After all, Her Majesty’s Theatre upon a gala-night presents a very gorgeous spectacle, and I do not wonder that, apart from the music, it is a place of so much attraction. The mere sight of the company is enough to strike us poor provincials with astonishment--for I believe that in no other assemblage in the world will you see so much beauty, rank, and elegance congregated as here. The opera for the evening was the “Somnambula,” and after the curtain had risen, and the preliminary scene was over, a fair, fresh, innocent-looking girl, attired in peasant costume, tripped upon the stage, and the storm of applause which literally shook the house welcomed the appearance of the celebrated Swedish singer. I do not purpose, Bogle, to go through the performance in detail--for two reasons: first, because I am not a competent critic; and secondly, because even supposing that I were qualified to write the musical article for the _Morning Post_, I am well convinced that you could not understand me. But I will tell you generally, and in plain words, what I think of Jenny Lind. The great charm of her performances seems to be this--that she combines together in extraordinary perfection the leading qualities of the actress and the singer. Nothing could be more natural, more touching, or more beautiful than the manner in which she embodied the character of Amina, and I write this with the full memory of the exquisite Malibran before me. But Malibran, with all her grace and genius, was more artificial than Jenny Lind. She always made it visible to you that somewhat of her simplicity was assumed; and occasionally she rather imitated the archness of the grisette, than the soft, modest, and yet playful demeanour of the village maiden. Jenny, on the other hand, is faultless in the expression of her emotions. Whether she is giving way to a burst of confiding love, or chiding her betrothed for his jealousy, or repelling with vexed impatience the approaches of the libertine Count, she never for a moment is untrue to the proper nature of her character. I never saw any thing so perfect as the sleep-walking scene; Siddons could not have done it better: and if mesmerism had often such charming pupils, it would soon become a popular science. Her voice in singing is most charming, but I think it strikes one less with surprise at its compass, than with delight at the exquisite melody and birdlike clearness of its tones. Indeed, no more appropriate name could have been bestowed on her than that by which she is now familiar throughout Europe--the peerless Nightingale of Sweden.