University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

But a few days made a great difference in my mode of thinking
and feeling in regard to some of the persons of my Alsatia.
The cries and clamors of which I have spoken—as the familiar
sounds from that neighbourhood, underwent a sweet and singular
modification. A new and very different voice from the rest,
aroused me one morning from my slumbers, and drew me to my
window, with a sentiment of pleasurable anxiety, which was
altogether new to my experience. Such a voice—of so much
power—so much sweetness—so touching, so energetic, at once
so expansive and insinuating, arch and tremulous—passionate,
yet full of the most gentle fear.

I am not a musician myself. I am neither performer nor connoisseur,

nor do I profess to have any great passion for that most
pure and elevated of all the sensual luxuries:—but I should have
been more or less than mortal to have withstood the
of that voice whose sudden song, penetrating the thick folds of
sleep which enveloped me, commanded me to rise from my
couch and compelled me to listen. The song was an English
one—one of those simple old ballad ditties, the taste for which
has undergone some revival in recent days;—but the air was
decidedly foreign. The artifices of Italian music linked with the
direct, natural and earnest language of English poetry, struck
me on subsequent reflection, as suggesting a moral discord, which
was unpleasant; but, while the performance lasted I was not
sensible to this or any objection. I had no time to make it—no
feeling for dissent or dissatisfaction, and it was only, long after
the voice became silent, that, in seeking to be critical I found any
thing to qualify its complete harmonies. I listened breathlessly
while it proceeded. I was confounded to perceive that it came
from a hovel, the very meanest of the group, which stood almost
in the centre of the `rookery.' If I wondered, however, at the
first moment of the discovery, I had no time, just then, to yield
myself up to mere astonishment. Delight occupied all the emotions
of my soul; and it was not until the music had ceased for
several moments, that I was able to shake myself free from that
overpowering spell which its sovereign sweetness had imposed
upon me. It was only when my ears ceased to find employment,
that my eyes began to resume their accustomed exercise. It
was only then, that, in examining the miserable dwelling from
which such intoxicating sounds arose, I perceived the partial profile—at
one of the low, unsashed windows—of a woman, seemingly
very youthful, in whose style of face, I fancied I discerned
the marked outlines of the English character, and yet, not entirely
English. The black eyes—hair, long and glossy, of the
same colour, which streamed upon a neck of unusual whiteness,
seemed to distinguish one who had in her veins a warm, rich
tincture of Milesian blood. I subsequently discovered, however,
that she was of direct English parentage. Still, her more remote
ancestors might have come from the sister Isle.

I had now a new employment for my vacant hours, and a
new motive for the survey of my `rookery.' I watched and listened
long enough, and often enough, to discover, in the next five
days, sufficient cause for a greatly-increased wonderment. The
girl—for she was young enough to be considered under this head,
—was really beautiful. Her appearance, air, manner and behaviour,
were such, also, as to justify the belief that she had
come of good family, had been used to gentle nurture, and
had been blessed with something more than an ordinary education.

Yet how came she in such a place—so meanly habited—
so poorly tended—so wretchedly provided for? The hovel
which she occupied, was decidedly one of the meanest of the
`row.' The apartment in which I usually beheld her, and
which I could easily overlook from mine, was almost entirely
without furniture. A rude box beside the window formed the
only seat which I perceived it to contain; and the bed, the foot
of which was all that I could see, was spread out upon the
floor. The wild and tender ballad which she sang—the style of
her performance—the subdued and sweet resignation of her
countenance the while,—how little did these correspond with the
wretched state of every thing around her! What could have
brought her to this condition? I mused over this question long,
and approached it frequently. The answer which I found seldom
satisfied me. I was unwilling to believe that mere misfortunes,
the hazards of a capricious fate alone, could have so
reduced worth, accomplishment and talent;—and yet, how difficult,—looking
on her face of angelic purity of expression, and a
placid resignation not less angelic,—to believe that she was the
victim of guilt—the creature, self-impelled to sin, by her own
bad passions, or pliant virtue.