DEAR MADAM,—It is slender picking at the feast of news, after the Daily
Papers have had their fill, and, if I make the most of a trifle that I
find here or there, you will read with reference to my emergency. Put
yourself in my situation, and imagine how all the best gossip of the
village you live in, would be used up before you had any chance at it,
if you were at liberty to speak but once in seven days!
The belated Equinox is upon us. Jenny Lind, having occasion for fair
weather when she was here, the Sun dismissed his storm train, and
stepped over the Equator on tiptoe, leaving the thunder and lightning to
sweep this part of the sky when she had done with it. She left for
Boston and the deferred storm followed close upon her departure, doing
up its semi-annual “chore” with unusual energy. The cobwebs of September
were brushed away by the most vivid lightning, and the floor of heaven
was well washed for Jenny’s return. October and the New York Hotel are
now ready for her.
Pray what do the respectable trees, that have no enthusiasms, think of
our mania for Jenny Lind? The maniacs here, in their lucid intervals,
moralize on themselves. Ready as they are to receive her with a fresh
paroxysm next week, the most busy question of this week is, “what has
ailed us?” I trust the leisurely observer of “The Lorgnette” is watching
this analysis of a crazy metropolis by itself, and will give it us, in a
separate number; for it will describe a curious stage of the formation
of musical taste in our emulous and fast-growing civilization. I think I
can discern an advanced step in the taste of my own acquaintances,
showing that people learn fast by the effort to define what they admire.
But, of course, there is great difference of opinion. The fashionables
and foreigners go “for curiosity” to the Lind Concerts, but form a
steady faction against her in conversation. The two French Editors of
New York, and the English Editor of the _Albion_—(unwilling, perhaps,
to let young and fast America promote to a _full_ angel, one who had
only been _brevetted_ an angel in their older and slower
countries)—furnish regular supplies of ammunition to the opposition.
You may hear, at present, in any up-town circle, precisely what Jenny
Lind is _not_—as convincingly as the enemies of the flute could show
you that it was neither a clarionet nor a bass viol, neither a trombone
nor a drum, neither a fife, a fiddle, nor a bassoon. The only
embarrassment her dissecters find, is in reconciling the round, full,
substantial body of her voice, with their declarations that she soars
out of the reach of ordinary sympathy, and is aerially incapable of
expressing the passion of the every day human heart. “She sings with
mere organic skill, and without soul,” says one, while another proves
that she sings only to the soul and not at all to the body. Between
these two opposing battledoors, the shuttlecock, of course, stays where
Barnum likes to see it.
The private life of the great Jenny is matter of almost universal
inquisitiveness, and the anecdotes afloat, of her evasions of intrusion,
her frank receptions, her independence and her good nature, would fill a
volume. She is so hunted that it is a wonder how she finds time to
remember herself—yet that she invariably does. Nothing one hears of her
is at all out of character. She is fearlessly direct and simple in every
thing. Though “The People” are not impertinent, the bores who push their
annoyances under cover of representing this her constituency, are
grossly impertinent; and she is a sagacious judge of the difference
between them. A charming instance of this occurred just before she left
Boston. Let me give it you, with a mended pen and a new paragraph.
Jenny was at home one morning, but, having indispensable business to
attend to, gave directions to the servants to admit no visiters
whatever. Waiters and maids may be walked past, however, and a fat lady
availed herself of this mechanical possibility, and entered Jenny’s
chamber, declaring that she must see the dear creature who had given
away so much money. Her reception was civilly cold, of course, but she
went into such a flood of tears, after throwing her arms round Jenny’s
neck, that the nightingale’s heart was softened. She pleaded positive
occupation for the moment, but said that she should be at leisure in the
evening, and would send her carriage for her weeping admirer if she
could come at a certain hour. The carriage was duly sent, but it
brought, not only the fat lady, but _three more_ female admirers, of
most unpromising and vulgar exterior. They were shewn into the
drawing-room, and, in a few minutes, Jenny entered from an adjoining
room, followed by half-a-dozen professional persons, with whom she had
been making some business arrangements.
“How is this?” said the simple Swede, looking around as she got into the
room; “here are four ladies, and I sent for but one!”
They commenced an apology in some confusion.
“No, ladies! no!” said Jenny; “your uninvited presence here is an
intrusion. I cannot send you away, because you have no escort; but your
coming is an impertinence, and I am very much troubled with this kind of
thing.”
The three intruders chose to remain, however, and taking seats, they
stayed out their fat friend’s visit—Jenny taking no further notice of
them till their departure. As they got up to go, the singer’s kind heart
was moved again, and she partly apologised for her reception of them,
stating how her privacy was invaded at all hours, and how injurious it
was to her profession as well as her comfort. And, with this
consolation, she sent them all home again in her carriage.
To any genuine and reasonable approach, Jenny is the soul of
graciousness and kindness. An old lady of eighty sent to her the other
day, pleading that she was about to leave town, and that her age and
infirmities prevented her from seeing Miss Lind in public, but that she
wished the privilege of expressing her admiration of her character, and
of resting her eyes upon one so good and gifted. Jenny immediately sent
for her, and, asking if she would like to hear her sing, sang to her for
an hour and a half, with the simplicity of a child delighted to give
pleasure. It is the mixture of this undiminished freshness and
ingenuousness, with her unbending independence and tact at business,
which show this remarkable creature’s gifts in such strong relief.
Nature, who usually departs as Art and Honours come in, has stayed with
Jenny.
Of course, the city is full of discontented stars that have been forced
to “pale their intellectual fires” before this brighter glory, and
lecturers, concert-singers, primas-donnas and dancers are waiting the
setting of the orb of Jenny Lind. We are promised all sorts of
novelties, at her disappearance, and of those, and of other events in
this busy capital, I will duly write you.