d Uncle Tom's nephews and nieces had never,
although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him
gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion.

Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the
_dramatis personae_. None of the performers could walk in their tights,
or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the
boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans,
naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with immense
white plumes, the glory of which was lost in 'the flies;' and the only
other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his head he could
not put it on, and when it was on he could not take it off.
Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and
shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin would
jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte player,
overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at the
commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of 'Masaniello' to
the flute and violoncello. The orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh
put them out, and Mr. Harleigh declared that the orchestra prevented his
singing a note. The fishermen, who were hired for the occasion, revolted
to the very life, positively refusing to play without an increased
allowance of spirits; and, their demand being complied with, getting
drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as possible. The red fire,
which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act, not only nearly
suffocated the audience, but nearly set the house on fire into the
bargain; and, as it was, the remainder of the piece was acted in a thick
fog.

In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told
everybody, 'a complete failure.' The audience went home at four o'clock
in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe headaches,
and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The Messrs. Gattleton,
senior and junior, retired to rest, with the vague idea of emigrating to
Swan River early in the ensuing week.

Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance; the dining-room
furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely polished as
formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall, as regularly
as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the house to
intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The