Her Majesty's Theatre re-opened with every outward sign of prosperity. The house was crammed nightly—to all appearance the audience was delighted with the singers, good, bad, and indifferent; and one artist was brought forward, to reproduce the golden days of Mademoiselle Lind; and who absolutely did, for a short time, fascinate the foolish part of our opera public—into a belief that in her arrival a new revelation.

There had been the usual trumpets blown before-hand; with some variation in the tunes.—After tales of Swedish parson age-houses—after the coronetted book handed to “the Countess” to sing from—after the volume published in proof that Madame Sontag's return was an interposition of a special Providence, on behalf of a temple of Art fit object for such peculiar care—after the fac-simile of Madame Pasta promised in the daughter of her adoption and the inheritress of her secrets—invention could hardly have been easy; seeing, too, that it had already been tried in half a score of less prosperous forms. There had been the Viennese children, rescued, it was said, from the clutch of the Jesuits, in whose spiritual welfare virtuous sovereigns had been interested.—There had been a negro woman, with some of the inborn musical skill belonging to her race, paraded with the insulting title of The Black Malibran.