r hearing her in _Norma_, was one of
disappointment. It was in June, 1847. The great tenor thus records his
impressions of the great prima donna: "She is well enough in Casta
Diva--that invocation to the moon suits her dreamy Teutonic nature--but
the fury of the loving woman, the deserted mother--No, no! a thousand
times no!" But the next season he goes to hear her in _Lucia_, and at
once the verdict is reversed. "She is one of the greatest artists it has
ever been my lot to hear," he writes. "Her voice, though charming in the
upper notes, is unfortunately a little weak in the middle register; but
what intelligence and invention! She imitates no one, she studies
unceasingly, both the dramatic situation and the musical phrase, and her
ornamentation is of a novelty and elegance that reconcile me to that
style of execution. I do not love roulades, I must confess, though I may
learn to do so later. Jenny Lind does one thing admirably: during the
malediction, instead of clinging to her lover as all the other Lucias
never fail to do till the act is ended, as soon as Edgar throws her from
him she remains motionless: she is a statue. A livid smile contracts her
features, her haggard eyes are fixed on the table where she signed the
fatal contract, and when the curtain falls one sees that madness has
already seized upon her."

During this season in London, Roger, while singing at the Ancient
Concerts, saw in the audience one evening the duke of Wellington, and
thus writes of the event: "I had Wellington before me. I heard the voice
that commanded the troops at Waterloo. I looked into the eyes that saw
the back of the emperor. I cannot express the rage that seized upon me
at beholding him. To sing to and give pleasure to that man whom I would
fain annihilate!--him, and his past, and his country! As a Frenchman I
hate him, but I am forced also to admire him."

The next year Roger, while fulfilling an engagement in London, was
requested to sing at a garden-fete given, under the patronage of the
queen, at Fulham, for the benefit of the poor. After the concert Roger,
leaning against an acacia, was watching the departure of the royal
carriages. "Lavandy came to me," he writes, "and said in a whisper, 'Do
you know who is at the other side of this tree?'

"'No.'

"I turned round, and saw a man with an aquiline nose and blue eyes,
whose deep yet gloomy gaze was fixed upon the splendors of royalty. 'Who
is it?' I asked of Lavandy.

"