al anthem to the nobler half of the New World. Honour to woman,
and honour to old England, that from Felicia Hemans came the song which
will last, perhaps, when modern Europe shall have shared the fate of
ancient Rome and Greece!

Valencia's singing was the reflex of her own character; and therefore,
perhaps, all the more fitted to the song, the place, and the audience.
It was no modest cooing voice, tender, suggestive, trembling with
suppressed emotion, such as, even though narrow in compass, and dull in
quality, will touch the deepest fibres of the heart, and, as delicate
scents will sometimes do, wake up long-forgotten dreams, which seem
memories of some antenatal life.

It was clear, rich, massive, of extraordinary compass, and yet full of
all the graceful ease, the audacious frolic, of perfect physical health,
and strength, and beauty; had there been a trace of effort in it, it
might have been accused of "bravura:" but there was no need of effort
where nature had bestowed already an all but perfect organ, and all that
was left for science was to teach not power, but control. Above all, it
was a voice which you trusted; after the first three notes you felt that
that perfect ear, that perfect throat, could never, even by the
thousandth part of a note, fall short of melody; and you gave your soul
up to it, and cast yourself upon it, to bear you up and away, like a
fairy steed, whither it would, down into the abysses of sadness, and up
to the highest heaven of joy; as did those wild and rough, and yet
tenderhearted and imaginative men that day, while every face spoke new
delight, and hung upon those glorious notes,--

"As one who drinks from a charmed cup
Of sparkling, and foaming, and murmuring wine"--

and not one of them, had he had the gift of words, but might have said
with the poet:--

"I have no life, Constantia, now but thee,
While, like the world-surrounding air, thy song
Flows on, and fills all things with melody.
Now is thy voice tempest swift and strong,
On which, like one in a trance upborne,
Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep,
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.
Now 'tis the breath of summer night,
Which, when the starry waters sleep
Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright,
Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight."

At last it ceased: and all men drew their breaths once more; while a
low murmur of admiration ran through the crowd, too well-bred to applaud
op