SKETCHES OF PARIS, No. 1.

TAGLIONI.

"Like the herald Mercury new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill."

"IT is a sweet valley that lies on the banks of the Danube beneath the mountains of Ferenbach. The sun's light falls on flowers of all names and hues, garlanding it on every side. It is called the vale of roses, and in 1420 it became, with other possessions, the heritage of the young and handsome Baron de Willibald."

Thus commences the story of the Fille du Danube, out of which is constructed the delightful ballet, wherein this evening, for the first time, I have seen Taglioni. The tale is of German origin, and has been illustrated by German poets. It goes on to tell how the elder brother of this Baron had been unfortunate in matrimony. His first wife died suddenly, within a month from the celebration of their nuptials; his second mysteriously disappeared eight days thereafter; and his third was a corpse within two hours from the moment that she passed, a laughing bride, into the Baron's arms. De Willibald was saddened at these disastrous recollections, but deeming the curse rather within the noble damsels whom his brother had taken to wife 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, comes up from the waves with a band of Undines, and sprinkling them with profound sleep upon their eyelids, puts upon

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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 captivate 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 des Champs, 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 surround 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 favourite 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 Royal Theatre of Music, 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 feelings of the leg! you exclaim. How sweetly are the movements of the arms made to harmonise 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 the very echo. The dancer pauses and retires, for she has achieved her step. Why does not the house ring with acclamations? The dan. cer 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 seemed a little subdued. You perceive, however, that her motions are easy and perfectly self-possessed. She leaps you twenty feet without any visible effort. Other dan. cers 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 compli cated feats without any apparent respiration. You are satisfied with this, and you lean tranquilly back in your comfortable stalle d'Amphitheatre, extremely delighted that she who now charms you does it without any labour, 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 very well knows that no foreign grace can be successfully engrafted upon her. Were she to imitate even some beau ideal of grace which her might possibly create, she would perhaps fail. out herself—or rather, not to speak it profanely, she has only to let nature act itself through her. Her chief feature is unconsciousness, that feature indeed which characterizes all highest efforts in every department of thought or action. As she does every thing without toil, so she does every thing without knowledge. Were it not for the applause momently rained down upon her, I am satisfied that she herself would never know or feel that she moved with more than ordinary grace.

own imagination She has only to act

Madame Julia is conscious that she dances well. Her manner proclaims to you that she is thus conscious. She takes hardly a step which does not seem to say, "was not that finely executed ?" There are continual drafts made on your astonishment and admiration. Sometimes you pay them, sometimes not. Taglioni leaves you at liberty to be charmed or to be indifferent. She never astonishes; nay more, she never surprises you. She only fills you with a tranquil charm and a delight. What use is it for her to whirl about, times without number, in a pirouette? What use is it for her to stand upon her left foot's great toe, with her right heel higher than her head? What use is it for her to leap aloft, and snap her feet ten times together ere they touch again the stage? Rightly she leaves these little tricks and clap-traps to inferior artists. She has another sphere. She knows enough not to “o'erstep the modesty" of that sphere. She is in the most artificial scene perhaps of all the world, and yet in every thing is she simple and unconscious as the simplest childhood. Not only does she dance well; all her pantomime is inimitable. A gentleman at my side

pronounced her walk, alone, to be worth a voyage across the Atlan tic. It is certainly very fine, and her gesticulation is likewise marked by that indescribable beauty which characterizes the more complicated pantomime of her dance. With what captivating naï. veté did she not fill the character of Fleur des Champs! Her grace ran through the entire story like a golden thread, binding together its dream-like fancies, from the time she is first seen in her cradle of roses, to the concluding moment, when in her shell she ascends to the world through the waters of old father Danube.

This ballet is, I think, one of the most delightful works of art, in its way, that I have seen. I did not regard it merely as a graceful exhibition of plastic muscle, rather as a living and breathing language, embodying a story not altogether unpoetical. It has certainly nothing of the utile. It is all of the dulce. It is all lightness, and beauty, and grace, charming away your hour of rest, and seemingly of the same unsubstantial stuff whereof dreams are made. Pronounce it ridiculous if you please. It is still a part of the great system of means for accomplishing this necessary end,—the amusement of the Parisians. So far as it illustrates a taste of the time, you cannot, hard-reasoning Utilitarian as you are, daff it aside with absolute indifference. With respect to it, even your beloved question of "What does all this prove ?" may not be entirely in

vain.

Friday night. I have just come from seeing Taglioni in another ballet, entitled the Sylphide. This and the Fille du Danube are now the only pieces in which she performs. I was more charmed than on the former occasion. The beauty of simplicity is inexhaustible. Taglioni is the beau ideal of simplicity. Taglioni can never tire. Nay, the more I see her, the more of newness and of charm does she reveal.

What is the Sylphide? A fantastic and fairy thing, whose scenes are laid in Scotland. The curtain rising, you see a young lowland shepherd slumbering, and over him, as if in guardiance, hangs a sylph. This sylph is Taglioni. She is in white; a garland is on her head; she bears wings like those which painters have given to Psyche, and her position is that to which you have been familia. rized by numberless engravings in the musical windows of Paris and London. She rises, moves her wings to cool the air which the youthful Scot breathes, awakens him by a kiss on the forehead, and while in a dreamy confusion, he pursues her moving like a phantom, she swiftly disappears up the chimney of the apartment. Now awaking his comrade Gurn, he asks him if he has seen that fairy form. No; Gurn has only dreamed of Effie, who, by the bye, likes the young Scot far better than him. Effie is indeed the pro.