excited the jealousy, or rather envy, of Marie Antoinette.  Mademoiselle Duthe appeared at the fetes of Longchamps, in the Bois de Boulogne, in a gorgeous chariot drawn by six milk-white steeds, with red morocco harness, richly ornamented with cut steel; and thus accomplished the object of incurring the resentment of the court, from the prodigality of one of whose married princes these splendours were supposed to emanate—­splendours exceeding those of the Rhodopes of old.

But the greatest triumph ever achieved by danseuse, was that of Bigottini!  The Allied sovereigns, after vanquishing the victor of modern Europe, were by her vanquished in their turn.  At her feet, fresh trembling from an entre-chat, did

  “Fiery French and furious Hun”

lay down their arms!  The Allied armies appeared to have entered Paris only to become the slaves of Bigottini!

In our own country, devotees of the danseuse have done more, by promoting her to the decencies of the domestic fireside.  In our own country, also, even Punch was once purchased by an eccentric nobleman for the diversion of his private life.  But as Demosthenes observed of the cost of such a pleasure, “that is buying repentance too dear!”

We are perhaps offending the gravity of certain of our readers by the extent of this notice; albeit, we have striven to propitiate their prejudices by the peculiar combination and juxtaposition of professions, selected for consideration.  But we are not acting unadvisedly.  Close its eyes as it may, the public cannot but perceive, that the legitimate drama is banished by want of encouragement from the national theatres, and that the ballet is brandishing her cap and bells triumphantly in its room.

Such changes are never the result of accident.  The supply is created by the demand.  It is because we prefer the Sylphide to Juliet, that the Sylphide figures before us.  Shakspeare was played to empty benches; the Peri and Gisele fill the houses.

We repeat, therefore, since such is the bent of public appetite, let it be gratified in the least objectionable way.  Let us have a royal academy of dancing.  We shall easily find some Earl of Westmoreland to compose its ballets, and lady patronesses to give an annual ball for the benefit of the institution.  Do not let some eighty thousand a-year be lost to the country.  An idol is as easily carved out of one block of wood as another.  Let us make unto ourselves goddesses out of the haberdashers’ shops of Oxford Street; and qualify the youthful caprices of Whitechapel to command the homage of Congress, and of the great autocrat of all the Russias.  Properly instructed, little Sukey Smith may still obtain an enameled brooch or bracelet from her Majesty the Queen-Dowager!  Let us “people this whole isle with sylphs!” Let Drury-Lane and Covent-Garden flourish; but—­thanks to Great Britain pirouettes!—­the art of giving ten guineas for a couple of hours spent in an opera-box, will then become less criminal; and we shall have no fear of the influence of some Herodias’s daughter in our domestic life, when we see the Cracovienne announced in the bills “by Miss Mary Thomson.”  The charm will be destroyed.  The unfrequented coulisses, like Dodona, will cease to give forth oracles.