When his time came, a medium-sized gentleman in the prime of life, rather stoutly built, and so severely simple, yet neat and tasteful, in his manner and attire, that he might have been mistaken for a well salaried secretary of our Board of Missions, or a Judge of the Supreme Court—with modest assurance and dignity enough for either—Thalberg stepped upon the platform, and quietly sat down to his work.

. . . He never once got his feet upon the keys, nor even his elbows; nor did his hands toss over each other, showering colored lights from diamonded fingers. During all his performances there was scarcely a perceptible motion of his head or shoulders, nor indeed any more agitation than would be observed in a Wall street banker passing over his golden notes from one side to the other, as if there were almost too many to inspect within bank hours.

A widely reprinted interview from the Courrier des Etats Unis of New York concerning Thalberg's newly acquired banjo skills circulated at the beginning of his second season. It would seem apocryphal if not for Thalberg's letter of endorsement of one of his banjo teachers which recounts that the instrument had attracted his attention soon after his arrival in America. Dwight's New York correspondent wondered at the beginning of the new season if Thalberg would "report progress on the banjo?" (Dwight's Journal of Music 11 [5 September 1857]: 182).

"Not the piano-forte?" do you ask? "And what, then, may it be?"

We give you ten, yes, a hundred guesses, but we counsel you, as you value your comfort, to "give up" at once. Know that Thalberg, the great Thalberg, reposes from his royal sovereignty in cultivating—the banjo! We have written it—the banjo!

Here are the facts. Entering his apartments the other day at the St. Nicholas, in place of the magnificent Erard we were accustomed to find there, there appeared a suspicious box of somewhat musical form, and bearing the significant address: S. Thalberg, New-York.

"In the name of St. Cecilia, is it not a banjo case?"

"It is nothing else," replied Thalberg, in his usual quiet and modest tones.

"And," we continued, "you play on this odd instrument?"

"I have taken ten lessons," responded, most humbly, the celebrated man; and encouraged, doubtless, by the admiration plainly depicted in our countenance, he added:

"And I will acknowledge that I have made considerable progress already."

"Pray let us have the special favor of judging for ourselves! All the word has heard Thalberg upon the piano-forte; let us have the privilege of hearing him on the banjo!"

With his uniform kindness, he at once opened the case. It was empty. Thalberg, with the enthusiasm of all young students, had attacked with two much warmth the melody

"O Susannah, don't you cry for me,
I come from Alabama, with my banjo on my knee,"

and, alas! the instrument was now gone to the shop for repair.

Thus we have not yet heard Thalberg on the banjo! When we have that honor, the world shall surely know it. Oh! that we could be in Paris when, on the artist's return, this new accomplishment is made known to the public of that city! Nothing of the like has been dreamed of there, and all the little eccentricities of Vivier will be entirely eclipsed. Every man will be button-holed in the streets, not for the salutation, "How do you do?" but with the query: "Have you heard Thalberg's banjo?" . . .

Courrier des Etats-Unis, 13 July 1857, trans. in New-York Daily Times, 1 August 1857; New-York Musical Review and Gazette 8 (25 July 1857): 228; Dwight's Journal of Music 11 (1 August 1857): 142.

For more information on Thalberg and the banjo, see Sarah Meredith, "With a Banjo on Her Knee: Gender, Race, Class, and the American Classical Banjo Tradition, 1880-1915" (Ph.D. diss., Florida State University, 2003), pp. 41-43. Click here to view complete text of dissertation online.