Castle Clinton National Monument


New York City, New York County, New York, USA



When Jenny Lind Sang in Castle Garden


By A. Oakey Hall
Drawings by T. De Thulstrup
The Ladies Home Journal
© November 1896
Pages 3-4



JENNY LIND'S first American concert may rightly be regarded as the most conspicuous and notable musical event in the history of the art in this country. This estimate of the memorable affair will not be disputed if the keen enjoyment, the almost unprecedented enthusiasm of the audience and the aggregate of the ticket-office receipts are considered. Jenny Lind was in the very zenith of her Eurdpean fame and popularity when she was induced by the late Phineas T. Barnum, the showman, to make a professional visit to America under his management. The contract with the Swedish singer was in Mr. Barnum's possession several months before the date of her reaching this country, and during the interval she was most skillfully and thoroughly advertised. The newspapers teemed with articles concerning the "Swedish Nightingale," and the city was literally flooded with her portraits, so the public's appetite to see and hear her was whetted up to a keen point. It was, therefore, not surprising when her arrival, early in September, 1850, on the steamship "Atlantic," was announced in New York, by telegraph. from the outer harbor, that thousands of curious spectators thronged the piers, docks and bulkheads near where she was to land.

Mr. Barnum had erected on the landing wharf at the foot of Canal Street a floral bower and an evergreen arch that were decorated with the flags of all nations within whose boundaries Jenny Lind had sung. He had surmounted these with the mottoes in floral letters, "Welcome, Jenny Lind," "Welcome to America!" with the flag of Sweden, her native land, and the stars and stripes of America. Standing upon a front spile, with reportorial note-book and pencil in hand, I was able to testify to the numbers and the excellent social character of the crowd, and to its positive furore.

The first glimpse of Jenny Lind, as the vessel came up to the pier, was as she was standing on the top of a light deck house, erected over the forward companionway. She was as fresh and rosy as if Neptune had kindly spared her his usual discomforts, and she appeared more robust in face and person than the advance portraits of her had indicated. I saw a finely-formed forehead, shaded by waves of pale brown hair, eyes of light blue, and joyous; nose and mouth (though moulded on the large, Swedish type) which conveyed an impression of benevolence and goodness. She was dressed with taste, but simply. She wore what in the modiste lingo of the day was called a visite of rich black cashmere over a dress of silver-gray silk, and a pale blue silk bonnet of the scoop shape of the era, over the side of which was passed a thin black veil. By her side stood her cousin and traveling companion, Mademoiselle Ahmansen. At their feet, with his head stretched wonderingly out under the guard rail, lay a silky lap-dog, which had been a present from Queen Victoria. Jenny Lind was gazing around on what can really be called a landscape of humanity, with glances of interest, wonder and curiosity, and well she might, for thirty or forty thousand people were there to greet her. They were on the arrival pier, and on all the adjacent piers and roofs, and at all the windows confronting the water. The spars and rigging of vessels, the bulkheads bounding the wharves, and indeed whatever spots commanded even the smallest view, were crowded, and every fender at the adjoining ferry-house was topped by a piece of human statuary, and from all the throats were issuing joyous shouts of welcome. Commodore E. K. Collins, president of the Collins Steamship Company; which owned the "Atlantic," was the first to pass up the gang-plank, followed by Mr. Barnum. Each carried a handsome bouquet, and presented it to the famous singer.

By courtesy of the one hundred and forty-one fellow-passengers the distinguished party was allowed to quit the deck first and reach the wharf. The crowd pressed upon itself, but not upon the landing group. The two ladies, and Conductor Benedict and Barytone Belletti were escorted by Messrs. Collins and Barnum to the elegant equipage of the latter standing at the gates, and driven to the Irving House only half a mile away.

As Jenny Lind walked the length of the wharf she enjoyed her first experience of the one and only peculiar (American) huzza among all nations. "Hurrah for Jenny," was the favorite and familiarized cry; one enthusiast in the crowd started the chorus of a popular song, "Jenny, get your hoecake done, my darling!" Not a few were moved to join in the singing, while gamins ran after the carriage for many blocks, giving the characteristic shouts after their kind. No words can fully describe the remarkable, popular enthusiasm that marked the arrival of the long-talked-of "Swedish Nightingale."

As Mr. Barnum had caused it to be announced in the newspapers that Jenny Lind would stop at the Irving House the streets were filled with the huge swarms of people that crowded about the hostelry, and watched every window and doorway, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the fair singer. At nearly midnight the Musical Fund Society tendered a serenade to the "Queen of Song," and the big crowds of the day were vastly augmented. The serenade opened with the rendition of the Swedish National march, and "Hail Columbia" and "Yankee Doodle" followed. In recognition of the compliment the fair cantatrice appeared at her window, and bowed and waved her handkerchief to the enthusiastic, adoring throng. The crowd cheered her again and again, until finally Mr. Barnum led her upon an adjacent balcony, where she was greeted by the American cry of "Speech!" "Speech!" but she deprecatingly waved her handkerchief, and Barnum shook his always impressive head negatively.

The excitement had been heightened by Mr. Barnum's previous offer of a two-hundred-dollar prize for a welcoming ode, and by the award of this prize to Bayard Taylor, then a young poet, and also by a burlesque poem which constituted a newspaper début styled "Parnassus," by William Allen Butler (who shortly afterward became celebrated through his sarcastic poem of "Flora M'Flimsey with Nothing to Wear"). In the course of his satirical effort Mr. Butler evolved this verse, which is not unworthy of repetition to a new generation, and through the lines of which Mr. Barnum is supposed to be spokesman:

The first concert of the famed songstress was immediately announced for September 11, 1850, at Castle Garden, a favorite place of amusement, modeled in the interior after a European café chantant. In the meantime Manager Barnum plied his press agent in newspaper circles, although interviewing was then a crudity. He also hit upon the then novel plan of selling seats at auction. Harry Leeds, a most popular wielder of the "going," "gone" hammer, was employed to officiate with it; and, of course, the occasion drew another curious crowd and became a fresh advertisement. When the auction began a hatter named Genin stepped forward at the outset and bid two hundred and twenty-five dollars for the first seat, the highest bid of the sale. He at once improved his opportunity by announcing himself as hatter to Jenny Lind, and by naming his stock of canes and umbrellas after the songstress. The notoriety he thus gained proved to be the foundation of a moderate fortune for him. Every other available seat in the spacious auditorium was sold at prices ranging from fifteen to fifty dollars each, although five dollars had been announced as the regular price for a ticket.


AN IMMENSE AUDIENCE AT CASTLE GARDEN


LET us fancy the eventful first night arrived. The hour of five P. M. has been set for opening the doors and the entrance ways, although the concert will not begin until eight o'clock. A crowd numbering thousands of curiosity-seekers begins at an early hour to gather in and around the Battery Park, through the walks of which is to be reached an old fort-like structure, but with interior adapted for an auditorium, and now called "Castle Garden " under private leasehold. New York, always the most hysterical city of the Union, now hears in the Battery Park cheer upon cheer for Jenny Lind - not a few of the cheerers ready, if interfered with, to charge upon the three hundred policemen scattered around the grounds to preserve the peace. The city authorities themselves have caught the Jenny Lind fever, and have allowed carriages to be driven across the hitherto sacred Park grounds - to enter at one end and leave at the other. At half-past seven, upon arriving at the Battery Park, I find great difficulty in reaching the first entrance at the bridge connecting the Garden fort with the mainland. Here I discover that as a guard against deception all tickets of admission are to be presented and inspected. There are four of these ticket points in all. There are perfect arrangements for seating the ticket-holders, who are shown, by a count of the seat and promenade tickets, to number five thousand. Moreover, the evening being warm, all the windows are open, and enthusiasts who are unable to obtain tickets have procured skiffs and rowboats with which to approach near to the building, which projects well out into the bay. From their waterside seats they take the chance of cheaply hearing strains or echoes of the harmonies within. Jenny Lind and party meantime are being adroitly smuggled into the dressing-rooms without attracting the attention of the outside concourse or being annoyed by it.

While awaiting preliminaries I take occasion to survey the audience. "In my mind's eye" I see it again, although now looking backward through half a century. Directly and prominently in front of the stage, on a red plush chair - practically perched - sits Mr. Genin, the two-hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar hatter, who has early taken his place. In a box sits the Mayor of the city - the same who last year officially showed the white feather at the disastrous Astor Place Opera House riot between the admirers of Macready and Edwin Forrest, the tragedians of the era. The genial Recorder Tallmadge - father of the present President of the Sons of the Revolution - is in another box. Bayard Taylor, looking boyish, is "the observed of all observers," for his ode is printed on the program. In all parts of the house can be singled out members of the most distinguished Knickerbocker families, the ladies conspicuous for wearing - out of compliment to the "Swedish Nightingale" - their coiffures in what was known as the "Jenny Lind bandeau." Representative society magnates or merchants, brokers, lawyers and literati are scattered everywhere.


THE GREAT ASSEMBLAGE WILD WITH ENTHUSIASM


THE rustle and buzz in the auditorium now cease, for the orchestra - increased to sixty performers - is beginning to assemble. Soon "there falls a silence," and the tap of Benedict's silver-mounted baton - a present from royalty - is distinctly heard all over the house. As it rises come he first notes of the graphic overture to "Oberon," by Von Weber. The auditors are evidently pleased with the music of the overture, with which they are familiar, but expectation reigns over the great throng and there is no encore. Again hope deferred - yet not making the heart sick - for Signor Belletti has appeared. He is heard in a favorite aria from Rossini, by which is displayed vocalization finished, sonorous and sweet.

But now expectation is to end: for there advances from behind the partition in the flat, which at once serves as screen and sounding-board, a lady with beaming, child-like face, full of frank sincerity. She wears a gown of simple white silk. Not only the concert programs, but portraits of the great singer that have been previously scattered throughout the city, and the familiar Victorian bandeau of hair about her temples, proclaim this statuesque lady to be the long-expected Jenny Lind. At first there is a hush over the great audience, for surely never before was there seen so unpretentious a prima-donna. Where are her diamonds? Where the personal ornaments, jeweled stars and ribboned orders that have been showered upon her by the Old World's royalties and grandees? Awakening from the surprise at such simplicity of toilette as might have appertained to a simple Swedish maiden - not of high degree - the crowd literally goes wild with enthusiasm. The men and women rise from their seats with one movement as of a drilled army, while five thousand throats produce a volume of welcome that must amaze the crews of the vessels without. Handkerchiefs are waving frantically in air regardless of tearing the delicate lace of their edges, gloves by the hundred are being burst by handclapping, and a torrent of bravos is being hurled toward the plump little lady in white, whose eyes are becoming moist, but who stands with an air of dignity quite distinct from the ordinary self-consciousness of the average prima-donna. To her face has come the blend of womanly sweetness and modesty, with childlike simplicity. As I gaze she seems to me an embodiment of the confidence of genius and the serene wisdom of art. Minute after minute passes, and yet the cheering, the clapping and the waving continue. Never before, even in spasmodic Paris, has such a triumphant welcome been accorded her. Even the Mayor and the Recorder - sworn officers to keep the peace - have risen in their places and have added their voices to those of the madly-cheering crowd. The musicians rise, almost like worshipers of an idol, and allow themselves to be carried away by the epidemic of enthusiasm.


HER FIRST SONG IN AMERICA


DESPITE the great ovation there is not a glimmer of self-consciousness, although all can see that she is deeply moved: She has the presence of mind to motion her hand gracefully for a cessation, and the audience, seeming to realize that the demonstration may disconcert her, gradually settles into the hush of expectancy.

Hark to the voice! It is beginning the first bar of "Casta Diva" from "Norma." The silence in the audience is intense. She has sung only a few bars of the matchless cavatina before all music lovers recognize that while other artists have endeavored to make something out of "Casta Diva," Jenny Lind is embodying it. There is the gradual growth of sostenuto, then rhythmic undulating, now high notes, as triumphs of pure expression and not of merely physical marvel, and finally bird-like ecstasy of trills. Before her is an abyss of hush, into which she pours that voice, the very soul of song. She ceases, and timidly - not proudly - bows, and is retiring when the audience, not content with making the usual American demand for an encore, arises en masse, and repeats with fourfold energy and spirit the almost frantic demonstration with which it greeted Jenny Lind upon her entrance. The audience is literally wild. Never has a singer so stirred her listeners before. The thunderous applause keeps up for many minutes until the audience seems exhausted. A piano duet between Thalberg and Hoffman, both popular favorites, ensues, but they might as well be dashing fingers at the black and white keys in an African jungle, for all the attention they receive. The mysterious buzz of conversation flows in waves all over the throng. Exclamations are being made by one and another, and opinions are being exchanged regarding "Casta Diva" and the singer. Trained musicians are praising the fluency and precision of Jenny's chromatic scales. One is emphasizing what he terms "the inspired vitality of Lind's voice;" and the unanimous verdict seems to be that never were heard in concert-room sweeter tones. Even white-haired veterans, who have listened to Malibran and her sister Viardot, or to Grisi, or to Adelaide Kemble, all pronounce Jenny Lind the superior of those old-time song angels in realms consecrated by Saint Cecilia.

Again silence! For now Signor Belletti appears, escorting Jenny for a duet from Rossini's opera of "Il Turco in Italia." The singers and the orchestra commence in unison, and in the admirably-balanced and effective execution the instruments charmingly mingle or alternate with Belletti's warm, rich, solid, resonant tones, and Jenny Lind's correct, true intonations, marked by novel, natural expression in her lower and middle registers. Indeed those low and medium tones, attract more attention than does her upper register, which is neither brilliant nor dashing. Her voice is the more effective because it is of Nature's pitch and scale. Nevertheless, attention rivets upon her clear and brilliant D in alt.

This matchless duet closes the first part of the program, and an intermission of ten minutes ensues, during which comparison of opinions and criticisms again finds buzzing utterance. The comments made within my hearing are in the highest degree commendatory and approach the mark of over-superlative. Now as the next portion of the program is reached there comes opportunity to judge Sir Julius Benedict as composer, as well as conductor, for the opening number of part second is the overture to his own opera, "The Crusaders." It is not received with the enthusiasm and applause which greeted "Oberon," because between Von Weber and Benedict stretches a wide distance, not only of years, but of genius. This overture is the only weak point in the concert.


JENNY LIND'S MARVELOUS VOICE


AND now is coming a crucial test of the fluidity of the Jenny Lind voice, for she is announced to sing without orchestra a composition written expressly for her by Meyerbeer, a trio for voice and two flutes, Kyle playing first flute, and another popular favorite, Monsieur Siede, of the local Philharmonic Society, the second. Jenny Lind's vocal skill in rivalry with the flutes produces such a novel and striking performance as New York has never heard before, and, indeed, may never hear again. Her flute song embodies three movements: the earliest, an allegro with first flute, in which voice and instrument are so perfectly blended that at times it is impossible to determine whether the voice is from the flute or the flute from the voice. The second movement is an andante with the second flute, which produces similar blending, but in a key different from that of the first movement and running up to F in alt. In the third the flutes are in duet, and with the voice. When the flutes pause the voice continues alone, imitating the flute movement.

After this great treat Signor Belletti, who succeeds, seems comparatively at a disadvantage with the audience when he gives the aria buffo from "The Barber of Seville," well known as "Largo al factotum." The first impatience of the evening is, therefore, exhibited by the audience during his effort, although in itself it is highly meritorious.

While he sings with dramatic fervor his inattentive audience is thinking that Jenny Lind's "Herdsman's (or Echo) Song" is yet to come. Its fame has long ago crossed the Atlantic. When Jenny Lind again begins to sing there is heard the herdsman's call to his scattered cows in the valley under the hills; the call is echoed in marvelously pianissimo tones - no other word could justly express the idea. And yet the voicing does not seem to be an effort, for I really begin to believe that the Swedish hills are behind her, or that the echo actually proceeds from the Jersey heights beyond. Once more there is a universal rising of the audience and another cyclone of handkerchiefs and thunderous applause, only to be subdued when the orchestra breaks in upon the frantic enthusiasm with the prelude to the last number of the program - Bayard Taylor's ode, which Benedict has set to music and especially adapted to the dramatic phase of the Lind voice.

The author of the words sits within her view, and as the songstress advances to the stage front she gracefully waves her hand to him and begins to sing. Her burst with the first two lines - is so dramatically grand, partly in recitative, that the audience cannot be restrained from shouts that cause a monmentary interruption, above which rises Jenny Lind's voice in another line:

CLOSE OF THE MEMORABLE CONCERT


HERE let me remark that Congress is now in session and its debate is furious over the Clay Compromise, together with muttered threats of secession, and the public mind is agitated with the subject. Hence, one can imagine what a peculiar dramatic effect is produced by this patriotic outburst.

The climax of sensation comes when with infinite pathos she ends the ode with vocal adornment of these lines: Jenny Lind now prepares to leave the stage, and the audience, realizing that this is the end of an evening destined to be historical in the musical annals of our country, outculminates, so to speak, the enthusiasm which has preceded.

The singer, in response to the tumultuous outbursts of applause, takes a few steps away from the footlights, bows and advances again and again, seemingly as reluctant to leave as the auditors. Again and again she crosses her hands at her heart, and smiles and bows, while her eyes moisten. Finally Signor Belletti comes to her relief, and, offering his arm, leads her from view. But the major part of the audience is seated again, as if in expectancy of hearing the great diva again. There is no abatement of the enthusiasm until Mr. Barnum comes forward on the stage to proclaim another proof of Jenny Lind's goodness and generosity. He apparently has provided his claque and the audience good-naturedly takes up its call for him. Nor is there any disappointment, for he announces that Jenny Lind gives her entire share of the profits of the evening to twelve city charities, and be reads the list, which indicates the most admirable womanly selection. But one wag in the audience turns the laugh upon the manager by vociferating, "And how much does Barnum give?" Mr. Barnum, however, quickly transforms the laughter into cheers by announcing that he has just made a new contract with Jenny Lind, by which she is to receive, in addition to one thousand dollars for each concert, and expenses, half of the net proceeds of each concert. The impresario's generosity is approved with vigorous and enthusiastic shouts. But the audience still lingers after Mr. Barnum has retired from the stage, and it is a long time before the house is emptied and the last of the immense crowd gone from Battery Park.


NEW YORK GOES JENNY LIND MAD


ANOTHER ovation awaited Jenny Lind upon her return to the hotel, where she was temporarily making her home. The Musical Fund Society again serenaded her, and the crowds of men and women which blockaded the streets in the vicinity cheered the idolized diva. In response to their hearty calls, and despite the fatigue incident to the earlier event of the evening, she appeared at her window waving her handkerchief, and bowing.

New York was now Jenny Lind mad. She was discussed, praised, extolled in the newspapers and in every home. The second concert, with a preceding ticket auction, was announced, and it drew an audience quite as large and enthusiastic as was the one in attendance upon her American début. The four succeeding ones were given in a large hall that had just been erected on upper Broadway. It held ten thousand people, and at each concert was crowded, though at prices more popular than had hitherto prevailed.

The furore over the cantatrice suffered no abatement; on the contrary, her popularity increased, and the Lind fever developed into a delirium. When she would go for a walk she was respectfully mobbed by curious crowds. Lines of carriages that had brought callers stood around her hotel daily, and they who enjoyed brief moments of her society returned to chant the praises of Jenny Lind as a woman.

At the final concert of the first series Mr. Barnum took occasion to announce the aggregate of the receipts, which was a fraction over $100,000. Of this sum he credited nearly $30,000 to the first concert, $17,500 to the second, and an average of $15,000 each to the four others. Those acquainted with the financial amusement statistics of the world up to that period agree that for six concerts these box receipts had never been equaled, nor have they been since by any public celebrity.


THE SONGSTRESS' GREAT AMERICAN TOUR


AT THE conclusion of the New York series of concerts Jenny Lind went to Boston, where she sang to large audiences. She sang, also, in Providence, going thence to Philadelphia, and through the South and West, singing in the largest of the cities. Her tour was a succession of social, as well as artistic, triumphs, and financially an unprecedented success. In Washington she was received with hearty cordiality, and her concerts were attended by President Fillmore, and all the distinguished statesmen of that day. The tour of the Southern cities was interrupted for a short, professional visit to Havana, and in May, 1851, Jenny Lind returned to New York, and gave fourteen concerts in Metropolitan Hall. At one of these, aided by the Sacred Harmony Society, she sang the oratorio of "The Messiah" for charity, to which service she frequently lent her rich vocal gifts.

During her American engagement Jenny Lind sang in ninety-five concerts under Mr. Barnum's management, and these netted $712,161.34, over half a million of which went to the showman and $208,675 to the singer.

It was generally regretted that Jenny Lind could not be heard in opera, but she had retired from the operatic stage just prior to her engaging to come to this country. The decision, which involved her giving up the branch of her art in which she had won her fame and greatest triumphs, was prompted by religious convictions. She, however, gave to Americans generously of her matchless gift of song, and they, in return, bestowed upon her their warmest affection and golden evidences of hearty appreciation, while those of us who shared the pleasure of her American début hold the singer and her song and the unparalleled occasion as a prized treasure of the memory.

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EDITOR'S NOTE - The first of a series of articles on "Great Personal Events" - retold by eyewitnesses - which will appear in successive issues of the JOURNAL. These articles will give a succession of the most marvelous popular enthusiasms in America during the past fifty years. The greatest potentates, statesmen, orators, preachers and songstresses will be the central figures of these articles, while the plaudits of hundreds of thousands of people will ring through them.

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EDITOR'S NOTE - The second article in the series of "Great Personal Events" will appear in the next (Christmas) JOURNAL. It will portray the most remarkable scene ever witnessed in an American church. As Seen and Now Told by Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher with a picture by T. de Thulstrup of the scene of Mr. Beecher's sale of the beautiful slave girl, Sarah.



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