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 in a "Dilly, dilly, dilly, come and be killed," sort of manner. Eventually the king pardons Garcia for the act, and all is made right.

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.

*

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.

THE GREAT STEEPLE-CHASE AT THE CROIX DE BERNY.

THE long-anticipated steeple-chase (writes the lively Theophile Guatier, the spirituel feuilletoniste of the Presse), which kept all Paris in a state of feverish suspense, was to take place at two o'clock in the afternoon. The rush was enormous. Upon the Boulevard of the Invalides, in the Rue d'Enfer, in the Rue de l'Est, thoroughfares, generally speaking, deserted and tranquil, three rivers of carriages and vehicles of all descriptions poured along, till, united at the city-gate, they became a great estuary, flanked by two quays of pedestrians.

The sky, which had smiled for a moment in the morning, no doubt perceiving that something was preparing for the day, began to assume a sullen aspect, which gradually took the character of drizzling rain. The suburban half-rustic population of the outskirts were watching, with eyes sparkling with malicious pleasure, the crowd of fashionables hustling one another through the shower; for nothing rejoices the hearts of the extramural population so much as to see a Parisian wet to the skin and covered with mud.

The landscape is not very picturesque on the road to Berny, the most remarkable objects being immense red wheels, which appear as if detached from so many gigantic hackney-coaches, and vast heaps of rubbish piled by the side of the stone-quarries, to which the said wheels appertain.

On nearing the ground the crowd grew more and more dense. Handsome cavaliers starred the carriage-windows, and even the pretty faces that leaned out to look at them, with mud. Travelling chariots with four post-horses drove the crowd before them, and made vehicles of a frailer description fly before the thunder of their wheels, the jumble of their bells, and the musketry of their whips.

"Sylphides," "citadines," and "milords," were mixed up with cabs, chariots, and coaches, and with "Americaines," phaetons, and landaus, for the English have disinterred the latter. There might be some sacrifice of fashion in all this, but the very incongruity was a sign of "sport" in the wind. All the inns of the village were encumbered with carriages, horses, servants, and jockeys; the rain that was now falling heavily had no effect upon the general gladness and bustle.

Taking the road to the left, the spot where the stands were erected was soon reached. The first was covered and divided into stalls, at twenty francs a seat; the next was also covered, but the seats were not numbered, and there was a scramble at ten francs a head. Private carriages were mulcted in twenty francs, to enter into the meadow and take their station in a line not far from the river. Places taken the previous evening fetched thirty francs. The subscribers' stand was erected in a small meadow, at an expense of 1500 francs; the nine windows at the mayor's house, and the two at the inn, which commanded the ground, were let at a hundred francs each. Seats were indeed expensive at this theatre, although the performances took place in the open air. Five hundred foot, and a hundred mounted soldiers, to each of whom the gratuity of

one franc had been allotted, did the duties of police, and certainly it was no easy task with so impatient a mob.

And now let us turn to the ground, or to the "turf," as our continental brethren have it-and there is something equally novel and curious in adhering to their adopted versions of our sporting phraseologythe field of the forthcoming struggle of the "jockeys and gentlemen riders."

A great meadow, washed by the Bièvre, sweeps downwards, with here and there patches of fallow land, heavy and trying for the horses. The winning-post is in this meadow, close by the river. The starting-post is further off, almost out of sight, behind a clump of trees. A variety of obstacles, hedges, ditches, and rivulets, intersect the road which the horses have to pass over. At every obstacle a yellow pennon indicates the line of road to be followed. By these arrangements, almost all the events of the race can be seen; the horses, starting from a given point, ascend the acclivity, then speed downwards, cross the river, traverse the meadow, and return, without having escaped the glasses and eyes directed towards them more than a few minutes. The obstacles to be overcome, consist of hedges, a fencing of planks, a river eleven feet in width, and a stone wall. The difficulties of these leaps were increased by the rain, which had rendered the soil heavy, pasty, and slippery.

Now flank all this with carriages of every description, with an immense and motley crowd, and suspend a dark lowering sky, intersected with strings of rain, and you will have a tolerably correct idea of the whole thing.

And now to the performers in the equestrian drama. Out of fifty-two horses, forty only accepted the handicap, and only ten ran. These were Commodore, belonging to Mr. Livingston; Ways, M. A. Aumont; Switcher, the Earl of Strathmore; St. Leger, Mr. George Watts, jun.; Discount, Mr. Lambton; Gazely, Major Rushbrook; Matchless, Mr. Stanley; Peter Simple, Mr. Rolts; Young Lottery, M. Eugene Cremieux.

The signal being given, we perceived the profiles of the horses and of their riders pass like shadows across the skeletons of the little trees, then we saw a white horse-Peter Simple, if we are not mistaken-upon the acclivity of the hill, followed close by Matchless; the others followed at short distances. The soil was so soaked, that rockets of mud ascended into the air with each vault of the horses. The hedge was cleared courageously, and the whole field arrived at full speed at the river, whose soft and slippery banks were opposed to that spring necessary to insure a safe transit. Lord Strathmore, mounted upon Switcher, found the bed of the stream obstructed by a horse imbedded with its rider in the mud, while another to the right was dragging himself from the mire after a complete immersion.

The white horse had, in the meantime, got an advance of a hundred and fifty paces, and surmounted the wall, loosening only one stone; the others, some with their hoofs, some with their chests, and others with their bellies, tumbled down the crest of the wall, which was thus speedily shorn of one-half of its height, leaving an open breach, for the horses which came up last, to pass through.