THE NIGHTINGALE IN NEW YORK.
FINAL CONCERTS IN LIVERPOOL--DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA--ARRIVAL OFF
STATEN ISLAND--MY FIRST INTERVIEW WITH JENNY LIND--THE TREMENDOUS
THRONG AT THE WHARF--TRIUMPHAL ARCHES--“WELCOME TO
AMERICA”--EXCITEMENT IN THE CITY--SERENADE AT THE IRVING HOUSE--THE
PRIZE ODE--BAYARD TAYLOR THE PRIZEMAN--“BARNUM’S
PARNASSUS”--“BARNUMOPSIS”--FIRST CONCERT IN CASTLE GARDEN--A NEW
AGREEMENT--RECEPTION OF JENNY LIND--UNBOUNDED ENTHUSIASM--BARNUM
CALLED OUT--JULIUS BENEDICT--THE SUCCESS OF THE ENTERPRISE
ESTABLISHED--TWO GRAND CHARITY CONCERTS IN NEW YORK--DATE OF THE
FIRST REGULAR CONCERT.
After the engagement with Miss Lind was consummated, she declined
several liberal offers to sing in London, but, at my solicitation, gave
two concerts in Liverpool, on the eve of her departure for America. My
object in making this request was, to add the _éclat_ of that side to
the excitement on this side of the Atlantic, which was already nearly up
to fever heat.
The first of the two Liverpool concerts was given the night previous to
the departure of the Saturday steamer for America. My agent had procured
the services of a musical critic from London, who finished his account
of this concert at half past one o’clock the following morning, and at
two o’clock my agent was overseeing its insertion in a Liverpool morning
paper, numbers of which he forwarded to me by the steamer of the same
day. The republication of the criticism in the American papers,
including an account of the enthusiasm which attended and followed this
concert,--her trans-Atlantic,--had the desired effect.
On Wednesday morning, August 21, 1850, Jenny Lind and Messrs. Benedict
and Belletti, set sail from Liverpool in the steamship Atlantic, in
which I had long before engaged the necessary accommodations, and on
board of which I had shipped a piano for their use. They were
accompanied by my agent, Mr. Wilton, and also by Miss Ahmansen and Mr.
Max Hjortzberg, cousins of Miss Lind, the latter being her Secretary;
also by her two servants, and the valet of Messrs. Benedict and
Belletti.
It was expected that the steamer would arrive on Sunday, September 1,
but, determined to meet the songstress on her arrival whenever it might
be, I went to Staten Island on Saturday, and slept at the hospitable
residence of my friend, Dr. A. Sidney Doane, who was at that time the
Health Officer of the Port of New York. A few minutes before twelve
o’clock, on Sunday morning, the Atlantic hove in sight, and immediately
afterwards, through the kindness of my friend Doane, I was on board the
ship, and had taken Jenny Lind by the hand.
After a few moments’ conversation, she asked me when and where I had
heard her sing.
“I never had the pleasure of seeing you before in my life,” I replied.
“How is it possible that you dared risk so much money on a person whom
you never heard sing?” she asked in surprise.
“I risked it on your reputation, which in musical matters I would much
rather trust than my own judgment,” I replied.
I may as well state, that although I relied prominently upon Jenny
Lind’s reputation as a great musical _artiste_, I also took largely
into my estimate of her success with all classes of the American public,
her character for extraordinary benevolence and generosity. Without this
peculiarity in her disposition, I never would have dared make the
engagement which I did, as I felt sure that there were multitudes of
individuals in America who would be prompted to attend her concerts by
this feeling alone.
Thousands of persons covered the shipping and piers, and other thousands
had congregated on the wharf at Canal Street, to see her. The wildest
enthusiasm prevailed as the steamer approached the dock. So great was
the rush on a sloop near the steamer’s berth, that one man, in his zeal
to obtain a good view, accidentally tumbled overboard, amid the shouts
of those near him. Miss Lind witnessed this incident, and was much
alarmed. He was, however, soon rescued, after taking to himself a cold
duck instead of securing a view of the Nightingale. A bower of green
trees, decorated with beautiful flags, was discovered on the wharf,
together with two triumphal arches, on one of which was inscribed,
“Welcome, Jenny Lind!” The second was surmounted by the American eagle,
and bore the inscription, “Welcome to America!” These decorations were
not produced by magic, and I do not know that I can reasonably find
fault with those who suspected I had a hand in their erection. My
private carriage was in waiting, and Jenny Lind was escorted to it by
Captain West. The rest of the musical party entered the carriage, and
mounting the box at the driver’s side, I directed him to the Irving
House. I took that seat as a legitimate advertisement, and my presence
on the outside of the carriage aided those who filled the windows and
[Illustration: _JENNY LIND._]
sidewalks along the whole route, in coming to the conclusion that Jenny
Lind had arrived.
A reference to the journals of that day will show, that never before had
there been such enthusiasm in the City of New York, or indeed in
America. Within ten minutes after our arrival at the Irving House, not
less than twenty thousand persons had congregated around the entrance in
Broadway, nor was the number diminished before nine o’clock in the
evening. At her request, I dined with her that afternoon, and when,
according to European custom, she prepared to pledge me in a glass of
wine, she was somewhat surprised at my saying, “Miss Lind, I do not
think you can ask any other favor on earth which I would not gladly
grant; but I am a teetotaler, and must beg to be permitted to drink your
health and happiness in a glass of cold water.”
At twelve o’clock that night, she was serenaded by the New York Musical
Fund Society, numbering, on that occasion, two hundred musicians. They
were escorted to the Irving House by about three hundred firemen, in
their red shirts, bearing torches. There was a far greater throng in the
streets than there was even during the day. The calls for Jenny Lind
were so vehement that I led her through a window to the balcony. The
loud cheers from the crowds lasted for several minutes, before the
serenade was permitted to proceed again.
I have given the merest sketch of but a portion of the incidents of
Jenny Lind’s first day in America. For weeks afterwards the excitement
was unabated. Her rooms were thronged by visitors, including the
magnates of the land in both Church and State. The carriages of the
wealthiest citizens could be seen in front of her hotel at nearly all
hours of the day, and it was with some difficulty that I prevented the
“fashionables” from monopolizing her altogether, and thus, as I
believed, sadly marring my interests by cutting her off from the warm
sympathies she had awakened among the masses. Presents of all sorts were
showered upon her. Milliners, mantua-makers, and shopkeepers vied with
each other in calling her attention to their wares, of which they sent
her many valuable specimens, delighted if, in return, they could receive
her autograph acknowledgment. Songs, quadrilles and polkas were
dedicated to her, and poets sung in her praise. We had Jenny Lind
gloves, Jenny Lind bonnets, Jenny Lind riding hats, Jenny Lind shawls,
mantillas, robes, chairs, sofas, pianos--in fact, every thing was Jenny
Lind. Her movements were constantly watched, and the moment her carriage
appeared at the door, it was surrounded by multitudes, eager to catch a
glimpse of the Swedish Nightingale.
In looking over my “scrap-books” of extracts from the New York papers of
that day, in which all accessible details concerning her were duly
chronicled, it seems almost incredible that such a degree of enthusiasm
should have existed. An abstract of the “sayings and doings” in regard
to the Jenny Lind mania for the first ten days after her arrival,
appeared in the London _Times_ of Sept. 23, 1850, and although it was an
ironical “showing up” of the American enthusiasm, filling several
columns, it was nevertheless a faithful condensation of facts which at
this late day seem even to myself more like a dream than reality.
Before her arrival I had offered $200 for a prize ode, “Greeting to
America,” to be sung by Jenny Lind at her first concert. Several
hundred “poems” were sent in from all parts of the United States and the
Canadas. The duties of the Prize Committee, in reading these effusions
and making choice of the one most worthy the prize, were truly arduous.
The “offerings,” with perhaps a dozen exceptions, were the merest
doggerel trash. The prize was awarded to Bayard Taylor for the following
ode:
GREETING TO AMERICA.
WORDS BY BAYARD TAYLOR--MUSIC BY JULIUS BENEDICT.
I greet with a full heart the Land of the West,
Whose Banner of Stars o’er a world is unrolled;
Whose empire o’ershadows Atlantic’s wide breast,
And opens to sunset its gateway of gold!
The land of the mountain, the land of the lake,
And rivers that roll in magnificent tide--
Where the souls of the mighty from slumber awake,
And hallow the soil for whose freedom they died!
Thou Cradle of Empire! though wide be the foam
That severs the land of my fathers and thee,
I hear, from thy bosom, the welcome of home,
For Song has a home in the hearts of the Free!
And long as thy waters shall gleam in the sun,
And long as thy heroes remember their scars,
Be the hands of thy children united as one,
And Peace shed her light on thy Banner of Stars!
This award, although it gave general satisfaction, yet was met with
disfavor by several disappointed poets, who, notwithstanding the
decision of the committee, persisted in believing and declaring their
own productions to be the best. This state of feeling was doubtless, in
part, the cause which led to the publication, about this time, of a
witty pamphlet entitled “Barnum’s Parnassus; being Confidential
Disclosures of the Prize Committee on the Jenny Lind song.”
It gave some capital hits in which the committee, the enthusiastic
public, the Nightingale, and myself, were roundly ridiculed. The
following is a fair specimen from the work in question:
BARNUMOPSIS.
A RECITATIVE.
When to the common rest that crowns his days,
Dusty and worn the tired pedestrian goes,
What light is that whose wide o’erlooking blaze
A sudden glory on his pathway throws?
’Tis not the setting sun, whose drooping lid
Closed on the weary world at half-past six;
’Tis not the rising moon, whose rays are hid
Behind the city’s sombre piles of bricks.
It is the Drummond Light, that from the top
Of Barnum’s massive pile, sky-mingling there,
Darts its quick gleam o’er every shadowed shop,
And gilds Broadway with unaccustomed glare.
There o’er the sordid gloom, whose deep’ning tracks
Furrow the city’s brow, the front of ages,
Thy loftier light descends on cabs and hacks,
And on two dozen different lines of stages!
O twilight Sun, with thy far darting ray,
Thou art a type of him whose tireless hands
Hung thee on high to guide the stranger’s way,
Where, in its pride, his vast Museum stands.
Him, who in search of wonders new and strange,
Grasps the wide skirts of Nature’s mystic robe
Explores the circles of eternal change,
And the dark chambers of the central globe.
He, from the reedy shores of fabled Nile,
Has brought, thick-ribbed and ancient as old iron,
That venerable beast the crocodile,
And many a skin of many a famous lion.
Go lose thyself in those continuous halls,
Where strays the fond papa with son and daughter
And all that charms or startles or appals,
Thou shalt behold, and for a single quarter!
Far from the Barcan deserts now withdrawn,
There huge constrictors coil their scaly backs;
There, cased in glass, malignant and unshorn,
Old murderers glare in sullenness and wax.
There many a varied form the sight beguiles,
In rusty broadcloth decked and shocking hat,
And there the unwieldy Lambert sits and smiles,
In the majestic plenitude of fat.
Or for thy gayer hours, the orang-outang
Or ape salutes thee with his strange grimace,
And in their shapes, stuffed as on earth they sprang,
Thine individual being thou canst trace!
And joys the youth in life’s green spring, who goes
With the sweet babe and the gray-headed nurse,
To see those Cosmoramic orbs disclose
The varied beauties of the universe.
And last, not least, the marvellous Ethiope,
Changing his skin by preternatural skill,
Whom every setting sun’s diurnal slope
Leaves whiter than the last, and whitening still.
All that of monstrous, scaly, strange and queer,
Has come from out the womb of earliest time,
Thou hast, O Barnum, in thy keeping here,
Nor is this all--for triumphs more sublime
Await thee yet! I, Jenny Lind, who reigned
Sublimely throned, the imperial queen of song,
Wooed by thy golden harmonies, have deigned
Captive to join the heterogeneous throng.
Sustained by an unfaltering trust in coin,
Dealt from thy hand, O thou illustrious man,
Gladly I heard the summons come to join
Myself the innumerable caravan.
Besides the foregoing, this pamphlet contained eleven poems, most of
which abounded in wit. I have room for but a single stanza. The poet
speaks of the various curiosities in the Museum, and representing me as
still searching for further novelties, makes me address the Swedish
Nightingale as follows:
“So Jenny, come along! you’re just the card for me,
And quit these kings and queens, for the country of the free;
They’ll welcome you with speeches, and serenades, and rockets,
And you will touch their hearts, and I will tap their pockets;
And if between us both the public isn’t skinned,
Why, my name isn’t Barnum, nor your name Jenny Lind!”
Various extracts from this brochure were copied in the papers daily, and
my agents scattered the work as widely as possible, thus efficiently
aiding and advertising my enterprise and serving to keep up the public
excitement.
Among the many complimentary poems sent in, was the following, by Mrs.
L. H. SIGOURNEY, which that distinguished writer enclosed in a letter to
me, with the request that I should hand it to Miss Lind:
THE SWEDISH SONGSTRESS AND HER CHARITIES.
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
Blest must their vocation be
Who, with tones of melody,
Charm the discord and the strife
And the railroad rush of life,
And with Orphean magic move
Souls inert to life and love.
But there’s one who doth inherit
Angel gift and angel spirit,
Bidding tides of gladness flow
Through the realms of want and woe;
’Mid lone age and misery’s lot,
Kindling pleasures long forgot,
Seeking minds oppressed with night,
And on darkness shedding light.
She the seraph’s speech doth know,
She hath done their deeds below:
So, when o’er this misty strand
She shall clasp their waiting hand,
They will fold her to their breast,
More a sister than a guest.
Jenny Lind’s first concert was fixed to come off at Castle Garden, on
Wednesday evening, September 11th, and most of the tickets were sold at
auction on the Saturday and Monday previous to the concert. John N.
Genin, the hatter, laid the foundation of his fortune by purchasing the
first ticket at $225. It has been extensively reported that Mr. Genin
and I are brothers-in-law, but our only relations are those of business
and friendship. The proprietors of the Garden saw fit to make the usual
charge of one shilling to all persons who entered the premises, yet
three thousand people were present at the auction. One thousand tickets
were sold on the first day for an aggregate sum of $10,141.
On the Tuesday after her arrival I informed Miss Lind that I wished to
make a slight alteration in our agreement. “What is it?” she asked in
surprise.
“I am convinced,” I replied, “that our enterprise will be much more
successful than either of us anticipated. I wish, therefore, to
stipulate that you shall receive not only $1,000 for each concert,
besides all the expenses, as heretofore agreed on, but after taking
$5,500 per night for expenses and my services, the balance shall be
equally divided between us.”
Jenny looked at me with astonishment. She could not comprehend my
proposition. After I had repeated it, and she fully understood its
import, she cordially grasped me by the hand, and exclaimed, “Mr.
Barnum, you are a gentleman of honor: you are generous; it is just as
Mr. Bates told me; I will sing for you as long as you please; I will
sing for you in America--in Europe--anywhere!”
Upon drawing the new contract which was to include this entirely
voluntary and liberal advance on my part, beyond the terms of the
original agreement, Miss Lind’s lawyer, Mr. John Jay, who was present
solely to put in writing the new arrangement between Miss Lind and
myself, insisted upon intruding the suggestion that she should have the
right to terminate the engagement at the end of the sixtieth concert, if
she should choose to do so. This proposition was so persistently and
annoyingly pressed that Miss Lind was finally induced to entertain it,
at the same time offering, if she did so, to refund to me all moneys
paid her up to that time, excepting the $1,000 per concert according to
the original agreement. This was agreed to, and it was also arranged
that she might terminate the engagement at the one-hundredth concert, if
she desired, upon paying me $25,000 for the loss of the additional fifty
nights.
After this new arrangement was completed, I said: “Now, Miss Lind, as
you are directly interested, you must have an agent to assist in taking
and counting the tickets”; to which she replied, “Oh, no! Mr. Barnum; I
have every confidence in you and I must decline to act upon your
suggestion”; but I continued:
“I never allow myself, if it can be avoided, when I have associates in
the same interests, to be placed in a position where I must assume the
sole responsibility. I never even permitted an actor to take a benefit
at my Museum, unless he placed a ticket-taker of his own at the door.”
Thus urged, Miss Lind engaged Mr. Seton to act as her ticket-taker, and
after we had satisfactorily arranged the matter, Jay, knowing the whole
affair, had the impudence to come to me with a package of blank printed
affidavits, which he demanded that I should fill out, from day to day,
with the receipts of each concert, and swear to their correctness before
a magistrate!
I told him that I would see him on the subject at Miss Lind’s hotel that
afternoon, and going there a few moments before the appointed hour, I
narrated the circumstances to Mr. Benedict and showed him an affidavit
which I had made that morning to the effect that I would never directly
or indirectly take any advantage whatever of Miss Lind. This I had made
oath to, for I thought if there was any swearing of that kind to be done
I would do it “in a lump” rather than in detail. Mr. Benedict was very
much opposed to it, and arriving during the interview, Jay was made to
see the matter in such a light that he was thoroughly ashamed of his
proposition, and, requesting that the affair might not be mentioned to
Miss Lind, he begged me to destroy the affidavit. I heard no more about
swearing to our receipts.
On Tuesday, September 10th, I informed Miss Lind that, judging by
present appearances, her portion of the proceeds of the first concert
would amount to $10,000. She immediately resolved to devote every dollar
of it to charity; and, sending for Mayor Woodhull, she acted under his
and my advice in selecting the various institutions among which she
wished the amount to be distributed.
My arrangements of the concert room were very complete. The great
_parterre_ and gallery of Castle Garden were divided by imaginary lines
into four compartments, each of which was designated by a lamp of a
different color. The tickets were printed in colors corresponding with
the location which the holders were to occupy, and one hundred ushers,
with rosettes and bearing wands tipped with ribbons of the several hues,
enabled every individual to find his or her seat without the slightest
difficulty. Every seat was of course numbered in color to correspond
with the check, which each person retained after giving up an entrance
ticket at the door. Thus, tickets, checks, lamps, rosettes, wands, and
even the seat numbers were all in the appropriate colors to designate
the different departments. These arrangements were duly advertised, and
every particular was also printed upon each ticket. In order to prevent
confusion, the doors were opened at five o’clock, while the concert did
not commence until eight. The consequence was, that although about five
thousand persons were present at the first concert, their entrance was
marked with as much order and quiet as was ever witnessed in the
assembling of a congregation at church. These precautions were observed
at all the concerts given throughout the country under my
administration, and the good order which always prevailed was the
subject of numberless encomiums from the public and the press.
The reception of Jenny Lind on her first appearance, in point of
enthusiasm, was probably never before equalled in the world. As Mr.
Benedict led her towards the foot-lights, the entire audience rose to
their feet and welcomed her with three cheers, accompanied by the waving
of thousands of hats and handkerchiefs. This was by far the largest
audience to which Jenny Lind had ever sung. She was evidently much
agitated, but the orchestra commenced, and before she had sung a dozen
notes of “Casta Diva,” she began to recover her self-possession, and
long before the _scena_ was concluded, she was as calm as if she was in
her own drawing-room. Towards the last portion of the _cavatina_, the
audience were so completely carried away by their feelings, that the
remainder of the air was drowned in a perfect tempest of acclamation.
Enthusiasm had been wrought to its highest pitch, but the musical powers
of Jenny Lind exceeded all the brilliant anticipations which had been
formed, and her triumph was complete. At the conclusion of the concert
Jenny Lind was loudly called for, and was obliged to appear three times
before the audience could be satisfied. They then called vociferously
for “Barnum,” and I reluctantly responded to their demand.
On this first night, Mr. Julius Benedict firmly established with the
American people his European reputation, as a most accomplished
conductor and musical composer; while Signor Belletti inspired an
admiration which grew warmer and deeper in the minds of the American
people, to the end of his career in this country.
It would seem as if the Jenny Lind mania had reached its culminating
point before she appeared, and I confess that I feared the anticipations
of the public were too high to be realized, and hence that there would
be a reaction after the first concert; but I was happily disappointed.
The transcendent musical genius of the Swedish Nightingale was superior
to all that fancy could paint, and the furor did not attain its highest
point until she had been heard. The people were in ecstasies; the powers
of editorial acumen, types and ink, were inadequate to sound her
praises. The Rubicon was passed. The successful issue of the Jenny Lind
enterprise was established. I think there were a hundred men in New
York, the day after her first concert, who would have willingly paid me
$200,000 for my contract. I received repeated offers for an eighth, a
tenth, or a sixteenth, equivalent to that price. But mine had been the
risk, and I was determined mine should be the triumph. So elated was I
with my success, in spite of all obstacles and false prophets, that I do
not think half a million of dollars would have tempted me to relinquish
the enterprise.
Upon settling the receipts of the first concert, they were found to be
somewhat less than I anticipated. The sums bid at the auction sales,
together with the tickets purchased at private sale, amounted to more
than $20,000. It proved, however, that several of the tickets bid off at
from $12 to $25 each, were not called for. In some instances, probably
the zeal of the bidders cooled down when they came out from the scene of
excitement, and once more breathed the fresh sea-breeze which came
sweeping up from “the Narrows,” while perhaps, in other instances, bids
were made by parties who never intended to take the tickets. I can only
say, once for all, that I was never privy to a false bid, and was so
particular upon that point, that I would not permit one of my employees
to bid on, or purchase a ticket at auction, though requested to do so
for especial friends.
The amount of money received for tickets to the first concert was
$17,864.05. As this made Miss Lind’s portion too small to realize the
$10,000 which had been announced as devoted to charity, I proposed to
divide equally with her the proceeds of the first two concerts, and not
count them at all in our regular engagement. Accordingly, the second
concert was given September 13th, and the receipts, amounting to
$14,203.03, were, like those of the first concert, equally divided. Our
third concert, but which, as between ourselves, we called the “first
regular concert,” was given Tuesday September 17, 1850.