In the middle of the stage, exposed to the view of all, at the bottom of the Rhine, are fabulous piles of gold, silver and jewels, heaped up on a table, and carelessly left without any watchman. The amount and value of these treasures I would not like to estimate, nor the temptation which I experienced to appropriate a solitary jewel, which might have made my fortune when I returned to the upper earth. As I am meditating on the expediency of it, two ruffianly looking demons of the most hideous description mount the table and significantly lean upon their clubs, as if inviting somebody to try it on. One of them glances at me, and I decline the experiment. John Henry having seen his man, and the orchestra having returned from their beer, the scenery being in readiness, and the ubiquitous call-boy having again summoned the fish and other people to be up for the second act, the wings are full of fish. That little wasp, Venturola, is to have a solo, and that there may not be anything to offend her dainty feet, she seizes the broom and sweeps the bottom of the Rhine clear of all obstructions, for she is going to try to outdo Westmael to-night. The curtain rises, and my friends, the demons, have the stage. Kuhleborn, like a shot from a cannon ball, flies up through the star trap. Had there been a slight variation in the working of the nice machinery of the trap, poor Kuhleborn's brains would have been dashed out by the heavy counter-weights, which, in their descent, force him up; but the working is so well graduated that Kuhleborn is in no danger of injury, save from the apices of the triangular sections of the trap, which upon every exit manage to take off a small piece of his nose, whereupon, being a demon, he is excusable for indulging in slight expletives, such as are used by the Rhine demons. As the square trap, through which he shuts himself up like a jack-knife and disappears, also manages to take off a small piece of his back and shoulders, it would prove an interesting study to calculate how much of Kuhleborn will be left at the expiration of the allotted six weeks. The preliminary scene over, the Fish Ballet commences. This is Venturola's opportunity. A little more resin on her pretty feet. A little impatiently she waves aside the Amazons and Naiads, who have congregated in her wing to see the dance, and bounds upon the stage like a ball hot from the striker, amid the applause of the audience. But not even her own fine effort, nor the graceful posturing of the coryphees, nor the acrobatic and unique dancing of Kuhleborn, in his oil-cloth fish-skin, secure for her an encore. She does not even get a bouquet. Frantic young man! Where were you at this critical moment? She comes off the stage, and there is a snapping of those black eyes as she brushes through the crowd down stairs to her dressing-room and slams the door. Westmael must look out for her laurels in the grand ballet of the next act, when the solo tests come.