It is a long cry back to 1878, when we had Jenny Lind for our guest and we had the pleasure of hearing her sing; there cannot be many people living who have listened to a trill from the throat of the "Swedish Nightingale." My wife and I first met her at Pontresina, where she was staying with her husband—"Little Otto," as we called Mr. Goldschmidt. It is difficult to describe that gifted creature—plain in feature, insignificant in figure—until she opened her lips: then everything changed—she cast a spell round her and became idealised.

The black box

I remember, too, the humour with which the great lady told and acted an amusing incident that occurred on one of her travelling operatic tours when she appeared at a different place every evening. This was not altogether lost; my wife reproduced it afterwards. All the members of the company were seated in the train except the tenor, a funny-looking little fat man who stammered painfully when speaking, but sang without a trace of his affliction. Just on the point of starting he appeared in a state of excitement at the door of the great songstress's compartment, having discovered that a large black box which contained her wardrobe had been left behind. He hurriedly opened the door and stammered violently: "Mad-ame, Mad-ame." "Yes, yes." The poor tenor got a step further: "The b-b-b-b—" The bewildered lady cried, "What is it? What's the matter?" Still the afflicted tenor, stammering more and more, could only answer, "The b-b-b——-" "Yes, yes, yes, but what is the b-b-b—, my dear fellow?" The stammer nearly choked the wretched creature as he gasped, "The bl-bl-bl-bl——" "Sing it, sing it, for mercy's sake, sing it!" cried the diva. The tenor lapsed dramatically into recitative: "All, I fear, is lost!" "Go on, go on. What's lost?" "I fe-ar—is lost!" "Go on, tell us, go on, what's lost?" The wretched tenor struck an attitude as he sang, "The black box!" "Yes, yes, what about it?" The only answer was, "The black box!" "What of it, man?" cried the poor lady in despair. The tenor reached his highest note as he shrieked, "The black box has been for-got-t-en!" Jenny Lind fell back in her corner and muttered: "Great Heaven! I shall have no clothes!"

The whistle sounded, the tenor was hoisted into his compartment, and the train started.

I recall another story of how when a great composer—I think it was Meyerbeer—died, a pushing musician sent a great musician the score of a funeral march, which he had written in honour of the illustrious man who had passed away, with the hope that it might be played at his burial, and asking for a candid opinion of its merits. He was rebuffed by a judgment to the effect that things would have shaped better had he himself died and Meyerbeer undertaken to compose a funeral march.

It is bewildering to contrast the modest fees earned in Jenny Lind's day, and by gifted creatures like Malibran, Grisi and Mario (the pair sang in large houses for about thirty guineas) with the fabulous figures reached by such artists as Melba, Caruso and Paderewski in recent times.

There is a pretty medallion of Jenny Lind on the walls of Westminster Abbey, and I am glad that a statue has now been erected to her memory in the capital of her native land.

Another glorious songstress, Adelina Patti, was our friend for many years. She invited us to stay at her Welsh castle, but we could not go. She amassed wealth and also charmed the world longer than any of her rivals. It has been truly said that the harp-strings slumber until touched by a magic hand: the echo of her wonderful voice still beats in human hearts, although its music has ended in the silence that waits for us all.

"Sarah"

In this little chapter—devoted to honoured women who have been our guests—mention must be made of one so famed as Sarah Bernhardt, the first actress to receive the Legion d'Honneur. My wife and I met her, and sat by her side, at the Mansion House, the occasion being a luncheon given by the then Lord Mayor in 1879 to the members of the Comédie Française, which comprised a group of players no theatre then could equal or has ever equalled since. I recall an amusing incident which occurred at the banquet concerning two busts—one of Nelson, the other of Wellington—which prominently adorned the room we were in, called the Long Parlour. We were obliged to assure "the divine Sarah" and her angry comrades that the Lord Mayor meant no slight to them or to their country in not having the offending busts removed, and also had to defend his lordship for not wearing his robes and chain of office, and for being unaccompanied by sword and mace bearers. Incredible, but true.