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cert, named in their original contract. Subsequently, she gave a few concerts on her own account. In February, 1852, she was married in Boston, to Mr. Otto Goldschmidt, a young German composer and pianist, who had studied music with her in that country, and who played several times in her American concerts. Shortly after her marriage, they left for Europe. Her professional tour in America was far more brilliant and successful than that of any other performer, male or female, musical, theatrical, or operatic, who ever appeared before an American audience.

Describing Jenny Lind's voice scientifically, it should be spoken of as a soprano, embracing a register of two and a half octaves. Clear and powerful, susceptible of the greatest variety of intonation, it met all the demands of the composer with the greatest facility to its possessor. No difficulties appalled her; a perfect musician, she suffered herself to revel in all the roulades of which the time and occasion admitted. Her upper notes filled the vastest area with an effect to which nothing but the striking of a fine-toned bell could be compared, while her most gentle and subdued passages were audible at the greatest distances. In a word, there was a rare combination of qualities which raised her above all other singers ever heard. Her voice—sweet, powerful, mellow, resonant, faultless in tone, and full of sympathetic emotion; her execution—ready and facile; her manner-earnest not only in the expression of every word, but in her looks, her air, her abstraction from every surrounding object;-to have seen and heard this, even once, was, in the language of one who had been thus favored, “a treat to last until we go to Heaven, where, and where alone, such music can be heard.”

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The sun set; but set not his hope:
Stars rose; his faith was earlier up.




There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls like stars that dwell apart

In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths

Where highways never ran;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,

As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat

Or hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in the house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,

By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press on with the ardor of hope,

And the men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles or their tears-

Both parts of an infinite plan;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,

And mountains of wearisome height,
That the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night;
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,

And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like one that dwells alone.

So, let me live in my house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by—
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish, and so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in the house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

The service a man renders his friend is trivial and selfish, compared with the service he knows his friend stood in readiness to yield him, alike before he had begun to serve his friend, and now also. Rectitude scatters favors on every side without knowing it, and receives with wonder the thanks of all people. I like to see that we can not be bought and sold. The best of hospitality and of generosity is also not in the will, but in fate. I find that I am not much to you; you do not need me; you do not feel me; then am I thrust out-of-doors, though you proffer me house and lands. No services are of any value, but only likeness. When I have attempted to join myself to others by services, it proved an intellectual trick,no more. They eat your service like apples, and leave you out. But love them, and they feel you, and delight in you all the time.




In New York City, at two in the afternoon, one pleasant Thursday in April, a large concourse of people, assembled at the Battery and neighboring wharves, were gazing with strained eyes down the bay. Holiday tokens appeared on every hand. The vessels in the harbor, prominent among which were the ship North Carolina and a Spanish packet, the Galveston, lay at anchor, their colors dancing in the breeze. The American flag was displayed from the fort, from old Federal Hall (where now stands the United States custom-house), and from various state and municipal buildings. Stores and dwelling-houses along the line of Wall and Queen Streets flaunted streamers, mottoes, and various patriotic emblems. The crowd was greatest near the foot of Wall Street; here humanity surged and scarcely a window was ungraced by feminine faces, sharing the general expression of happy expectation. The stairs at the landing-place of Murray's wharf had been carpeted, and the rails were hung with crimson. Between this wharf and Wall Street was a coffee-house, at which waited Governor Clinton and his military staff, with various other dignitaries. Militia companies, dragoons, and grenadiers, in bright uniforms, with their bands of music, rested in easy negligence along the sidewalks, chatting with the multitude and waiting the order of attention. Shining carriages were drawn up next the wharf. Mounted aids clattered back and forth, bearing messages.

Presently a puff of smoke came from the Galveston, followed by a loud report. At the same instant, with her yards well manned, she ran up and displayed the colors of all nations. Thirteen guns mouthed a response from the Battery. And now could be seen rounding the Spanish packet seven barges, manned by crews dressed in white, the handsomest of them pulled by twelve master pilots, a thirteenth serving as the coxswain. Upon this barge, expressly built for the occasion, all eyes turned, seeking to distinguish the stateliest figure among a distinguished group in the stern-sheets. A prolonged shout went up as the water party made their way to Murray's wharf. Oars were tossed and let fall, the chief barge was made fast at the slip, and up the carpeted staircase, with his escort, mounted a tall, elderly man, of military bearing, dressed in a plain suit, with a blue coat and buff waistcoat and breeches, and looking healthy, but travel-worn. Amid the plaudits of the dense throng now fully excited, Governor Clinton, with his suite and the civic officers, welcomed him at the landing-place. The artillery fired another salute. The bells broke out madly. Washington (for it was he who arrived after this fashion) entered a state carriage, followed by the governor. Chancellor Livingston, the adjutant-general and city recorder, Jay, Knox, Osgood, and the congressional committee, who had now disembarked with the rest of the party which had been rowed over from Elizabethtown Point, took seats in other carriages provided for them; as did likewise the French and Spanish ambassadors. A body-guard of grenadiers attended the president-elect. The military now shouldered arms and took up the line of march. Citizens, arm-in-arm, brought up the rear. In this manner did the procession wend its way up Wall and through Queen Streets to the house which the honored guest was to occupy.

Thus propitiously did George Washington enter New York, our temporary capital, as the first president-elect of the United States. Receiving after the electoral count his official notification by the hand of the venerable and trusty Charles Thompson, long secretary of the Continental Congress, he had started from Mount Vernon

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