Why, what's the matter?

Men. Matter? We were going that way as you are going, and went as far as we durst; and indeed we were almost past coming back.

Pilgrim. But what have you met with?

Men. Why, we were almost in the Valley of the Shadow of Disunion, where abide Disruption, Dishonour, and Disaster, but that, by good hap, keeping a Bright look-out, we looked before us, and saw the danger ere we came to it.

Pilgrim. But what have you seen?

Men. Seen? Why the Valley itself, which is as dark as pitch; we also saw there the hobgoblins, bogies, and dragons of the pit; we also heard in that Valley a continual howling and yelling, as of a people under unutterable misery, who there sat bound in affliction and chains; and over that Valley hang the discouraging clouds of Confusion; Discord, also, doth always spread its wings over it. In a word, it is every whit dreadful, being utterly without Law and Order.

Pilgrim. Nevertheless I perceive not yet, by what you have said, but that this is my way to the desired haven.

Men. Be it thy way—we will not choose it for ours!

So they parted, and the Pilgrim went on his way, but still with his sword drawn in his hand, for fear lest he should be assaulted.

A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

I saw then in my dream, as far as this Valley reached, there was on the right hand a very deep ditch, that, to wit, dismally known to some as the Last Ditch, whereinto the blind have oftentimes urged the blind, even threatening therein to plunge and perish, rather than acknowledge certain things which subsequently they nevertheless proceeded pretty peaceably to accept. Again, behold, on the left hand, there was a very dangerous quag or bog, into which if even a good, or grand, man falls, he finds no bottom for his foot to stand on.

The pathway was here also exceedingly narrow, and therefore the Pilgrim was the more put to it; for when he sought, in the dark, to shun the ditch on the one hand, he was ready to tip over into the bog on the other; also, when he sought to escape the bog, without great carefulness, he would be ready to fall into the ditch. Thus he went on, and I heard him sigh bitterly, for, besides the dangers mentioned above, the pathway was here so dark that ofttimes, when he lifted up his foot to go forward, he knew not where or upon what he should set it next.

"Now," thought the Pilgrim, "what shall I do?" And ever and anon the flame and smoke would come out in such abundance, with sparks and hideous noises (things that cared not for the Pilgrim's sword) that he was forced to put up his blade, and betake himself to another weapon called Tactics. Thus he went on a good while, yet still the flames would be reaching towards him; also, he heard doleful voices, and rushings to and fro, so that sometimes he thought he should be torn in pieces, or trodden down like mire in the streets. This frightful sight was seen, and these direful noises were heard by him for a long while together; and coming to a place where he thought he heard a great company of fierce opponents (as it were a numerous and influential Deputation, or a prodigious Procession) coming forward to meet him, he stopped, and began to muse what he had best to do. Sometimes he had half a thought to go back; then again he thought he might be half-way through the Valley. He remembered, also, how he had already vanquished many a danger, and that the peril of going back might be much more than to go forward. So he resolved to go on; yet the bogies, hobgoblins, and dragons of the pit seemed to come nearer and nearer, besetting him with boding warnings, angry expostulations, and menacing outcries from both sides of his strait and perilous pathway, as well from the bog that was on the one hand, as from the ditch that was on the other.

And here, as it seemed, my Dream did lapse and intermit, and I lost sight, for a while, of the Pilgrim and his perils, much musing whether he, though verily valiant and of manifest good will, were wise in making this dangerous adventure, or at all like to fare safely through and escape the ditch, the bog, the darkness, and the demoniac denizens of this dismal Valley of the Shadow of Disunion.

OPERA DRURIOLANA.

May success attend the preliminary Operatic canter which Sir Druriolanus is taking with such preliminary cantors as he has got together at Drury Lane. Faust was effectively given, with Esther Palliser as a gentle Marguerite, Signor Giannini as a very robust Faust—quite a tenore robusto—and Signor Castelmary as the very deuce of a Mephistopheles, with eyebrows and moustachios sufficient to frighten even the gay and festive Marta, played with spirit by Mlle. Biancoli. "Mons." Dufriche represented the Mons who laboured hard to please, and who, as Valentine, did well and died well. Herr Feld conducted. "Well Felded!"

Then out came the ever fresh, the ever free Bohemian Girl. Never was such a girl! Quite a Ninon de L'Enclos! Beautiful for ever! Still dreaming of Marble Halls (Music Halls nowadays) "with vassals and serfs by her si-i-ide," and no better Bohemian Girl to be seen just now than Madame Albu as Arline. So "Arl in to begin!" and see and hear Balfe's pretty little Girl of Bohemia while she is still visible and audible at Drury Lane. Mr. Eadie a trifle gawky as Thaddeus, but then he finds himself in an awkward situation, especially when he has to fumble for the documentary evidence of his birth, attested at a Bohemian Registry Office. Carl Armbruster conducted this, and then up got Herr Feld "with his little lot," represented by the unrivalled and unequalled Cavalleria Rusticana. Ah! Cavalleria is a treat, even when its performance is not absolutely perfect. The music is charming from first to last; ever fresh and delightful.

That wonderful Intermezzo was excellently given, and enthusiastically encored. As yet the Intermezzo has had no successful rival. It stands alone, and is, of all compositions, the most—well, words fail me—it is a whole dramatic story, within a few bars' compass—it is sweetness and sadness, and then it soothes you to rest, and so you drop off quietly to sleep, until you are awoke by the cessation of sound, when you rouse yourself, with an effort, to applaud, and to beg that you may have just one more delicious dose of it—and doze from it. Saturday finishes with Carmen, and Sic transit gloria Operatica for the past week. All right up to now!

Mus.

SPORTING ANSWERS.—CANINE.

Spectator.—A very curious and interesting little story. We ourselves once had a dog who on returning home from a walk always chained himself up in the back-kitchen and bit the butler. He would then howl bitterly, slip his collar, and run to the nearest police station, where he gave himself into custody and insisted on cleaning out his own cell and appearing on the following morning before