with which it is used, and the intelligence and sensibility of which it is the organ.  Mlle. Lind’s execution is that of a complete musician.  Every passage is as highly finished, as perfect in tone, tune, and articulation, as if it proceeded from the violin of a Paganini or a Sivori, with the additional charm which lies in the human voice divine.  Her embellishments show the richest fancy and boundless facility, but they show still more remarkably a well-regulated judgment and taste.”

Mlle. Lind could never have been a great actress, and risen into that stormy world of dramatic power, where the passion and imagination of Pasta, Schroeder-Devrient, Malibran, Viardot, or even Grisi, wrought such effects, but, within the sphere of her temperament, she was easy, natural, and original.  One of her eulogists remarked:  “Following her own bland conceptions, she rises to regions whence, like Schiller’s maid, she descends to refresh the heart and soul of her audience with gifts beautiful and wondrous”; but, as she never attempted the delineation of the more stormy and vehement passions, it is probable that she was more cognizant of her own limitations, than were her critics.

She was not handsome, but of pleasing aspect.  A face of placid sweetness, expressive features, soft, dove-like-blue eyes, and very abundant, wavy, flaxen hair, made up a highly agreeable ensemble, while the slender figure was full of grace.  There was an air of virginal simplicity and modesty in every movement which set her apart among her stage sisters.  To this her character answered in every line; for, moving in the midst of a world which had watched every action, not the faintest breath of scandal ever shaded the fair fame of this Northern lily.

The struggle for admission after the first night made the attempt to get a seat except by long prearrangement an experience of purgatory.  Twenty-five pounds were paid for single boxes, while four or five guineas were gladly given for common stalls.  Hours were spent before the doors of the opera-house on the chance of a place in the pit.  It is said that three gentlemen came up from Liverpool with the express purpose of hearing the new diva sing, spent a week in trying to obtain seats, and returned without success.  No such mania for a singer had ever fired the phlegmatic blood of the English public.  Articles of furniture and dress were called by her name; portraits and memoirs innumerable of her were published.

During the season she appeared in “Robert le Diable,” “Sonnambula,” “Lucia” “La Figlia del Reggimento,” and “Norma,” as well as in a new opera by Verdi, “I Masnadieri,” which even Jenny Lind’s genius and popularity could not keep on the surface.  At the close of the season, her manager, Lumley, presented her a magnificent testimonial of pure silver, three feet in height, representing a pillar wreathed with laurel, at the feet of which wore seated three draped figures, Tragedy,