Manuel Garcia’s project for establishing Italian opera in America and the disastrous crash in which it ended have already been described in an earlier chapter.  Maria, who had become Mme. Malibran, was left in New York, while the rest of the Garcia family sailed for Mexico, to give a series of operatic performances in that ancient city.  The precocious genius of Pauline developed rapidly.  She learned in Mexico to play on the organ and piano as if by instinct, with so much ease did she master the difficulties of these instruments, and it was her father’s proud boast that never, except in the cases of a few of the greatest composers, had aptitude for the musical art been so convincingly displayed at her early years.  At the age of six Pauline Garcia could speak four languages, French, Spanish, Italian, and English, with facility, and to these she afterward added German.  Her passion for acquirement was ardent and never lost its force, for she was not only an indefatigable student in music, but extended her researches and attainments in directions alien to the ordinary tastes of even brilliant women.  It is said that before she had reached the age of eight-and-twenty, she had learned to read Latin and Greek with facility, and made herself more than passably acquainted with various arts and sciences.  To the indomitable will and perseverance of her sister Maria, she added a docility and gentleness to which the elder daughter of Garcia had been a stranger.  Pauline was a favorite of her father, who had used pitiless severity in training the brilliant and willful Maria.  “Pauline can be guided by a thread of silk,” he would say, “but Maria needs a hand of iron.”

Garcia’s operatic performances in Mexico were very successful up to the breaking out of the civil war consequent on revolt from Spain.  Society was so utterly disturbed by this catastrophe that residence in Mexico became alike unsafe and profitless, and the Spanish musician resolved to return to Europe.  He turned his money into ingots of gold and silver, and started, with his little family, across the mountains interposing between the capital and the seaport of Vera Cruz, a region at that period terribly infested with brigands.  Garcia was not lucky enough to escape these outlaws.  They pounced on the little cavalcade, and the hard-earned wealth of the singer, amounting to nearly a hundred thousand dollars, passed out of his possession in a twinkling.  The cruel humor of the chief of the banditti bound Garcia to a tree, after he had been stripped naked, and as it was known that he was a singer he was commanded to display his art for the pleasure of these strange auditors.  For a while the despoiled man sternly refused, though threatened with immediate death.  At last he began an aria, but his voice was so choked by his rage and agitation that he broke down, at which the robber connoisseurs hissed.  This stung Garcia’s pride, and he began again with a haughty gesture, breaking forth into a magnificent flight of song,