“One night I wandered into the place I speak of, took a seat and called for my clay pipe and pot of beer.  I was paying little attention to the performance on the stage, for it was worn threadbare with me; but was studying the faces of the crowd around me, when suddenly I was attracted by the sound of the sweetest voice I ever heard.  I turned to the stage, and there stood a young girl, but little more than a child, holding her piece of music in her hand, and singing, to the thrumming accompaniment of a wheezy piano, a sweet old ballad.  The girl was slight of frame and small, not more than about five feet high.  She was timid, for that was her first appearance, as the play-bills stated; and the hand trembled that held the music.  I did not infer that she had had much training as a musician; but the voice was the perfection of nature’s workmanship; and the singing was like the airy warbling of children in the happy unconsciousness of the household, or the gushing music of birds welcoming the red light of the dawning day while yet the dew and the silence lie over all nature.  A dead quiet had crept over the astonished house; but at the close of the first stanza a thunderous burst of applause broke forth that shook the whole building.  It was pleasant to see how the singer brightened into confidence, as a child might, at the sound; the look of anxiety left the sweet face; the eyes danced; the yellow curls shook with half-suppressed merriment; and when the applause had subsided, and the thrumming of the old piano began again, there was an abandon in the rush of lovely melody which she poured forth, with delicate instinctive touches, fine cadences and joyous, bird-like warblings, never dreamed of by the composer of the old tune.  The vast audience was completely carried away.  The voice entered into their slumbering hearts like a revelation, and walked about in them like a singing spirit in halls of light.  They rose to their feet; hats were flung in the air; a shower of silver pieces, and even some of gold—­a veritable Danae shower—­fell all around the singer, while the shouting and clapping of hands were deafening.  The debutante was a success.  The singer had passed the ordeal.  She had entered into the promised land of fame and wealth.  I looked at the programme, as did hundreds of others; it read simply:  ’A Solo by Miss Christina Carlson—­first appearance.’ The name was Scandinavian, and the appearance of the girl confirmed that supposition.  She evidently belonged to the great race of Nilsson and Lind.  Her hair, a mass of rebellious, short curls, was of the peculiar shade of light yellow common among that people; it looked as if the xanthous locks of the old Gauls, as described by Caesar, had been faded out, in the long nights and the ice and snow of the Northland, to this paler hue.  But what struck me most, in the midst of those contaminated surroundings, was the air of innocence and purity and lightheartedness which shone over every part of her person, down to her little feet, and out to her very finger tips.  There was not the slightest suggestion of art, or craft, or double-dealing, or thought within a thought, or even vanity.  She was delighted to think she had passed the dreadful ambuscade of a first appearance successfully, and that employment—­and bread—­were assured for the future.  That seemed to be the only triumph that danced in her bright eyes.