than in his own family's blood, he henceforth swore eternal, though a secret, hate against all titled ladies, and resolved to seek a partner among the children of nature in the vale of roses. Now, in that vale was a damsel fairer than all its flowers, of parentage mysterious, who had one morning been found by old Irmengarde, kneeling upon the borders of the stream, among some forget-me-nots. Tradition relates a thousand things of her,—how beautiful she was, how gracefully she sported with the children of the valley, and how each morning she was seen standing upon the banks of the Danube, flinging flowers, as if in sacrifice, upon its waters.

Now it so chanced that young Rudolph, the Baron's squire, having one day seen Fleur-des-Champs-for such was the name given to this mysterious daughter of the Danube-fell desperately in love with her. His affection was returned. Happy hours succeeded; and once, as they were slumbering among roses, the nymph to whom old father Danube had entrusted the care of his gentle offspring, came up from the waves with a band of Undines, and sprinkling profound sleep over their eyelids, put upon each of their fingers a ring, and, as German imagination has it,' wedded the perfume of their breaths.'

The Baron de Willibald was in haste to choose a wife. So he sent a herald to summon into his presence all the noble ladies of that region, and likewise all worthy damsels who dwelt in the vale of roses. The noble ladies thronged in, striving their best to capti

vate the handsome Baron; and soon arrived, in simple white robes and crowned with flowers, the children of the vale, among whom was the reluctant Fleur-desChamps, distinguished only by a still simpler dress and a somewhat melancholy expression upon her countenance. Then follows a grand dance. The Baron looks on; is moved by the grace and naïveté of Fleur-des-Champs; offers her his hand, and what is more, a title. The damsel is in agony, and Rudolph raves. She however rejects the Baron's offer. The Baron is on his knees. Rudolph rushes madly between them. The Baron resolves on force. The damsel escapes, and standing on the balcony of the window, expresses her horror at a union with De Willibald, and her deep love for Rudolph; hurls a malediction against the former, and flinging to the latter the wreath of roses which adorned her forehead, leaps into the Danube far flowing beneath her feet. It is too late,' continues the German story-teller, 'to fly to her rescue. The cries of her companions,-the horrible joy of the court ladies,—the Baron's grief,—the despair of Rudolph, complete the heart-rending picture.'

Rudolph now goes mad. With eyes all haggard and locks dishevelled, he wanders alone on the river's banks. There wandering, a melancholy music falls upon his ears, the fairy group of Undines surrounds him, and distantly he catches a glimpse of his well-beloved, or, in German phraseology, of his beautiful future.' Alas! he is not permitted to touch her; and old Danube from his depths proclaims, that never more

will he resign his daughter to a world unworthy of her, and that whoever would take her for his bride, must seek her in the arms of her parent. She disappears. Rudolph is more distracted than ever. The Baron now arrives, and strives to console his favorite squire, but all in vain. Suddenly the Danube surges, the thunder growls, a mystery is accomplished, for the lover has passed into the deep watery realms of the father of the stream. There comes to him the nymph whom he had formerly seen in the vale of roses, and restores him to reason. He is soon surrounded by all the Undines veiled. His task is to divine which among them is Fleur-des-Champs. They are all of fairest forms and most graceful motions, and yet he soon detects the object of his search. They both of them now pray to be restored to the upper regions of the earth. Their prayer is granted. The Undines bear them up in a sea-shell to the surface of the stream. They are now in the world, and never more shall they be disunited. So ends the fairy tale.

The ideas above contained in language, I have just seen at the Grand French Opera in a far different vehicle, in the vehicle of a ballet; in the language, voiceless to be sure, yet in the expressive language of attitudes, and motions, and gestures, shiftings of the eye, smiles of the lip, and frowns of the brow. How is a ballet composed?' said I to my companion, musing between the acts. 'Certainly it must be a difficult task. Its author must use those arms and bodies, features and legs, as his alphabet. They must

be his vowels, his consonants, his exclamation and his interrogation points. Is it not so? But how to combine them? That to me is a little mysterious. You perceive that it is complicated in the extreme, and yet there is not the slightest apparent irregularity. Here were several thousand different signs and gestures, and yet how gracefully and expressively have they been intermingled with each other. They have been so intermingled to express consecutive thoughts and events.' My companion replied, that to him it was all inexplicable dumb show; he cared for nothing but the motions of Taglioni. To me it seemed far otherwise, and its chief charm was in that I could read it as a volume of living poetry.

The curtain now once more arose. The scene was where the Baron had assembled around him, to choose therefrom a bride, the noble ladies and the damsels of the vale of roses. A very light and elegant form took a position in the centre of the stage to join the commencing music. The position was not unlike that which John of Bologna has given to his immortal Mercury. The strain begins, and with it are joined some motions that half enchant you. What majestic flings of the leg! you exclaim. How sweetly are the movements of the arms made to harmonize with those of the body! What graceful curves and bends of the neck and head! And now the form dots swiftly athwart the stage, on the extremest point of its great toes. And now it turns a pirouette that almost sets your brain a-reeling. You are ready to applaud to

any

the very echo. The dancer pauses and retires, for she has achieved her step. Why does not the house ring with acclamations ? The dancer was not Taglioni. Madame Julia moves well, but she lacks that certain something, which is to Taglioni's style what genius is to art or poetry. Taglioni-who, by the way, is the Fleur-des-Champs of the tale-now appears. She seems a little subdued. You perceive, however, that her motions are easy and perfectly self-possessed. She leaps you twenty feet without visible effort. Other dancers have an eternal smile on their visage, and their mouths ever half open to catch breath. Taglioni seldom smiles, and never unseals her lips. She performs her long, and graceful, and complicated feats without any apparent respiration. You are satisfied with this, and you lean tranquilly back in your comfortable Stalle d'Amphithéatre, extremely delighted that she who now charms you, does it without any labor, any toil, any difficulty. How simple seem all her motions! Any body could dance like that,' you almost exclaim; and yet the highest efforts of other dancers are mere accessories to Taglioni's achievements. She has something which they would give all the world to possess, something which she herself probably cannot account for, something apart, peculiar, mysterious. Why does Taglioni dance so well? Because she dances out herself. Nature has given her a peculiar frame,—a frame whose natural action fulfils all the conditions necessary to perfect grace. Taglioni knows this. She

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