by the French newspaper, Le Siècle, to follow
the military operations, and report them."

"Very good," said Christian the Ninth, turning
to the orchestra, which immediately struck
up.

Monsieur C., blushing like a peony at the
thought of having kept on his hat in the
presence of the sovereign and the gracious
princesses, felt an impulse to rush out and offer
humble apologies for having mistaken the royal
retiring-room for a public passage. On second
thoughts, he remained where he was, for reasons
which he specifies. He was right. In cases
where it is evident that no intentional rudeness
has been committed, explanations and excuses
for mistakes made in ignorance often only make
bad worse. In some of these little social messes,
the more you flounder, the deeper you stick in
the mire.

The ballet is the brightest gem in the crown
of the Copenhagen Theatre Royal. The Danes
are very proud of it; and their sentiment of
national pride is, on several accounts, perfectly
justifiable. Although the peculiarities of Danish
ballet owe their origin to a Frenchman, the
Marquis de Bournonville, who fled from the
French Revolution to take refuge in Denmark,
those peculiarities do not the less exist, and the
Danish mimes are truly remarkable. M. de
Bournonville beguiled the weariness of exile
by initiating the fair-haired daughters of the
north in the mysteries of capers and pirouettes.
He founded a school of dance, in accordance
with sound tradition, and inspired the Danes
with a taste for divertissements, of which they
had hitherto only an incomplete idea.

At Copenhagen are performed ballets taken
from the Scandinavian mythology, impressed
with original poesy, and extremely interesting
in respect to the conduct of the story. The
scenery is sufficient, even for persons who
know the Grand Opera at Paris; the costumes
leave nothing to be desired. As to dancing,
pure and simple, it forms the smallest ingredient
in these ballets. The Danes consider dancing,
as elsewhere practised, indecorous. The Danish
danseuses wear skirts which reach down to their
ankles. But since it might happen that, in a
pirouette, the dress might rise above the
permitted level, the Marquis de Bournonville's
virtuous pupils encase themselves in stout pantaloons
of impenetrable glazed calico. Of course
the upper part of these ladies' persons is an object
of equal solicitude. Their well-clad charms brave
every indiscreet and prying glance: that is,
supposing that, in Copenhagen, any eye could
ever be indiscreet. Their gestures and expression
of countenance are in harmony with their
costume. With arms slightly raised in front,
and downcast eyes, they set their left foot
foremost, and edify the pit by their grace and
innocence, inspiring it with thoughts of family
affection, of respect for statistical laws and
social economy. Consequently, these respected
artists are treated with every mark of pious
admiration. To be a dancer, at Copenhagen,
means to bid adieu to the futile and dangerous
pleasures of the world. For this reason, doubtless,
the worthy Danes inscribe on the curtain
of every theatre the characteristic motto, Er
BLOT TIL LTST, "Not for amusement only."
The ballet, like tragedy and comedy, ought to
afford instructive lessons.

The Theatre Royal, of which the Danes are
justly proud, is an unpretending, nay, even
an ugly building, externally. Its interior
arrangements are tolerably comfortable, and it
has one remarkable peculiarity. The chandelier
lights the theatre only between the acts. As
soon as the curtain rises, the chandelier also is
drawn up by invisible chains, and disappears in
the ceiling. In this way the spectators in the
upper tiers are not, as in most other theatres,
blinded by the light, and compelled to turn their
backs on the stage. In the new theatres Du
Châtelet and Lyrique in Paris, the central
chandelier is altogether suppressed, the audience
part of the house being illuminated by gaslight,
which makes its way from above through a
ceiling of dimmed glass.

The government assists this theatre with
sufficient liberality to enable it to secure for its
actors a provision for life. Their salaries, it is
true, appear but scanty, if compared with those
received by artists out of Denmark. But the
Danish singers contrive to live contented with
what they get, having no other object than the
culture of art, and no other ambition than to
bring up their families respectably. There is
no Conservatory of Music in Copenhagen; but
a School of Dance is attached to the Theatre
Royal. The children admitted, besides lessons
in their art, receive a complete education in all
the branches of elementary knowledge.

Like Paris, Copenhagen reckons a certain
number of Café-Concerts, which are frequented
exclusively by men of the middle class and
passing strangers. Female singers, for the
most part handsome and coquettishly attired,
perform Swedish melodies and national songs
to the accompaniment of the piano. Some few
have good voices, and might, by painstaking,
become true artists. Almost all these, however,
are Swedes, who are much more richly gifted
than the Danes in respect to voice. Denmark
is still waiting for a Jenny Lind to spread the
national vocal glory over the two hemispheres.
It is surprising that these two countries, lying
so near to each other, peopled by the same race
of men, and which have several times been
united under a common government, should
present such marked differences in respect to
voice and musical genius. Fine voices are
almost common in Sweden; people sing there,
as they speak, naturally and without effort. In
Denmark, on the contrary, good voices are
scarce, and the accomplishment of singing is
invariably the result of determined and persevering
application. Perhaps the very cold but
very dry climate of Sweden, and the less cold
but extremely damp air of Denmark, are the
principal causes of the difference. Still, if
Danish singers are far from common,
instrumentalists abound everywhere.