The concert was to be at Castle Garden. At five, the doors were opened, and people began to throng in, though each seat had been secured to its proper owner; and by eight, the audience was in a perfect transport of expectation. It was said to be the largest audience assembled to listen to her. And when she was led on the stage by her manager, the enthusiasm was beyond description. It seemed to divine beforehand that the fair-haired Swedish songstress would meet all expectations; and she passed beyond it.
Ben had been caught by the enthusiasm, and squandered his savings on a ticket. He and Jim had been in the crowd around the hotel, that first night when the New York musical society had serenaded her, and she had bowed from the old stone balcony to the admiring crowds.
"There isn't any word to express it," declared Ben, at the breakfast-table the next morning. "Joe, you must hear her, and Hanny—all of you. Never mind the cost."
"Ben, you have lost your senses," said his mother, with a touch of her old sharpness. "As if we were all millionaires! And I have heard people sing before."
"Not anything like that. You can't imagine such melody. And the enthusiasm of the crowd is worth something!"
The little girl looked up wistfully. She was beginning to understand the value of money.
"Yes," returned Joe; "Hanny must hear her. I wouldn't have her miss it for anything. But the tickets won't be so high after a little."
They dropped to regular prices, but that was high for the times; and the rush continued unabated. New York broke out in a Jenny Lind furore. There were gloves, and hats, and shawls, and gowns, beautiful little tables, and consoles, and furniture of all sorts that bore her name. The bakers made Jenny Lind cake. What a time there was! Enthusiastic adorers took her carriage from its shafts, and dragged it from Castle Garden to the hotel. Was New York old in those days? Rather, it was the glowing, fervid impetuosity of early youth.
And the serenade, when Broadway was jammed for blocks, and lighted by torches in the street, and illuminations in the houses and stores. There was a wonderful cornetist, Koenig, who could have won another Eurydice from the shades with his playing. Out on the balcony he stood and moved the crowd with his melody. Then she came out beside him, and, in the hush, a thousand times more appreciative than the wildest applause, the magnificent voice sang to its large, free audience, "Home, Sweet Home," as no one will ever hear it sung again. That alone would be fame enough for any writer of song!
The furore did not abate. But they must all go,—Stephen and Dolly, Margaret and her husband, Joe and the little girl, and her father.