There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch on men; When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep,— Sweet spirit, meet me then.
There is an hour when holy dreams Through slumber fairest glide;
And in that mystic hour it seems Thou shouldst be by my side.
The thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight’s common beam;—
I can but know thee as my star,
My angel, and my dream!
And now, the example set, and the praises of the fair hostess exciting general emulation, the guitar circled from hand to hand, and each of the Italians performed his part; you might have fancied yourself at one of the old Greek feasts, with the lyre and the myrtle-branch going the round.
But both the Italians and the Englishman felt the entertainment would be incomplete without hearing the celebrated vocalist and improvvisatrice who presided over the little banquet; and Madame de Montaigne, with a woman’s tact, divined the general wish, and anticipated the request that was sure to be made. She took the guitar from the last singer, and turning to Maltravers, said, “You have heard, of course, some of our more eminent improvvisatori, and therefore if I ask you for a subject it will only be to prove to you that the talent is not general amongst the Italians.”
“Ah,” said Maltravers, “I have heard, indeed, some ugly old gentlemen with immense whiskers, and gestures of the most alarming ferocity, pour out their vehement impromptus; but I have never yet listened to a young and a handsome lady. I shall only believe the inspiration when I hear it direct from the Muse.”
“Well, I will do my best to deserve your compliments—you must give me the theme.”
Maltravers paused a moment, and suggested the Influence of Praise on Genius.
The improvvisatrice nodded assent, and after a short prelude broke forth into a wild and varied strain of verse, in a voice so exquisitely sweet, with a taste so accurate, and a feeling so deep that the poetry sounded to the enchanted listeners like the language that Armida might have uttered. Yet the verses themselves, like all extemporaneous effusions, were of a nature both to pass from the memory and to defy transcription.
When Madame de Montaigne’s song ceased, no rapturous plaudits followed—the Italians were too affected by the science, Maltravers by the feeling, for the coarseness of ready praise;—and ere that delighted silence which made the first impulse was broken, a new comer, descending from the groves that clothed the ascent behind the house, was in the midst of the party.
“Ah, my dear brother,” cried Madame Montaigne, starting up, and banging fondly on the arm of the stranger, “why have you lingered so long in the wood? You, so delicate! And how are you? How pale you seem!”