the sadness of that angel face, as if he were predestined to soothe it—a thousand scenes in which they were to meet glanced over him—till he found himself leaning back in the darkest recess of a box at the Opera, feeling rather than listening to the delicious music, which floated through the dim atmosphere, so well suited to the reverie of the lover.
How much more is that vague tone of poetry, to be found in almost all, awakened by the obscurity of the foreign theatres!—in ours, the lights, the dresses, &c. are too familiar things, and prevent the audience from being carried away by their feelings,—as they are when music and poetry are aided by obscurity like mystery, and silence deep as thought. A murmur of applause, and a burst of song thrilling in its sweetness, aroused Algernon[1], and, leaning over the front, he saw—her dark hair gathered with three bands of costly diamonds in front, and a starry tiara behind—her crimson robe shining with gold—her dazzlingly white arms raised in eloquent expostulation—her voice filling the air with its melody—in the Medea of the stage he saw the devotee of the Virgin.
Pass we over the first steps of attachment—so delicious to tread, but so little pleasant to
- ↑ ditto
