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The Empoongwa performers recite their long stories in the moonlight evenings, and accompany them, on the Enchambre, their instrument-it is a very simple oneit has but five strings, made from the root of the palm tree, though it is not powerful, or capable of much variety, its tones are sweet; one of the most extraordinary among these performers, was a singer of the Empoongwa songs-this uncouth being, and his grotesque gesticulations are so well described in a translation from a German work, which we found in the Harmonicon; that we merely transcribe the passage :-"My patience," says the narrator, during a series of dull Empoongwa songs, was recompensed by the introduction of a performer as loathsome as his music was astonishing; he was a white negro from the interior country of Imberkie; his features betrayed his race,-his hair was woolly, and of a sandy colour, with thick eyebrows of the same; his eyes small, bright, and of a dark grey, the light seemed to hurt them, and their constant quivering and rolling gave his countenance an air of insanity, which was confirmed by the actions of his head and limbs, and the distortions of his mouth, his stature was middle, and his limbs very small, his skin was much diseased. Where it was not so, it had the appearance of having been carelessly thrown on, it hung about him so loose and so shrivelled; his voice was hollow, and his laugh loud, interspersed with African howls-his harp was formed of wood, except that part emitting the sound, which was covered with goat skin, perforated at the bottom; the bow to which the eight strings were fixed, was considerably curved. He sat on a low stool, and supporting his harp on his knee and shoulder, proceeded to tune it with great nicety, his hands seemed to wander among the strings, until he gradually formed a running accompaniment, (but with little variety) to his extraordinary vociferation-at times one deep and hollow note burst forth, and died away; the sounds of the harp became broken; presently he looked up, pursuing all the actions of a maniac, taking one hand from the strings to wave it up and down, stretching forth one leg, and drawing it up again as if convulsed, lowering the harp on to the other foot, and tossing it up and down, whilst the one hand continued playing, he wrung forth a peal which vibrated on the ear long after it had ceased-he was silent; the running accompaniment served again as a prelude to a loud recitative, uttered with the greatest volubility, and ending with one word with which he ascended and descended far beyond the extent of his harp, with the most beautiful precision. Sometimes he became more collected, and a mournful air succeeded the recitative, though without the least connection, and he would again burst forth with the whole force of his powerful voice, in the notes of the Hallelujah of Handel; to meet with this chorus in the wilds of Africa, and from such a being had an effect I can scarcely describe. I was lost in astonishment at the coincidence, there could not be a stronger proof of the nature of Handel, or the powers of the negro. I naturally inquired if the man was in his senses, and the reply was, that he was always rational but when he played, when he invariably used the same gestures, and evinced the same incoherency. The whole is described as the most extraor

without connection, in terms so transient, abrupt, and allegorical, that though the effect they produced was most striking, the memory could not retain them-the music so unlike every other that had been heard, and the rapture and phrenzy of the performer, must have left an impression like that of a wild and indistinct dream, which still floats upon the imagination, when the power of imparting it is not within our reach.

Extempore dramas gave scope for the varied talents of the performers, and laid the foundation for that dramatic excellence which was afterwards attained; the ancients it is said took their first ideas of theatrical representation from a "Grecian stroller, singing in a cart to the honour of Bacchus." The mysteries and moralities, so long the objects of popular admiration, were first introduced by the Pilgrims, who composed and chanted songs descriptive of their travels through the Holy Land, interspersed with scenes taken from the Scriptures. Bands of these devout men might be seen reciting in the public streets, with staff in hand, and cloaks and chaplets bedecked with shells and images collected on consecrated shores. The populace edified by their appearance, and the subjects which they dramatized, at length erected stages for their exhibitions, which in the middle ages formed one of the principal honours paid to Princes on their public entrances. So inherent in our nature is this inclination for the dramatic art, that it discovers itself in the earliest days of childhood; to personate characters is one of the favourite amusements among children, and in their plays they may often be heard to keep up an extempore dialogue between imaginary persons. The Italians have been long celebrated for their perfection and delight in spontaneous composition; their extempore comedies is one of their principal amusements-the only preparation which is necessary, being the arrangement of the sceneries, and the division of the acts; the dialogue and expression are left entirely to those who take the parts; if the arama pleases, which is almost invariably the case, the representation is frequently repeated, and while it retains all the interest of the original plot, some alteration in the dialogue, or change in the action, gives all the charms of novelty. The Italians who are wonderfully skilful in impromptu composition, seem peculiarly fitted for it by the flow of their language, their inflections of voice, the energy and animation of their gestures, and those quick changes of countenance, which are in a moment expressive of the passion or humour they wish to represent. To these natural powers in the performers may be ascribed the popularity of many of their comedies, which appear to us in reading, childish and flimsy. Salvator Rosa was an admirable performer on the Scanavia. Among his inimitable comic representations the part of a Calabrian peasant was his favourite. In exploring the wild scenery which he loved to transmit to his canvass, he became so thoroughly acquainted with the dialect and uncouth manners of the unformed rustic, that his acting appeared identity. In every mode of improviso performance he delighted his audience, and his company was equally sought after by all the fashionable circles of Rome. When yielding to the entreaties of those about him, he would take his lute, whose music he so well knew how to waken, and stringing the chords he enchanted all by the feeling and grace of the extemporary effusions, to which they were the prelude or the accompaniment. Signor Pistrucci's performance in London was long remembered. He composed extemporary on any given subject; that of Orestes was proposed, the expression which he gave to the remorse

did every expressive feature change. Angry disappointment, jealousy, foiled vanity, ambition thwarted, all pressed on the brain of the baffled young fortune hunter. He had a rival. A wealthy, titled, well-connected rival, before whose high claims his own humble hopes must sink extinguished. He sat before his desk, mechanically twisting pens, knife, and paper through his uneasy fingers, while the abrupt downfall of his aspiring schemes prostrated for the time his mental energies; but his was not a character of a desponding kind. To succeed in life was his aim, by the best and quickest means attainable; honest means of course; he would neither compromise his probity, nor his integrity, for on his character was his main dependence. Purse or cheque-book was as safe with him as lock and key could have kept them, but daughters he did not esteem equally sacred. And here had been a loss of time. Months wasted in the unprofitable pursuit of a young lady, under all her calm external manner, fully as ambitious as himself. It was a dream from which it was great pain to waken, still it was over, and must be forgotten.

Sir Ralph Eden and Miss Atkinson soon became the current gossip of the town. They were always together. People began never to invite the one without securing the other, besides the day seldom passed that the young Baronet did not call to pay his respects to Mrs. Atkinson. Not in the dingy back parlour. Mother and daughter had established themselves for the season in the carefully preserved drawing-room, whose long veiled treasures, now exhibited in the glowing brightness diffused by a cheerful fire, gave an air of opulent comfort to the household. All was proceeding as all concerned could wish, for the reserved master of the family could ill conceal the elation of spirits consequent on the brilliant prospects of his much prized child. He became almost gay, loquacious, and quite condescending in his affability. Mr. Mills was frequently invited to conferences within the red door, ostensibly beginning upon matters of ordinary business, but never ending without some sly allusion to Sir Ralph and Cuddeden Hall. One day indeed, he went so far as to insinuate he might have shortly particularly private papers to occupy the office pens. On another, he hinted mysteriously, that he could tell the lucky winner of his Matilda's hand, that she would not give it to him empty; that besides her mother's £12,000 which was settled upon her irrevocably, he would double the sum perhaps if the alliance she should form pleased him. Mr. Mills listened without one feature betraying the vexation he must have felt, he appeared even, after the most approved humble retainer fashion, to rejoice in the improving fortunes of the family; indeed, he had determined to make his own profit of it, and as his first venture had unexpectedly failed, he had resolved upon casting about for a second, when it seemed to him to be actually thrown in his way. Messrs. Greene and Floyd, the attorneys, entrusted with the management of Sir Ralph Eden's affairs, and to whose office he had been frequently sent of late with private notes from his superior, were two old bachelors who lived together in a large house in one of the best streets of the town. Their chambers of business were within their dwelling, on the ground floor, on one side of a passage, which separated them from a parlour and kitchen on the other. Mr. Mills had sometimes occasion to wait for answers to his notes, and neither the passage nor the clerks' office suiting his fastidious taste, he often ventured into the parlour, where, generally, sat at her needle the prettiest girl in Newcastle-Miss Betsy Greene. Betsy and her brother Sam were the orphan children of an elder brother of Mr. Greene, the attorney, whom he had adopted in their infancy, and had brought up with a father's affection, if not with all a father's care, expecting to find in them the solace of his age. He intended Sam to succeed him in his business, and Betsy he openly announced he should portion handsomely. Sam

Greene and William Mills were well acquainted; indeed, it was through his young friend that Mr. Mills had been introduced into the parlour where these stray moments of his time were spent so agreeably, for Betsy Greene was a lively girl, quite aware of being a beauty, and equally conscious of being a catch. She liked the attentions these merits ensured her, and she made no secret of her pleasures in them. In short she was a goodhumoured, but really innocent flirt; apparently as far from leading a young man to form expectations she had no intention of confirming, as she was supposed to be from encouraging any suitor disagreeable to her uncle. She always received her brother and his friend with cheerfulness, glad of such an interruption to her quiet housewifery; and as she became better acquainted with Mr. Mills, he fancied she began to prefer him to many other of their associates. The old uncle too invited him once or twice to dinner, and the three young people had taken country walks together unreproved. What wonder if while watching the rosy hue of health on the cheek of the blooming Betsy, and while her bright eyes sparkled on him, and her happy laugh ran through the clear air as they wandered beneath the hedgerows in the neighbouring field, he should forget the duli back parlour and its inanimate heiress served through so many long winter evenings, in vain.

One fine Sunday afternoon the merry party were returning from a country spell, loaded with the sweet blossoms of the early hawthorn, when, just at the turn of one sheltered lane into another, they came suddenly upon an equal number of much more soberly disposed people. Mr. Atkinson, his daughter, and Sir Ralph, were taking their quiet after-church walk, and as the formal acknowledgments of the period passed between the trios, some embarrassment of manner might have been detected, There was considerable contrast between the groups. The Hebe figure of the pretty Betsy, the tall, slight, handsome person of her brother, and the commanding air of the ever self-possessed Mr. Mills, were advantageously opposed to the pale, thin, passive Matilda, the short, stout figure of her father, and the insignificant appearance of her lover. The fair bride seemed to feel the inferiority, for she blushed painfully. The following morning, even the composed Mr. Mills felt a degree of agitation, when summoned by his master to the now usual conference. He knew, what none else suspected, that of all his circle of acquaintance, Mr. Greene was the most disagreeable to Mr. Atkinson, and it was more than probable that the extreme intimacy of his clerk with the younger part of that gentleman's family would be anything to him but a pleasing surprise. Mr. Atkinson's reserved and careful habits had prevented his forming any close connections with his neighbours, but he had gained their cold respect. If he could reckon on few friends, he had no enemies, nor was there one human being who suspected him of feelings warm enough to rise into love, or to sink into hate. But they were wrong, for he could, and did, most bitterly dislike his brother-attorney. They had on one or two occasions jostled on the road to civic fame, when the jovial, frank, honest-hearted Mr. Greene, hospitable in his habits and pleasant in his manner, had carried off the votes from his parsimonious competitor. Local matters discussed in snug committees had been decided according to the more liberal views of the frank old bachelor against the cautious opinions of his prudent opponent. A few fields near the town, refused by Mr. Atkinson, were bought by Mr. Greene, at a higher price than was considered to be their value, yet proved, as building sites, a mine of wealth to their sagacious purchaser. There were rivalries, too, in law business. Altogether it was a sore subject, and Mr. Mills anticipated some ungracious remarks on the company he frequented.

He was relieved by the few words on professional

matters with which his head commenced, and he had quite regained his composure before Mr. Atkinson, seemingly as an afterthought and smiling all the while, said in a careless tone-"By-the-by that was a very pretty young girl you were escorting home in the twilight, Mr. Mills, that handsome niece of old Greene's! Was that the brother with her? Eh? All quite correct! She's to have five or six thousand pounds fortune, I hear. No bad speculation? Eh?"

"I see Miss Greene but seldom, Sir," returned his young clerk coldly. "Her brother is my particular friend; but I hope neither you nor he, Sir, think I would presume upon this intimacy to inveigle the affections of a young lady so far above my humble pretensions.”

Hey day! Very fine! Do for theatres, that, Mills. But where's the mighty distance? A handsome young man. A pretty girl. A solicitor in expectancy."-Mr Atkinson had latterly discontinued the word attorney."Another solicitor's niece. Where's the distinction? Not in your parentage! What was old Greene, the grandfather?-A coal-fitter. What was the girl's father? A coal-fitter, too-and a bankrupt into the bargain. What was the knowing old uncle but an office-clerk once in the house he now owns? What was I myself," continued Mr. Atkinson, with a sudden assumption of generous humility, "what should hinder you to rise as we did? Your father is as good a man as either his or mine, and your mother has some of gentler blood than either of us. Nonsense! about humble pretensions. It's a capital speculation, boy. Follow it up-follow it up." And Mr. Atkinson kindly showed his now blushing clerk beyond the respected door.

Thus encouraged by the most cautiously prudent legal opinion in the town, Mr. Mills felt inspired with renewed ardour in the prosecution of his wily plans. The country walks multiplied, as Mr. Atkinson had frequent occasion to see, for he often met the lovers in the shady lanes, and once or twice they were alone, and then he fancied agitated, which agitation he did not fail to comment on in the course of the next private conversation.

Why, William, I think we shall have two marriages shortly to celebrate. Eh! Any fear of my uncle? Oh," added he gravely, observing upon this allusion the poor young man's countenance to fall, "It must be a stolen one; must it-Ah!"

Mr. Mills looked irresolute-but only for a moment, "Never, Sir," replied he, firmly. "I never will take such an advantage of the kindness I have met with."

"Tut, tut, tut, all in the heroics. Old Greene suspects nothing; tell him nothing. Keep clear of him, by all means. Gain the girl. That's the main point."

Mr. Mills cast down his modest eyes. "I believe, Sir, I may hope, Sir, that with the young lady, were I to venture upon an explanation, it is possible I might not be unsuccessful. But her family, Sir-her relations--they must have higher views

Why, the brother can't have higher views, or he would not encourage you as he has done; and, hang old Greene, what right has he to expect? Yet, indeed, it is hard to say what he would not expect, with his great talents and his long head. Didn't he do me out of the Brick-fields? Didn't he carry the New Sewer against me? Didn't he get the great cause of the Hatton House Legacies out of my hands, when it was as good as promised to me? Let the uncle alone! You don't want to marry him; you want to marry the niece; you want Miss Betsy. We must steal a march on him, William. It's not very far to the Border; and it will be time enough to make pretty speeches at the reconciliation scene, for the old fellow won't be very hard-hearted."

Mr. Mills smiled doubtfully. "The old gentleman has been unusually kind to me."

"Well! don't you mean to be kind to his niece?" "He has trusted me with her."

"The more fool he.' "And she is attached to him, and has been brought up in strict principles of duty.”

Principles of folly! Why, you are only half a lover. Duty versus Love! and a handsome young man to plead the love cause! If old Greene wants to keep her, let him look after her; he never did yet. The girl has flaunted about the town with every one she meets ever since she could speak, and he trusts to her. Try her, William Mills-try her."

It was advice not to be declined, particularly as it exactly suited the tactics of the enterprising adventurer who had indeed been but gratifying his own previously formed resolution, by drawing out the sentiments of a congenial mind. In a few days the young man allowed himself to be encouraged to confess that he had hopes of vanquishing scruples which had hitherto stood in the way of his complete success, and that he had begun to think it might be possible to induce his fair-beloved to anticipate all objections, by giving herself to him at once. "But," added he, with some hesitation, "there was an awkwardness, a dilemma, a certain expense called for, which unfortunately neither of them had the means to supply."

Mr. Atkinson took pity on the poor lad's confusion. He felt for his bunch of keys. "I won't desert you in your need, Mills," said he, humourously—“ you must repay me out of Miss Betsy's fortune." And opening a pocket-book, he presented no inconsiderable number of notes to his deeply affected clerk. The young man really seemed overcome by this unexpected generosity, for he remained silent a few moments. He turned away. He laid his hand upon the door"The mail, Sir, passes through to the north about three in the afternoon. I think."

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Mr. Mills vanished. A pang did shoot through Mr. Atkinson's cold heart when the door closed upon his clerk. Poor Greene!" he almost uttered; "the orphan girl he has so kindly fostered!" he half sighed. But he had no time for sentiment; this was a proud and a busy day with him, for this evening were to be signed the settlements made by Sir Ralph Eden upon his daughter. They were handsomely suited to the fortune she was to bring, and the station she was to be raised to, and he sat complacently down to re-peruse, for the hundredth time, the various items composing them. gentle voice at the door called him to the window to witness her descending the steps with her mother, to meet Sir Ralph, with whom she walked leisurely away along the street, as composedly as if she had no ardent lover by her side.

Her

The morning wore away, the afternoon had passed, dinner, at the then fashionable hour of five o'clock, was announced, Sir Ralph and the company were assembledbut, there was no Matilda. Mrs. Atkinson had left the lovers deep in an amicable dispute at the jeweller's. Sir Ralph had afterwards escorted his fair bride to Mr. Greene's, with whose niece she had, she said, arranged to spend the morning, begging of him to return to accompany her home at dinner time. She was gone, however, he was informed when he called for her, having paid but a short visit.

Need the rest be told. Mr. Atkinson's carefully watched daughter had fled by his own contrivance with his junior clerk. Whether their admirably managed plans resulted in their mutual happiness there are no family documents to prove. Yet is our tale not without a moral.

PRINCIPLE IN LITTLE THINGS.

Principle should always be unfolded, and, especially, in connection with little things, for if there be no principle in things which are small, sure we are, there will be none in things which are great.