“Here’s her ladyship! make room for her ladyship!” But Claude held up a warning hand.  He had just arranged a masterpiece,—­half-a-dozen of the prettiest children, sitting beneath a broken boat, on spars, sails, blocks, lobster-pots, and what not, arranged in picturesque confusion; while the black-bearded sea-kings round were promising them rock and bulls-eyes, if they would only sit still like “gude maids.”

But at Valencia’s coming the children all looked round, and jumped up and curtsied, and then were afraid to sit down again.

“You have spoilt my group, Miss St. Just, and you must mend it!”

Valencia caught the humour, regrouped them all forthwith; and then placed herself in front of them by Claude’s side.

“Now, be good children!  Look straight at me, and listen!” And lifting up her finger, she began to sing the first song of which she could think, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.”

She had no need to bid the children look at her and listen; for not only they, but every face upon the pier was fixed upon her; breathless, spell-bound, at once by her magnificent beauty and her magnificent voice, as up rose, leaping into the clear summer air, and rolling away over the still blue sea, that glorious melody which has now become the national 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”—­