It is to be wished, however, that the more ardent admirers of this delightful syren would preserve some little moderation in their encomium. For it is quite obvious to me that, in actual power of voice, she is exceeded by several singers at present on the London stage; and whenever much physical exertion is required, she fails to electrify the audience with such bursts of magnificent song as thrill from the throat of Grisi. Jenny Lind seems to be quite aware of her own capabilities; for she has not yet selected a vehement or stormy part, which may be said to embody the highest operatic tragedy. And she does wisely in confining herself to her own sphere, in which she has no equal. And I do most devoutly hope that all the adulation and applause which has been showered upon her, may not turn that sweet young innocent head; that when her period of probation is over, she may return to Sweden the same gentle and unassuming creature as when she left it; and in the quiet retreats of her native Scandinavian valley, find that happiness and calm content of soul which is better than all the plaudits of a changeable and fantastic world. To tell you the truth, Bogle, I wish all this row was over. I am sick of hot committee-rooms, of gentlemen in horse-hair wigs, and of the whole paraphernalia of railway bills; and I long either to be throwing a fly on the breezy surface of Loch Awe, or enjoying a cool bowl of punch in your company at the open window of your marine villa which looks out upon the hills of Cowall. I no longer take pleasure in white-bait and those eternal courses of eels and diminutive flounder which constitute a fish-dinner at Greenwich, or in the equally unvarying repast which awaits one at Richmond of a Sunday. I get quite unhappy as I survey those gasping goldfish parboiling in the basin at Hampton Court: now that the horse-chestnuts have faded, Bushy Park appears to me but a seedy sort of place; and I have no inclination whatever to trust myself in the ring at Ascot. I am sighing for a wimpling burn or a green brae in the north, where I can lie down upon the gowans, look up into the clear deep sky, and listen to the pleasant sounds that in summer give glory to a Scottish glen. I cannot see any charm in the dusty Park, with its long strings of coronetted carriages--more than half of which, I am afraid, are justly challengeable at Heralds’ College--and the bold, broad, Semiramis-like beauty of the women who are reclining luxuriously within. Titmarsh is decidedly right. It is but a picture of Vanity Fair; and, I fear me, vanity displayed in its poorest and most contemptible form. All that rivalry of equipage--all that glitter and splendour--all that parade of lazy menials in crimson and orange attire, fail to impress me with any thing like admiration, and certainly do not excite within me the smallest thrill of envy. It is but the race of wealth, the competition of pomp, the exhibition of pitiful rivalry which now whirls