display of these wonderful powers, and sought to please more than to surprise; but her taste is vicious, her excessive love of ornament spoiling every simple air, and her greatest delight being in songs of a bold and spirited character, where much is left to her discretion or indiscretion, without being confined by the accompaniment, but in which she can indulge in ad libitum passages with a luxuriance and redundance no other singer ever possessed, or if possessing ever practiced, and which she carries to a fantastical excess.”

Her London debut was on the 15th of December, 1806, in Portogallo’s opera of “La Semi-ramide,” composed for the occasion.  The music of this work was of the most ephemeral nature, but Catalani’s magnificent singing and acting gave it a heroic dignity.  She lavished all the resources of her art on it.  In one passage she dropped a double octave, and finally sealed her reputation “by running up and down the chromatic scale for the first time in the recollection of opera-goers....  It was then new, although it has since been repeated to satiety, and even noted down as an obbligato division by Rossini, Meyerbeer, and others.  Rounds of applause rewarded this daring exhibition of bad taste.”  She had one peculiar effect, which it is said has never been equaled.  This was an undulating tone like that of a musical glass, the vibrating note being higher than the highest note on the pianoforte.  “She appeared to make a sort of preparation previous to its utterance, and never approached it by the regular scale.  It began with an inconceivably fine tone, which gradually swelled both in volume and power, till it made the ears vibrate and the heart thrill.  It particularly resembled the highest note of the nightingale, that is reiterated each time more intensely, and which with a sort of ventriloquism seems scarcely to proceed from the same bird that a moment before poured his delicate warblings at an interval so disjointed.”

There are many racy anecdotes related of Catalani’s London career, to which the stupid, avaricious, but good-natured character of M. Vallebregue lent much of their flavor.  Speaking of Mrs. Salmon’s singing, he said with vehemence, “Mrs. Salmon, sare, she is as that,” extending the little finger of his left hand and placing his thumb at the root of it; “but ma femme!  Voila! she is that”—­stretching out his whole arm at full length and touching the shoulder-joint with the other.  His stupidity extended to an utter ignorance of music, which he only prized as the means of gaining the large sums which his extravagance craved.  His wife once complained of the piano, saying, “I can not possibly sing to that piano; I shall crack my voice:  the piano is absurdly high.”  “Do not fret, my dear,” interposed the husband, soothingly; “it shall be lowered before evening:  I will attend to it myself.”  Evening came, and the house was crowded; but, to the consternation of the cantatrice, the pianoforte was as high as ever.  She sang, but the strain was excessive and painful; and she went behind the scenes in a very bad humor.  “Really, my dear,” said her lord, “I can not conceive of the piano being too high; I had the carpenter in with his saw, and made him take six inches off each leg in my presence!”