jured her in London; and she was obliged to yield up her privilege
in the course of three years, with the additional loss of five hundred
thousand francs of her own private fortune, and the loss of good will on
the part of the Paris public.

Her grand concert tour through Europe, undertaken with the purpose of
repairing her losses, was one of the most interesting portions of her
life. Everywhere she was received with abounding enthusiasm, and the
concerts were so thronged that there was rarely ever standing-room. She
sang in nearly every important city on the Continent, was the object of
the most flattering attention everywhere, and was loaded down with
the costliest presents, jewels, medals, and testimonials, everywhere.
Sovereigns vied with each other in showing their admiration by gorgeous
offerings, and her arrival in a city was looked on as a gala-day. In
the midst, however, of these the most trying circumstances in which
a beautiful and captivating woman could be placed, surrounded by
temptation and flattery, her course was marked by undeviating propriety,
and not the faintest breath tarnished her fair fame. Such an idol of
popular admiration would be sure to exhibit an overweening vanity. When
in Hamburg in 1819, M. Schevenke, a great musician, criticised her vocal
feats with severity. Mme. Catalani shrugged her beautiful shoulders and
called him "an impious man." "For," said she, "when God has given to a
mortal so extraordinary a talent as I possess, people ought to applaud
and honor it as a miracle; it is profane to depreciate the gifts of
Heaven."

It was during this tour that she met the poet Goethe at the court of
Weimar, where she was made an honored guest, as she had been treated
everywhere in royal and princely circles. At a court dinner-party where
she was present, the great German poet was as usual the cynosure of the
company. His imperial and splendid presence and world-wide fame marked
him out from all others. Catalani was struck by the appearance of this
modern Olympian god, and asked who he was. To a mind innocent of
all culture except such as touched her art merely, the name "Goethe"
conveyed but little significance. "Pray, on what instrument does he
play?" "He is no performer, madame--he is the renowned author of
'Werter.'" "Oh yes, yes, I remember," she said; then turning to the
venerable poet, she addressed him in her vivacious manner. "Ah! sir,
what an admirer I am of 'Werter!'" Flattered by h