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physiognomie; her eyes are large and expressive; her eyebrows highly arched but not forcibly marked; her mouth small and full of mobility, and discovering when she smiles, which she does frequently, a range of pearly teeth; her hair is dark and luxuriant, but seems to want lustre ; her complexion is very sallow, a defect less perceptible by night than by day; her nose is the only feature decidedly bad, but only so with reference to the rest; it reminds one of the portraits of her father Ferdinand, but is much less retroussé than that of her mother. Her manners seem courteous, and her disposition lively, and the cares incident to her position have not as yet left any trace behind them. At times you would give her only the fifteen years which are all she has yet seen, but the general impression is that of a much older person-eighteen, twenty, or even fiveand-twenty years-an effect produced by her fully developed figure. Her dress was simple but pretty: in her hair were roses and pearl pins, and a small head-dress of black lace fell behind her ears, in which were pearl ear-rings. Her dress was pink, with a berthe (I believe ladies call it so) of black lace. Altogether, she gave one the idea of a very pleasing, welldressed young lady, whom any cavalier would be most happy to polk with in any society, and who, with half the fortune assigned to her (which, by the way, they say Louis Philippe has not yet touched) would make a sensation amongst our English heiresses of Albion. A propos her dot, the story goes that the thirty millions which the king understood to be francs, are explained by Marie Christine to be only reals, which diminishes their value by three-fourths; but it is hardly possible that Louis Philippe could have been so thoroughly done as this mystification would imply.

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The curtain is raised, and the actors in the Saynete, Mi Secretario y Yo (my Secretary and Myself), appear upon the scene. These were La Condesa (Senora Baus), her duenna or confidante, Zuiteria (Senora Barden), Don Fabricio (Lombia), and Don Engenio (Caltanazor). The story is extremely simple: the countess, a beautiful widow, living near Madrid, is beloved by a rich young merchant, Don Fabricio, who has lost his heart in negotiating for the purchase of her country seat, but has not courage to declare his passion. He is stimulated to do so by the duenna, who is most anxious to return to the capital, for she looks upon all the world, outside the walls of Madrid, as a desert, and conceives that her only chance of getting a husband, old as she is, exists in the possibility of finding him on the Prado, or at the Puerta del Sol. Fabricio, accustomed only to commercial affairs, is compelled to have recourse to his secretary, Eugenio, who writes a letter explanatory of his patron's feelings, but expresses himself rather as if he were consigning a cargo than making an offer of his hand; the style, however, is amended, and the letter graciously received, but Fabricio is at a loss what move next to make, while, in the meantime, the secretary has brought himself to think that he might stand a better chance with the lady than his principal. Fabricio has a happy idea, he will serenade his mistress. But unluckily, he can't sing. This deficiency his secretary undertakes to supply; and straightway the seguidilla is heard beneath the lady's windows. She is of course enchanted with the compliment, and in an interview with Fabricio, is about to resign her hand to him, when the unhappy secretary, believing the lady to be alone, strikes up on his own account. She recognises the voice and re

proaches Fabricio with the deception; the secretary enters, the Condesa seems disposed to award the prize to him, and torments her lover with the dread of her doing so. But this state of uncertainty does not last long; she gives Fabricio a tender glance, he throws himself at her feet, and they are happy; while the poor secretary, who has done all the work, is left planté là; the duenna offers to make him amends, he declines the honour somewhat brusquely, and the piece finishes with a tag delivered by Don Fabricio. Without developing any first-rate comic talent, the Saynete was creditably performed. Madame Baus is a pretty woman, and a tolerable actress, but her voice is rather harsh, and pitched in too high a key-a characteristic of the whole troupe.

Next came the "Boleras Robadas," and it would be difficult to do justice to the wonderful agility and grace of movement which marked these dances! hand, eye, and foot kept time with the most perfect precision, and, as in every other similar exhibition during the evening, it was only when the dancers were fairly exhausted that they gave in. A single Spanish figurante produces little effect; but when a dozen or more are in motion at once, the effect is widely different.

The drama of "Garcia del Castanar, El Labrador Mas Honrado,” (The worthiest Labourer") succeeded. The story is briefly this:A king of Castile (in the 13th century) is solicited by a nobleman whose services have been conspicuous, to confer on him the Banda roja (or red ribbon), an honour which is conceded. A list of those who, by their contributions, have most assisted in the war against the Moors is then laid before the king by his minister, the Count de Orgaz, and it appears that a certain cultivator of his own estate, Garcia del Castanar, has furnished more men and money than any of the grandees of Castile. The king is desirous of seeing one who, living so simply, has effected so much, and under the pretext of joining a hunting party, resolves to set out for Garcia's abode, accompanied only by Don Mendo, whom at the same time he decorates with his own ribbon. The minister writes to inform Garcia of the king's intention, whom he tells him he will at once recognise by the ribbon which he always wears. We are next introduced to Garcia's happy home, where we see him with his young and beautiful wife, Blanca, and surrounded by his farm-labourers and domestics. They celebrate the happiness of a rural life by songs and dances, and shortly afterwards the king and his suite arrive. He addresses Garcia in the kindest terms, but without making himself known, and Don Mendo who is mistaken for his royal master, falls violently in love with Blanca, to whom he communicates his sudden passion. She dissimulates her anger at the avowal for fear of dangerous consequences, but Garcia has himself observed the supposed king's admiration. Content, however, in the full belief in his wife's virtue he banishes suspicion, and his royal guest departs with Don Mendo. In the second act the king announces to his minister his intention of bestowing on Garcia a command in an expedition against the Moors. Bras, the confidential servant of Garcia, arrives at court on a message respecting subsidies; Don Mendo sees him and learns that his master is to be absent from his house on a hunting-party, and resolves to take advantage of the opportunity to endeavour to see Blanca again. He repairs thither in the dead of the night, but Garcia has returned home sooner than expected, and after an affectionate interview

with his wife, whom he is about to follow to her chamber, is startled by the sudden appearance through the window of Don Mendo, still wearing the red ribbon, and still mistaken for the king. Garcia whose arquebuse (in the 13th century!) is in his hand, takes him for a robber, and is just going to shoot him, when Don Mendo throws aside his cloak and discovers the red ribbon. Jealousy now usurps the place of all other feelings, and a violent struggle takes place between Garcia's loyalty and his desire for revenge. He, however, masters himself sufficiently to dismiss Don Mendo, but like a robber, by the way he entered. When the seducer is gone he avows his determination to kill Blanca, and afterwards himself.

At the opening of the third act we find that Blanca has fled from her husband's fury, and meeting with the Count de Orgaz is conducted by his servant for safety to the palace at Toledo. She is scarcely gone before Garcia appears, his cuchillo in his hand; he encounters De Orgaz, to whom, in the midst of his passion, he confides the secret (which in itself has nothing to do with the interest of the story), of his wife being an Infanta of Castile, and himself a proscribed noble. He follows her to the palace, and overhears Don Mendo, who has found her there, renewing his proposals, but he also hears Blanca indignantly reject them. Again the struggle arises between his duty as a subject, and the jealous feelings of an outraged husband, when the king himself enters. Garcia now discovers his mistake,-nothing further restrains him, and he stabs Don Mendo to the heart, but in conformity with classical practice, he invites him off the stage to allow him to do so a Dilly, dilly, dilly, come and be killed," sort of manner. tually the king pardons Garcia for the act, and all is made right.

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This play is of meagre construction, but I have detailed the plot to give a specimen of the Spanish acting drama. Lombia, who played Don Garcia, exhibited a good deal of tragic power, and received much applause the other actors were sticks, except Senora Baus (Blanca), and Caltanazor, who played Bras, the comic character of the piece.

But the real enjoyment of the performances began when the "Jota Aragonesa" was danced after the tragedy. There was no room in this exhibition for any thing but admiration. The almost delirious energy, and the wild yet graceful attitudes of the dancers, excited a perfect furore. A little piece called "La Feiria de Mairena" (the Fair of Mairena) followed. It was a picture in verse of Andalusian manners, and was interspersed with national songs and dances. One young man (his name did not appear) performed feats with a tambourine, which never were performed by tambourine or any other instrument on this side of the Pyrenees. A gipsy horse-jockey (Tamayo), gave a clever illustration of the manners of his tribe,-half Irish, half Arab,-and his daughter Aurora (Senora Noriega), played the Gitana to the life.

The success of the Spanish drama in Paris may be a question, but assuredly not the Spanish ballet. The royal visitors remained to the close, and none were more delighted than the Duchess de Montpensier.

THE OPERA.-JENNY LIND.

THE Swedish nightingale has achieved a success far beyond that of any vocalist whom the world has ever produced-be they soprani, contralti, tenori, bassi, baritoni. There have been singers, who have captivated the world with a single aria, winding round their auditors a chain of fioriture, fine, but indissoluble, so that the poor things have been fast prisoners bound firmly by the heart, and with their ears filled by dreamy sounds. Likewise there have been artists, who have taken a whole pit with a single smile. Madame Anna Thillon, when first she came out at the Princess's, was a case in point. Spreading her irresistible smile over the surface of the pit, she took the people one after another, just as the small bright spark on a sheet of touch-paper gradually eats its way through the entire material. But Jenny Lind has gone far beyond all this. She has not put a foot on the London stage, not a note of her voice has been heard-but her triumph is enormous.

What was the "Veni, vidi, vici" of Cæsar to this? Theatrically speaking, she has not come, she has not seen (an audience), but she has conquered. Her motto should be "Non veni, non vidi, sed vici." As for that correspondent who compares the success of Jenny Lind with that once achieved by the "Invisible Girl," we reject the notion with contempt.

To our mind, Jenny Lind is the symbol of Anglican excitability. This great, many-headed being (we were going to say "monster," but we won't, as it includes our readers), which we call the public, is subject to fits of strong excitement, and these assume a bodily shape and form, which we term a "popular favourite." Have our readers already observed the difference between the words "excitement" and "excitability?" Such visible beings as Cerito, Marie Taglioni, &c. &c., represent an already-existing excitement, and so will Jenny Lind by and by, perhaps by the time this article sees other light than that which comes through the sky-lights of Beaufort House. But, at present, she represents the possibility of being excited—or, in one word, excitability. Hence the peculiar marvel of her position, that a thing not in esse but in posse, should have its representative in time and space.

But we must dismiss this point, otherwise we shall not only grow too subtle for our readers, but we shall come to the disagreeable condition of not clearly understanding ourselves. Were he alive, we would leave the matter in the hands of that memorable sage, who settled the relative values of a possible angel, and an actually existing fly.

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On Saturday the 17th ult. about two o'clock in the afternoon a strange sensation came over the inhabitants of London. Something had happened -what was it? Was it in the air, or under the earth? Which class of the Rosicrucian spirits was at work? The salamanders-the sylphs-the naiads-the gnomes? Nodody knew. There was a certain epidemic sensation perfectly unaccountable.

Most people know that a divining rod is a sort of stick which is mysteriously affected by the presence of certain subterranean things in its immediate vicinity, perhaps by springs, perhaps by mineral formations. Fewer

are the people who know that there are certain human individualities who may be called living divining rods, and who when approaching the object for which they have a mysterious sympathy are attacked by some strange pain for which they are not able to account. In this condition exactly were the whole of the Londoners on the day and at the hour in question. The banker in his counting-house fancied for the instant that the chink of his sovereigns formed itself into a light melody; the merchant saw the words of the bills that came due arrange themselves into a musical staff decorated with various notes from the stately semibreve to the fluttering appoggiatura-the chimes of the Exchange clock were heard to give a fuller and more musical sound, and there was something orchestral in the rattle of the cabs and omnibuses.

Gradually the sensation became more definite, and there was a kind of notion that it proceeded from the direction of Blackwall. Was the word "Blackwall" sung by some etherial spirit, which floated down Fenchurchstreet and Cornhill, and then buzzed about the colonnades of the Exchange, rejoicing in the encaustic decorations? We know not-we know that the persons who had hitherto listened to melodious sovereigns, gazed on commercial scores, and been entranced by sonorous chimes, and harmonious cabs and omnibuses, were now conscious, without knowing why, that something particular was going on at Blackwall. One gourmet was of opinion that a marvel for the time of year had come to pass, in the shape of an arrival of an unusual quantity of white-bait.

Our readers, who are aware that Jenny Lind arrived at Blackwall on the 17th ult., at two P. M., will be able perfectly to account for all these strange phenomena.

At about half past seven o'clock on the evening of the same day, a still more powerful sensation was felt among the audience of her Majesty's Theatre. If it was a spirit that whispered about "Blackwall" at the east-end, the same spirit now repairing to the brilliant west, spoke distinctly "Jenny Lind is in the house." How could the audience, under these circumstances, attend to "I due Foscari," although Coletti played the part of the old doge ?

By the way Coletti's old Foscari is one of the finest personations in the whole range of the lyrical drama. His voice is magnificent, his "getting up" a veritable removal of a grim picture from the walls of the ducal palace, and the grief and indignation which he expresses, on being deprived of his power, after so many years spent in the service of an ungrateful republic, are marvellously true and impressive. A very pretty opera, "I due Foscari," though not remarkable for originality.

But, as we have said, what was the unfortunate old Foscari, and what was the unfortunate young Foscari, when it was known as a positive fact, that Jenny Lind was in the house? To that small, fair-haired, innocentlooking, unconscious lady on the first tier, were countless lorgnettes directed. The sole question was, "Where is Jenny Lind?" the sole answer was,

"There is Jenny Lind!"

The sensations of the audience when they had actually seen Jenny Lind were

But stop. The prudent painter of the sacrifice of Iphigenia feeling himself inadequate to express the grief of the father, covered the face with drapery. Our article terminates here. We would not venture to describe the sensations of the persons who had seen Jenny Lind.

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