During the last few years of her life, Grisi’s voice began to show signs of wear and tear. It was generally as full and sonorous as ever, and the “bel canto” was glorious. But now and then the notes would fail her, and sometimes it made one nervous to listen to her. Vera, always witty and not seldom ill-natured, once answered when someone said, “La Grisi a toujours de bien beaux moments.” “Oui, mais en revanche elle a des fichus quarts d’heure.” That was exaggeration born of jealousy, for Vera had a sister Sophie, whom he adored, and who always had to sing Adalgisa when he would fain have had her take Grisi’s place as Norma. Of one musical recollection I am very proud. Grisi, in 1859, chose me to play the cornet obbligato for her in a Romance by Vera, “Cari fior ch’io stessa colsi,” and it ended with a double cadence for the voice and the obbligato instrument. The second time that I accompanied her was at a concert at Dudley House given for the benefit of a poor Italian baritone, Ciabatta, who was dying of consumption. He, poor fellow, had little voice for the opera, but was an excellent singing master. His misfortune was that he was one of the handsomest men that could be seen, a perfect Apollo, and so when he took the best recommendations, he was rejected as dangerous. “Toujours la même histoire,” he said piteously once, after a barren morning’s lesson-hunting, “les mamans ne veulent pas de moi! Elles disent toutes que je suis trop beau.” Of course, because Mario had a villa at Fulham, Giuglini, as representing the rival house, must have one also. His villa had a long strip of garden with a sundial at the bottom of it. Here on Sundays he would invite his friends, and when they were gathered together he would cover the sundial with breadcrumbs, attracting sparrows, tits, blackbirds and thrushes. As soon as there was a sufficient congregation of these poor innocents, he, standing in the verandah, would send for a gun and blaze away at them, exclaiming to his admiring guests, “Voyez-vous, j’adore la chasse!” What a sportsman! Of his success and charm as a singer there can be no doubt; that he did not please me better was probably my own fault. His end was a sad one. He lost his reason and died miserably in an asylum, singing, as I have been told, to the last, spending his lovely voice in the solitude of a madman’s cell. Jenny Lind I only heard after she had left the stage. Her operatic career was a short one: so far as London was concerned it only lasted two years. Her first appearance was in 1847, her last in 1849, when she was only twenty-nine years old. She continued to sing in concerts and oratorios and made a very successful tour in America, but the theatre knew her no more.