It would fill a volume to detail all the drolleries, all the absurdities, and all the quackery which created them, in connection with this extraordinary engagement-such as had never been heard of before, and never will be again, at least for the next century. It is unnecessary to say that, in America as in England, Jenny turned up her nose at her dupes, the moment she had turned her back upon them, and, as

"These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die,"

the said Jenny, taking unto herself for a husband, a musical individual by the name of Otto Goldschmidt, subsided into comparative obscurity. Whether this state of quietude be agreeable or not, we cannot take upon ourselves to determine; but, certes, feelers of divers character have been from time to time circulated in the American journals. At one time, a paragraph appeared in them, stating that Jenny and her chosen one lived unhappily together; and this was directly followed up by an extract from a letter which Jenny wrote to Mr. Zachrisson, the Swedish Consul in New York, running thus: "We are, God be thanked! quite well. Otto is very good and kind.

He

labours always, is at home always, is kind always, is the same faithful friend always, thinks only of my welfare and my happiness, and maintains a calm, still coURAGE in all circumstances." One would think, on a perusal of this latter passage, that Otto must have been engaged in some dreadful battle, some national crisis, or some other fearful event, from this display of a "a calm, still courage;" but as his principal occupations must be playing the fiddle, drinking hock, and eating Sauerkraut, we cannot see that such employment requires any very great degree of bravery! Then again, from one end of the Union to the other, paragraphs perpetually appeared heralding forth Jenny's continued acts of benevolence, and her incessant distribution of alms. Whether or not these avantcourriers have been despatched with an ultimate view to a return to the States, time will show; but in the interim, the following rejoinder to those paragraphs, which immediately followed them, must have somewhat damped her ardour. A New York paper, in which it appeared, stated that it came from the Berlin correspondent of the "London Literary Gazette:"

"The newspapers of different countries have recently teemed with accounts of Jenny Lind having

disbursed vast sums for establishing charitable institutions in Sweden. Jenny has done nothing of the kind. Since her marriage, she has ceased to be profusely liberal."

To drop, however, the humorous view of the question, and to pass over the limitless scene of humbug which was enacted wherever she appeared, let us seriously inquire, what all this quackery has led to? Jenny Lind's appearance in America has been a fatal blow to the encouragement and to the honest reward of other talent, by placing it on a pedestal from which it is sure to fall. The monstrous sum of money drawn by Jenny Lind and her "Mr. Merryman," has led to the belief that America is paved with gold, and that an adventurer landing there may pick up any quantity. The consequent pretensions of English and foreign artistes, whose services are sought for by American managers, are literally ridiculous; and where "thousands" are demanded, on the one hand, "hundreds❞ are refused on the other. Singers, giving themselves many more airs than they can sing, stipulate for three and four times the salary of the President of the United States! French dancers stick out for more dollars a year than they ever received francs for their whole lives! actors ask more in principle than

they ever received at home in percentage upon it, and the whole system is one scene of throatcutting. Nothing will ever teach this class of people wisdom; they are the victims of their own inordinate vanity :*

"And like the scorpion girt by fire,"

they invariably dart their sting into their own brains, or whatever else their heads may be lined with. They think nothing of their art, beyond what they can make by it, and all alike believing themselves to be exclusive professors of it, commit their depredations accordingly. Is it any wonder, then, that between quackery, pretension and rapacity, every branch of this profession is going speedily to decay? for such is the fact, depend upon it. When public performers will be content with the fair remuneration to which they are entitled, by which they can live, as receivers, and let others live as givers; when their talent relies for support on its real value rather than on its possessor's estimate thereof; when reward is meted out by merit, instead of assumption; and when modesty takes precedence of impertinence, there may be some

* "Le sot a un grand avantage sur l'homme instruit-il est toujours content de lui."

hope for the art dramatic, vocal, histrionic, mimic, or whatever denomination it may go by; and all this will come to pass when every professor learns these lines by heart, and the greatest part believe in them—and not one moment sooner :

"How few are found with real talents blest!
Fewer with Nature's gifts contented rest.
Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray;
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way!
Bred at St. Omer's to the shuffling trade
The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made-
With various readings stored his empty skull,
Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull;
Or, at some banker's desk, like many more,
Content to tell, that two and two make four,
His name had stood in City annals fair,
And prudent dulness marked him for a May'r!
What then could tempt him, in a critic age,
Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage?
Could it be worth his wondrous waste of pains
To publish to the world his lack of brains?
Or might not Reason e'en to him have shown
His greatest praise had been to live unknown?

Yet let not vanity, like his, despair:

Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care!"

*Churchill's "Rosciad," beginning at line 585.