The telegraph will have anticipated me concerning the movements of General Grant. His arrival, and the fact that he would be present at the Coliseum, swelled the crowd about that building and in the vicinity to enormous proportions. The streets were one swaying, surging mass of humanity. Vehicles were jammed together in inextricable confusion. The horse-cars found it impossible to proceed, and, being piled together in long lines, sometimes a mile in length, added to the general distraction. The Hub was in a hubbub. I made the journey from the Coliseum to the State House, ordinarily a five minutes' walk, in exactly one hour by the Park Street Church clock, which never lies. As the time approached for the opening of the concert, the rush was fearful. At every one of the twelve entrances to the Coliseum, thousands of people were jammed together, pushing and fairly trampling upon one another. The efforts of the police, efficient as they have been, were of no avail. Hundreds and hundreds of people who had tickets turned and went away, rather than face that crowd. Women became timid and shrank from it. There were some, however, who resolutely went in, and some of them came out squeezed. Some fainted and were, with difficulty, extricated. Not one of them but had rumpled feathers, smashed paniers, dishevelled hair and flushed, perspiring faces, when they had fairly effected an entrance. For an hour at least this terrible crush continued. It was such a crowd as Boston has never seen before. It is doubtful whether any city has ever witnessed the like. And all this while all the streets, even the spacious Common, were densely packed, so that walking was impossible. The trees bore human fruit in black clusters. The fences were selvedged with humanity. All the doorsteps of the palatial stone fronts stood disgusted with the loads of country cousins they were compelled to bear.
The audience inside the Coliseum was a scene for a lifetime. It gave you an idea of the sublimity of humanity such as is rarely afforded. There must have been, including the performers, 50,000 people inside that building. Far as you could see, and you can see a great way in that building, was one vast sea of human faces. It was a sublime sight, and it was a beautiful sight as well, for the blues and purples of the ladies' apparel catching the sunlight which streamed in through the windows, made it seem like a garden of gorgeous flowers, and shine in splendid contrast with the reds and yellows of the flags and streamers, and when, in a moment of sudden applause, the waving of handkerchiefs fluttered over this vast crowd, it was hard to convince yourself that they were not white-winged birds, flying over the throng. For a time, the rush inside the Coliseum was almost as terrific as that outside.
Some delay was experienced in waiting for the President and his staff, and when they did enter, the whole audience had become seated. Their appearance was the signal for a general uprising. The great organ pealed out above the multitudinous din, "See the Conquering Hero Comes." He advanced to his seat, in the centre of the house, amid a perfect storm of applause, waving of handkerchiefs, bravos and cheers, and standing upon his sofa acknowledged them.
When the President had taken his seat and order was restored, Carl Zerrahn took the conductor's stand to lead the festival overture, based upon the Luther Choral, Ein Feste Berg ist unser Gott, the simple theme of which had been sung the day before. The arrangement is by Nicolai, and is in fugue treatment, opening with the theme for all parts. The fugue is then taken by the orchestra and superbly worked up. The chorus anon takes the same fugue, and closes by returning to the original theme, which was given with immense power and effect. The programme was mainly of an oratorio character, and this school of music probably never before had such a magnificent illustration. The dignity, grandeur and sublimity, and the solemn power of the great oratorio master-pieces could never before have been fully felt. The first selections were the "Glory to God in the Highest," and the chorus, "And the Glory of the Lord shall be Revealed," from the "Messiah," which were given with admirable effect and with better singing than characterized the first day's concert.
The next number on the programme was the recitative and aria, "Non piu di fiori," from Mozart's "La Clemenza di Tito," for Miss Adelaide Phillipps, and as that lady came forward she was received with very hearty applause, but not with that cordiality of greeting I had expected to witness from a Boston audience to a Boston singer. Her selection was a most unfortunate one. It was too florid in character and marred the unity of the oratorio nature of the performance. It would have been in much better taste also to have selected something in English than in Italian. It is but simple truth also to say that her singing was no better than her taste in selection. She was not able to cope with the obstacles of the house and the audience. But one tone of her voice was thoroughly distinct at the rear of the hall. Her singing, at a distance, was so very expressionless that it fell utterly cold and flat, and people talked and turned uneasily in their seats. And perhaps it was worse than all else that she did not sing true, and at one time was almost hopelessly floating along upon a discord. Every advantage was afforded her, for only a handful of instruments accompanied her, and these were toned down to pianissimo. Her fine chest voice, which is so effective on the operatic stage, was almost inaudible beyond the centre of the hall. A flutter of applause ran over the audience when she had finished, and then came Mendelssohn's magnificent chorus from "Elijah"—"He watching over Israel." Zerrahn leaves the orchestra in the hand of another conductor, and takes his place in the centre of the vast chorus with baton in hand. There must be no mistake made in Felix Mendelssohn's music. Its ineffable beauty must not be marred by a single spot or flaw. And it was not. The two conductors' batons moved as if they were in the hands of one, and, from first to last, the chorus and orchestra were together in perfect time and with the most tender regard for light and shade. I could not help wishing that Felix Mendelssohn himself could have been there. How small and feeble would the 500 Birmingham performers have seemed to him in the presence of this vast multitude! How his great heart would have rejoiced within him to have heard this chorus, so full of dignity, and piety, and beauty, sung by such a massing of voices and instruments! What letters he would have written to his sister! To have heard that performance was the event of a lifetime, for it may never be done again. Had I been Carl Zerrahn, it seems to me, I should have been the happiest man in the world. If spirits are allowed to visit this lower world, then certainly the spirit of Mendelssohn must have been in that hall, and must have guided and inspired that baton, for it held the singers, organ and instruments together like magic, and when it had made its last beat, the audience broke out into loud and long continued applause.
Parepa came upon the platform for the next number, "Let the Bright Seraphim," from Handel, and received an ovation which even eclipsed that given to the President. Arbuckle took his place beside her, to play the trumpet obligato, using the cornet as players invariably do. The instrument and voice were twins in time and tone, and the responses of the singer to the trumpet came every time, as truthful as an echo. I have never heard a more marvelously beautiful piece of singing with an instrument, and, when it was finished, the applause was almost deafening in every part of the vast building, the chorus joining in with the audience. The cheers and bravos, which compelled an encore, fairly shook the building.
In the interim, between the two parts, the Star-Spangled Banner and the Anvil Chorus were repeated, for the gratification of the President. In the second part, the C major symphony of Schubert was given. The hour was growing late, and only the Andante and Finale were played. "The Heavens are Telling," sung with immense effect, closed the concert.
June 17, 1869.
The sudden death of Mrs. George L. Dunlap, of Chicago, during the concert yesterday, has caused a widespread feeling of sadness here, even among those who were not acquainted with her; while those who did know her, and were familiar with her many lovely traits of character, deeply feel this sudden bereavement. She passed away in the twinkling of an eye, literally without warning, and expired in the arms of one of her dearest friends, Mrs. Ellis, of Chicago. It was a startling fact in the midst of so much life! Fifty thousand hearts pulsating to the sublime music from the great chorus, and one is suddenly stilled forever! No one among the many thousands who were present yesterday entered with lighter heart, more buoyant spirits, or apparently better health; and if you had been asked to select the one in that great throng whom Death would strike first, she would have been the last you would have selected. I saw her on Tuesday as she sat in her place, her face beaming with delight as she listened to the music, and I saw her again on yesterday, as she suddenly fell into the arms of her brother like a rose snapped from its stem; and I can scarcely yet comprehend that she is dead. She breathed her last breath as Parepa was singing the angelic song, "Let the Bright Seraphim," and she passed from among us and joined those seraphim and continued the song. And it seems to me, if I had been permitted to look into that far country, that I should have seen her sitting by the side of the angelic old master, Handel, telling him of the celestial song which so suddenly died upon her ears in the presence of the vast multitude, whose song was as the voice of many waters, and that I should have seen him bending forward, with a thoughtful look, and listening to her as she told him of the "Messiah," which she had heard on the day before she died. I know that she and the master will be friends through all eternity, and thus the majesty of genius and the beauty of loveliness will be joined together forever.