he is crucially examined to discover defects. There is no boisterous
loyalty at the outset. And as it was now evident that Vittoria had chosen
to impersonate a significant character, her indications of method were
jealously watched for a sign of inequality, either in her, motion, or the
force of her eyes. So silent a reception might have seemed cruel in any
other case; though in all cases the candidate for laurels must, in common
with the criminal, go through the ordeal of justification. Men do not
heartily bow their heads until they have subjected the aspirant to some
personal contest, and find themselves overmatched. The senses, ready to
become so slavish in adulation and delight, are at the beginning more
exacting than the judgement, more imperious than the will. A figure in
amber and pale blue silk was seen, such as the great Venetian might have
sketched from his windows on a day when the Doge went forth to wed the
Adriatic a superb Italian head, with dark banded hair-braid, and dark
strong eyes under unabashed soft eyelids! She moved as, after long gazing
at a painting of a fair woman, we may have the vision of her moving from
the frame. It was an animated picture of ideal Italia. The sea of heads
right up to the highest walls fronted her glistening, and she was mute as
moonrise. A virgin who loosens a dove from her bosom does it with no
greater effort than Vittoria gave out her voice. The white bird flutters
rapidly; it circles and takes its flight. The voice seemed to be as
little the singer's own.

The theme was as follows:--Camilla has dreamed overnight that her lost
mother came to her bedside to bless her nuptials. Her mother was folded
in a black shroud, looking formless as death, like very death, save that
death sheds no tears. She wept, without change of voice, or mortal
shuddering, like one whose nature weeps: 'And with the forth-flowing of
her tears the knowledge of her features was revealed to me.' Behold the
Adige, the Mincio, Tiber, and the Po!--such great rivers were the tears
pouring from her eyes. She threw apart the shroud: her breasts and her
limbs were smooth and firm as those of an immortal Goddess: but breasts
and limbs showed the cruel handwriting of base men upon the body of a
martyred saint. The blood from those deep gashes sprang out at intervals,
mingling with her tears. She said:

'My child! were I a Goddess, my wounds would heal. Were I a Saint, I
should be in Paradise. I am no Goddess,