank you.
I never heard of them before."

PIT ACCIDENTS.

THE portico of a country-house on a smiling
April morning. Easy-chairs brought out into
the sunshine, books, newspapers, and fancy-work
at hand. Before us, a trimly-kept lawn,
dotted with white daisies and golden flowerspots;
and before that again a spacious park
with hundreds of lambs frisking merrily on the
sward. A background of lofty hills, some
covered with fir-trees, others apportioned out
into fields, other ending in vast tracts of prairieland.
The grass on these last has a burnt brown
look, making that near us seem brighter and
greener by contrast; and the white blossom of
the well-laden trees to right and left, the
butterflies exulting in the Spring, and the merry
carol of the birds perched upon the branches
near— all speak of quiet enjoyment and peaceful
promise. Beyond the firs a column of white
steam, a tall chimney, and a cluster of ugly
buildings are discernible, and they denote the
whereabout of a coal-pit; puffs and roars of
some mighty machinery in our rear, and the
frequent noise of swiftly-rushing trains also
break in upon our quiet. But these only give
human interest to the scenery.

Black figures appear at the park gate nearest
the coal-pit; and as they twine slowly past
the clump of trees and into the road running
in front of us, they form a regular procession
preceding an uncouth load borne upon
the shoulders of four of their number. The
men are carrying their food-tins and
lamp-guards, and in some cases their tools, as if
they had finished work for the day, and
march solemnly on, three abreast, halting every
twenty yards to relieve and change places with
the bearers of the load. Slowly pursuing the
regular path, and not abating an inch of its
distance by walking across the grass, as it might
easily have done, this strange procession comes
abreast the house, and the thing carried
resolves itself into a limp figure with two heads,
one falling forward as if belonging to a broken
puppet, the other, alert and active and with
sparkling eyes, behind it. A blackened man,
more dead than alive, is stretched full length
upon a wooden door, his head and shoulders
supported by a grimy urchin who squats behind
him and acts as cushion. The two are elevated
in the air, and carried along as if they formed a
trophy. There has been an accident down
yonder pit, and the injured miner is being
conveyed home with all the dismal pomp it is the
custom of the country to observe. Work is
suspended for the day; the workers sacrifice
their pay, and the owner loses their labour. To
convey the wounded in a rude litter to their
homes, to bear them aloft as if in triumph, and
to make a formal parade of accompanying them,
are deemed evidences of respect and goodwill.
There is nothing of superstition in this observance,
nothing of fear of a similar evil chance
happening to those left in the pit, and nothing
in the nature of the accident to denote a more
than ordinary risk of casualty. It is simply the
Welsh custom, and, as such, has more than the
force of law. Not to give up work when one
of their number has been injured, would be
thought disrespectful to a comrade, so, as we
learn later, the remainder of the day is spent
convivially at a neighbouring fair.

There is something repellent in these silent
grimy men and boys as they march slowly by
and the nature of their errand is understood;
for faces and bodies are so ingrained with coal-
dust that eyes and teeth alone seem human,
and gleam unnaturally white; while the pallor
of the poor wretch carried and the glassy fixed-