27 Margaret Street, Cavendish Square.
The Black Swan, in appealing to the generosity of the British public, assures them that the primary object of her visit to Europe is, to accomplish herself in the science of music, which professional friends earnestly counsel her to pursue, and which she embraces con amore, with the confident hope that, by the exercise of her vocal faculties in a more cultured form, she may be able to achieve the great object of her life. She is sensible of the philanthropic spirit of the people of Great Britain, and feels confident that they will receive her appeal with that kindness and forbearance that ever characterizes them in the cause of true humanity.
The Black Swan, therefore, has the honour of informing the nobility, gentry, and public, that she will shortly appear at a grand concert (the particulars of which will be announced) under distinguished patronage.
Elizabeth T. Greenfield.
London, May, 1853.
We cannot refrain from quoting Mrs. Stowe’s description of the concert, after dinner at the Stafford house.
“The concert room was the brilliant and picturesque hall I have before described to you. It looked more picture like and dreamy than ever. The piano was on the flat stairway just below the broad central landing. It was a grand piano, standing end outward, and perfectly banked up among hot house flowers, so that only its gilded top was visible. Sir George Smart presided. The choicest of the élite were there. Ladies in demi-toilet and bonneted. Miss Greenfield stood among the singers on the staircase, and excited a pathetic murmur among the audience. She is not handsome, but looked very well. She has a pleasing dark face, wore a black velvet head-dress, and white cornelian ear-rings, a black moire antique silk, made high in the neck, with white lace falling sleeves, and white gloves. A certain gentleness of manner and self-possession, the result of the universal kindness shown her, sat well upon her. Chevalier Bunsen, the Prussian Ambassador, sat by me. He looked at her with much interest. “Are the race often as good looking?” he said. I said, “She is not handsome compared with many, though I confess she looks uncommonly well to-day.” The singing was beautiful; six of the most cultivated glee singers of London sang, among other things, “Spring’s delights are now returning,” and “Where the bee sucks, there lurk I.” The Duchess said, “These glees are peculiarly English.” Miss Greenfield’s turn for singing now came, and there was profound attention. Her voice, with its keen, searching fire, its penetrating vibrant quality, its “timbre,” as the French have it, cut its way like a Damascus blade to the heart. It was the more touching from the occasional rusticities and artistic defects, which showed that she had received no culture from art. She sung the ballad, “Old folks at home,” giving one verse in the soprano, and another in the tenor voice. As she stood partially concealed by the piano, Chevalier Bunsen thought that the tenor part was performed by one of the gentlemen. He was perfectly astonished when he discovered that it was by her. This was rapturously encored. Between the parts, Sir George took her to the piano, and tried her voice by skips, striking notes here and there at random, without connexion, from D in alto to A first space in bass clef; she followed with unerring precision, striking the sound nearly at the same instant his finger touched the key. This brought out a burst of applause.”
Lord Shaftsbury was there; he came and spoke to us after the concert. Speaking of Miss Greenfield, he said, “I consider the use of these halls for the encouragement of an outcast race, a consecration. This is the true use of wealth and splendour when they are employed to raise up and encourage the despised and forgotten.”
When Mrs. Stowe’s account of the concert was read to Miss Greenfield, she remarked—“I should have looked well to the lady—for the black moire antique silk in which I was clad was the gift of Mrs. Stowe, and made under her own direction. It cost her seventy-five dollars.” Mrs. Stowe’s sympathy seemed ever to have followed her with a watchful care. We find this interesting letter among her papers of this date.
My Dear Miss Greenfield:—I am sorry I cannot see you before I leave town, but I give you in parting my best wishes. Enclosed you will find the bill for your dress and other things receipted—the receipt you had better keep, lest by some mistake you be called upon to pay the bill bye and bye—such mistakes sometimes happen.