enter into the passions expressed by him, and are transported with grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he, our soul’s master, chooses to inspire.  For some time, the spirit of hilarity was kept up; but, at length, Perdita receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the trio of “Taci ingiusto core,” in Don Giovanni, whose arch entreaty was softened by him into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of the changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the self-same sounds and words, which often before she had received, as the homage of love to her—­no longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its dissonance of expression penetrated her with regret and despair.  Soon after Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and sorrowful air in Figaro, “Porgi, amor, qualche risforo,” in which the deserted Countess laments the change of the faithless Almaviva.  The soul of tender sorrow is breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet voice of Idris, sustained by the mournful chords of her instrument, added to the expression of the words.  During the pathetic appeal with which it concludes, a stifled sob attracted our attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music recalled her to herself, she hastened out of the hall—­I followed her.  At first, she seemed to wish to shun me; and then, yielding to my earnest questioning, she threw herself on my neck, and wept aloud:—­“Once more,” she cried, “once more on your friendly breast, my beloved brother, can the lost Perdita pour forth her sorrows.  I had imposed a law of silence on myself; and for months I have kept it.  I do wrong in weeping now, and greater wrong in giving words to my grief.  I will not speak!  Be it enough for you to know that I am miserable—­be it enough for you to know, that the painted veil of life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in darkness and gloom, that grief is my sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!”

I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed her, assured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in the changes of her fortune:—­“Dear words,” she cried, “expressions of love come upon my ear, like the remembered sounds of forgotten music, that had been dear to me.  They are vain, I know; how very vain in their attempt to soothe or comfort me.  Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what I have suffered during these long months.  I have read of mourners in ancient days, who clothed themselves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their bread mingled with ashes, and took up their abode on the bleak mountain tops, reproaching heaven and earth aloud with their misfortunes.  Why this is the very luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day contriving new extravagances, revelling in the paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the appurtenances of despair.  Alas!  I must for ever conceal the wretchedness that consumes me.  I must weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to hide my grief from vulgar eyes, smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful smiles—­even in solitude I dare not think how lost I am, lest I become insane and rave.”