Under the influence of an “establishment,” we shall have to record of opera-dancers as of other professions, that “the goddesses are departing!” The danse a roulades of Fanny Elssler will be voted vulgar, when attempted by a Buggins.  Let Mr Bunn look to himself.  He may yet survive his immortality.  We foresee a day in which he will be no longer styled Alfred the Great.  With the aid of George Robins, and other illustrious persons interested in the destinies of theatrical property, we do not despond of hearing attached to “a bill for the legalization of the Royal and National Academy of Dancing of the United Kingdom,” the satisfactory decree of “LA REINE LE VEUT!”

* * * * *

THE PIRATES OF SEGNA.

A TALE OF VENICE AND THE ADRIATIC.  IN TWO PARTS.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.—­THE STUDIO.

It was on a bright afternoon in spring, and very near the close of the sixteenth century, that a handsome youth, of slender form and patrician aspect, was seated and drawing before an easel in the studio of the aged cavaliere Giovanni Contarini—­the last able and distinguished painter of the long-declining school of Titian.  The studio was a spacious and lofty saloon, commanding a cheerful view over the grand canal.  Full curtains of crimson damask partially shrouded the lofty windows, intercepting the superabundant light, and diffusing tints resembling the ruddy, soft, and melancholy hues of autumnal foliage; while these hues were further deepened by a richly carved ceiling of ebony, which, not reflecting but absorbing light, allayed the sunny radiance beneath, and imparted a sombre yet brilliant effect to the pictured walls, and glossy draperies, of the spacious apartment.  Above the rich and lofty mantelpiece hung one of the last portraits of himself painted by the venerable Titian, and on the dark pannels around were suspended portraits of great men and lovely women by the gifted hands of Giorgione, Paul Veronese, Paris Bordone, and Tintoretto.  Regardless, however, of all around him, and almost breathless with eagerness and impatience, the student pursued his object, and with rapid and vigorous strokes had half completed his sketch—­totally unconcious the while that some one had opened the folding-doors, crossed the saloon, and now stood behind his chair.

“But tell me, Antonello mio!” exclaimed old Contarini, after gazing awhile in mute astonishment at the sketch before him; “tell me, in the name of wonder, what kind of face do you mean to draw around that lean and withered nose and that horribly wrinkled mouth?”