We heard the Black Swan, as she is called, at the City Hall last Saturday evening. We have only three things to say of her performance: The first is, that she had an excellent house, composed of the most intelligent and enlightened of our citizens. The second, that all who heard her seemed to be exceedingly well pleased with her efforts. Although she does not claim to be, nor her friends on her behalf, that she is an artistic singer, yet the compass of her voice and the sweetness of her notes seemed to enchant every auditor. Our last observation is, that we were ourselves very much pleased with what we heard, and fully concurred in the justice of the loud applause so frequently bestowed on the occasion.
Vox Populi, Lowell, February 13, 1852.
The concert of Miss E. T. Greenfield, under the direction of the gentlemanly J. H. Wood, was one of the most successful that has been given to this city for a long time. From the great fame which had preceded the “Black Swan,” had she not really proved herself what she is, a most remarkable vocalist, there would have been a strong feeling against all concerned; but there has not, within our knowledge, an entertainment of the kind taken place in this city that received such general applause. Her compass of voice is probably greater than that of Parodi, Catharine Hayes, or Jenny Lind, even; but she lacks the artistic power of either. Notwithstanding this deficiency, we presume to say that the audience were better pleased with her singing than they would have been with either of those named above, though perhaps some few would not be willing to acknowledge it. The Black Swan sounds twenty-eight full notes, a qualification accorded to no one before her; and one which most successfully rivals the powers of ventriloquism which Jenny Lind so successfully introduces in her echo song. Every piece she sung on Saturday evening was rapturously encored. The song in barytone was listened to with surprise and admiration, many of those present hardly believing it to proceed from her, so much did her deep, sonorous voice resemble that of a male. The second piece of the last part (sung instead of the first, which was loudly encored) and also the last piece, neither of which were on the programme, were enthusiastically applauded, and may be regarded as the best pieces sung: at least such is our impression. As we have already remarked, the concert may be pronounced the most successful ever given in this city. The instrumental part, by Professor Becht and Master Kook, was very able, but the effect was lost in the prevailing enthusiasm for the Swan.
The Monitor, Saturday Morning, Feb. 14, 1852.
This celebrated vocalist, assisted by Prof. H. C. Becht, of Mentz, and Mast. Se. Emile Kook, will give one of her charming concerts at the Town Hall this (Sat.) evening, commencing at 8 o’clock. As this is the only opportunity for hearing the Black Swan, of whom so much has been written, the lovers of song will not fail to be present. The papers in almost every part of New York and New England, are filled with encomiums of the performances of this coloured Jenny Lind, (as she sings some of the best pieces, as sung by Jenny Lind and Catharine Hayes.) Don’t fail of being present this evening.
The Carpet Bag, Boston, Feb. 14, 1852.
Some peoples’ appetite for gammon is insatiable. Fancying they eat brawn, they often find themselves devouring cats and dogs. This was our thought on Tuesday night as we entered the Melodeon, with a fear that we might retire in disgust, as we had done on the previous evening from the exhibition of a clumsy mountebank who had undertaken to ape Macallister. But it was not the case on this occasion of the début of Miss Greenfield, the ‘Black Swan,’ so absurdly cognominated. We say absurdly—for swans are never black, neither do they sing. Their modulations are any thing but melodious, and their inflections are absolute inflictions. But n’importe,—after a flourish or two upon that poorest of all solo instruments, the piano-forte, by Mr. Perabeau, a most pleasing performer upon such imperfect machinery, the dark-faced girl presented herself, and was hailed with plaudits that might have gratified the ambition of the whitest among the queens of song. The auditors, who were brought thither mainly from a desire to ascertain whether such things as had been told could actually be, were at once satisfied on hearing but a few bars from Bishop’s charming cavatina, “Sweetly o’er my Senses Stealing,”—that the ‘Black Swan’ was indeed a rara avis in terris.
At the close of her first song, the enthusiasm of the highly respectable and very numerous assemblage seemed to know no bounds. It burst forth with an unappeasable furor, resulting in the reappearance of the songstress, who seated herself at the piano forte, and sang, to her own somewhat simple accompaniment, a slow air, in a full, round bass voice, that would have been envied by old Meredith himself—who used to sit under London bridge of a foggy morning, that he might catch a cold, and sing “deeper and deeper still.” Her tones probably reached down to G. as represented by the open third string of the violoncello. No male voice could have given utterance to sounds more clearly and strikingly masculine; and people gazed in wonder, as though dubious of the sex of the performer—a doubt that was soon dispelled by the smooth sweetness of the next vocal piece from Norma, and by the astonishing height to which the “Swan” ascended, in surmounting and mastering the brilliant and beautiful cantata, “Like the Gloom of Night retiring.”—The Swan is of good figure and form, with a full bust, containing organs more completely adapted to the development of the vocal powers and qualities, than those of any other human being, whose voice we ever listened to, or tested. Her age is apparently about twenty-five; her complexion not exactly ebony, but approaching it as nearly as the brownest black can possibly do; her features, but slightly modified from the pure African lineaments—retaining the low forehead, the depressed nose, and the expansive mouth, without the bulbous labia. As the lady reader is anxious on the subject of dress, we will say that her principal exterior garment enclosed the whole person excepting the caput; whether composed of printed de laine, or French chintz, we could not examine—but the colour of its ground, as near as the gas-lights allowed us to determine, was either light blue, or green-cerulean or emerald, rather profusely covered with large white flowery figures; her gloves were of white kid, from which depended a fine nine shilling linen handkerchief. She wore what appeared to be heavy gold ear-rings; and her hair, jet black, with the natural wiry curl, was arranged a la Jenny Lind. Her manner and carriage were exceedingly easy, and even graceful.
The voice of this sable phenomenon possesses most extraordinary properties. Its compass and elasticity are immense, and its tone will bear favourable comparison with that of most, if not all the public vocalists of the day. She has evidently cultivated but little of the ornamental portion of the art—giving us few or no shakes, nor any chromatic flights, though occasionally a respectable cadenza.
Of the second concert, on Thursday evening, we are unable to speak, the managers having seen fit to forget us in the distribution of their complimentary tickets. Our editorial friends, in other places, may receive similar attentions—that is to say, tickets to the first concert only. They will, of course, in return for such great favours, get their critical notices in type before the next concert takes place, and then find that their services are no longer wanted. (Mr. P. Shillaber, the author of Mrs. Partington’s sayings.)