A year or two since, my father’s health grew delicate, and his physicians thought a sea voyage would prove beneficial. A visit to Europe was recommended, and I, of course, accompanied him. We spent some time abroad, traveling over those parts of the Continent most interesting to him, from early intellectual pursuits and associations. While we were at Munich, the Bavarian capital, we heard that the famous dancer, Lola Montes, was there, creating a great excitement. The strange stories we had heard of this remarkable woman, made us feel desirous to see her; and, accordingly, one evening we went to the theatre to gratify our curiosity. I could scarcely refrain from a loud exclamation when this _danseuse_ appeared upon the stage. She was dressed in Spanish costume, as she was about to execute a favorite Spanish dance. A rich costly veil floated around her head, and her long, glossy hair hung in heavy, dark braids, looped, and bound with glittering gems. It was Lolah Lalande. Love could not be deceived; and tears sprung to my eyes as I recalled our girlish friendship. Had she been in any other dress, I might have failed to trace the resemblance so quickly; but I had so often seen her in that Spanish costume—it was similar to the crayon sketch—it was the dress she most affected at the dancing parties at school, because the Spanish waltzes were her favorite dances when a child; and she always danced them dressed in the beautiful, becoming national costume. How anxiously I noted every movement, traced every feature—it was Lolah herself I felt convinced, although changed. A _fierté_ cold expression overspread her face, and her brilliant eyes flashed a little disdainfully at times, as she seemed to command and exact applause as a right. There was no glittering, set, stage-smile upon her face, but a cold, haughty recognition was all that she gave to any mark of approbation from the audience. Her style of dancing was different from any I had ever seen on the stage. I had admired the childish beauty of Carlotta Grisi’s dancing; the voluptuous Cerito’s; the fascinating, refined Ellsler’s, and the dignified, intellectual Taglioni’s; but Montes’—no, Lolah Lalande’s—seemed to me—it might have been from childish association—more entrancing than any other, although those who were with me, and who were, undoubtedly, good judges, better than I, condemned her style; but when woman’s heart begins to act, good-by to her judgment. Lolah had grown tall; and though still exquisitely graceful, as in childhood, she seemed remarkably strong and commanding. Other dancers, I thought, might be compared to a Hebe or a Venus, but Lolah seemed a Juno and Pallas united; and I quoted to my clever critic friends the lines with which I have headed this sketch,— “She can show art rules to astonish her. And what the muses would with study find, She teaches in her dancing.”