Of course, every one was wild to hear her. She went to the piano and accompanied herself in "Qui la voce," of "I Puritani." We were all enchanted, clapping our hands with enthusiasm. Then Gounod played and sang, or rather hummed, a new song of his, saying to Jenny Lind, when he took his place at the piano, "I am not worthy to succeed you." We thought him much too modest. He _hummed_ deliriously! They asked me to sing, and, though I really hated to sing after these great artists, I did so to please Auber, who accompanied me in "Los Djins," of which he is very proud, because it has the same bass all the way through. How little it takes to please genius! After this Jenny Lind and I performed the duo from "Le Premier Jour de Bonheur" we had practised at my house. She put her arm around my waist while we were singing, as if we were two school-girls. Prince Metternich played one of his brilliant Austrian waltzes, which was so bewildering that if any man had dared to put his arm round Jenny Lind's matronly waist I am sure she would have skipped off in the dance. For _la bonne bouche_ she gave us a Swedish peasant song, which was simply bewitching. Her high notes were exquisitely pure, the lower ones I thought weak; but that might have been owing to the good dinner she had eaten--at least she said so. There is a musical phenomenon here just now in the shape of an American negro; he is blind and idiotic, but has a most extraordinary intelligence for music. All his senses seem to have been concentrated in this one sense. Prince and Princess Metternich, Auber, and ourselves went to his concert. Auber said, "Cet idiot, noir et aveugle, est vraiment merveilleux." Blind Tom had learned his _répertoire_ entirely by ear; therefore it was very limited, as he could only remember what he had heard played a few days before. His memory did not last long. He was wonderful. Not only could he execute well, but he could imitate any one's mannerisms and their way of playing. The impresario came forward, saying, "I am told that Monsieur Auber is in the audience. May I dare to ask him to come up and play something?" Auber said he thought he should die of fright. We all urged him, for the curiosity of the thing, to play something of his new opera, which no one as yet had heard, therefore no one could have known it. Auber mounted the platform, amid the enthusiastic applause of the audience, and performed his solo. Then Blind Tom sat down and played it after him so accurately, with the same staccato, old-fashioned touch of Auber, that no one could have told whether Auber was still at the piano. Auber returned and bowed to the wildly excited public and to us. He said, "This is my first appearance as a pianist, and my last."