s
of unostentatious kindness, were the only one who had the right to
wear the lovely crown of mercy and beneficence. All this machinery of
advertisement, though wofully opposed to all the instincts of Jenny
Lind's modest and timid nature, had the effect of fixing the popular
belief into a firm faith that what had cost so much trouble to secure
must indeed be unspeakably precious.

The interest and curiosity of the public were, therefore, wrought up
to an extraordinary pitch. Her first appearance was on May 4, 1847, as
_Alice_, in "Robert le Diable," a part so signally identified with
her great successes. "The curtain went up, the opera began, the cheers
resounded, deep silence followed," wrote the critic of the "Musical
World," "and the cause of all the excitement was before us. It opened
its mouth and emitted sound. The sounds it emitted were right pleasing,
honey-sweet, and silver-toned. With all this, there was, besides, a
quietude that we had not marked before, and a something that hovered
about the object, as an unseen grace that was attired in a robe of
innocence, transparent as the thin surface of a bubble, disclosing
all, and making itself rather felt than seen." Chorley tells us that
Mendelssohn, who was sitting by him, and whose attachment to Jenny
Lind's genius was unbounded, turned round, watched the audience as
the notes of the singer swelled and filled the house, and smiled
with delight as he saw how completely every one in the audience
was magnetized. The delicious sustained notes which began the first
cavatina died away into a faint whisper, and thunders of applause went
up as with one breath, the stentorian voice of Lablache, who was sitting
in his box, booming like a great bell amid the din. The excitement
of the audience at the close of the opera almost baffles description.
Lumley's hopes were not in vain. Jenny Lind was securely throned as the
operatic goddess of the town, and no rivalry had power to shake her from
her place.

The judgment of the musical critics, though not intemperate in praise,
had something more than a touch of the public enthusiasm. "It is wanting
in that roundness and mellowness which belongs to organs of the South,"
observed a very able musical connoisseur. "When forced, it has by no
means an agreeable sound, and falls hard and grating on the ears. It
is evident that, in the greater part of its range, acquired by much
perseverance and study, nature has not been bountiful to t