An official announcement soon informed the delighted world, that although "Mademoiselle Lind had intended to take leave of the subscribers and the public in a series of concerts," yet "it having been urged that concerts would not be regarded as equally satisfactory," she had "generously consented to suspend her intention of retiring from the stage," and would therefore appear in a few more performances. This resolution — a tardy one, scarcely compensating the inconveniences caused by previous refusals — was nevertheless hailed with satisfaction by both public and manager.

On Thursday, the 26th of April, the would-be fugitive prima donna reappeared on the boards of Her Majesty's Theatre, in her great part of "La Sonnambula." Many of the self-styled "interpreters" of public sentiment pretended that the chain of sympathy which had attached her to the public had been too suddenly snapped asunder to be restored to its former strength; that the tide of popular feeling, untowardly checked when it had reached to such an unprecedented height, had been diverted, and would never flow in the same channel again. But all these suppositions turned out utterly ill-founded. Never had Jenny Lind been received with a more enthusiastic welcome, or with acclamations more fervent, from a house crowded to the ceiling, than on the night in which she returned once more to the stage. The scene of excitement was perhaps more agitating than any former scenes of bygone triumphs. It seemed not only as though a favourite idol had been restored to the public, but as if a child, whom some difference had temporarily estranged, had been received back to the arms of its family. In truth, the emotion on both sides appeared equally profound. The evening was signalised also, it may be said en passant (for every other consideration seemed utterly swamped in the one exciting event), by the first appearance of Signor Calzolari, an excellent and most satisfactory young tenor of (what was denominated) "the good old school."