“Six hundred maidens, clad in purest white,” appeared really to fill the gardens.
“While the great organ almost burst his pipes,
Groaning for power, and rolling thro’ the court
A long melodious thunder to the sound
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies.”
The curtain fell, to rise in a few moments amid a burst of applause. The Princess herself now appeared for the first time on the little stage. Nothing could have been more admirable than the grouping of this tableau. All the pride of mien, of race, of indomitable purpose was visible on the face of the young girl who acted the part of the Princess Ida.
“She stood
Among her maidens, higher by the head,
Her back against a pillar.”
It was impossible, of course, to represent the tame leopards, but the maidens who gathered round the Princess prevented this want being apparent, and Maggie Oliphant’s attitude, and the expression which filled her bright eyes, left nothing to be desired.
“Perfect!” exclaimed the spectators: the interest of everyone present was more than aroused; each individual in the little theatre felt, though no one could exactly tell why, that Maggie was not merely acting her part, she was living it.
Suddenly she raised her head, and looked steadily at the visitors in the gallery: a wave of rosy red swept over the whiteness of her face. It was evident that she had encountered a glance which disturbed her composure.
The play proceeded brilliantly, and now the power and originality of Priscilla’s acting divided the attention of the house. Surely there never was a more impassioned Prince.
Priscilla could sing; her voice was not powerful, but it was low and rather deeply set. The well-known and familiar song with which the Prince tried to woo Ida lost little at her hands.
“O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.
“O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.
“Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?
“O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.
“O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.”