and although she was then not seventeen, never did I behold a more lovely woman-never did I hear a female voice in which force and sweetness were so finely blended—a voice so exquisitely true, and modulations so impassioned. For the good of the human race she ought to go upon the stage, and I will stir heaven and earth to make her a Prima Donna."

Romanelli had touched the right chord-I well knew his consummate judgment, and my impatience to see and hear this musical phenomenon, gave a spring to every movement. In ten minutes I was apparelled for the journey; two more sufficed to pack a light portmanteau, and in a few seconds the fiery steeds of Romanelli were careering through the streets of Milan. A rapid drive of four hours conveyed us into the pleasant valley and flat-roofed city of Como, where, instead of proceeding to my friend's villa in the vicinity, I complied with the urgent request of my companion, that I would share his lodgings in a cheerful quarter of the suburb of Vico, near the gardens of the Odescalchi palace, in which stood the venerable elm, mentioned in the letters of the younger Pliny. Here our domestic arrangements were soon completed, and we proceeded to the picturesque little harbour of Como, where my companion, stepping into a boat, begged I would amuse myself until his return from the not distant villa of Valeria's father, and his light gondola, plied by two able rowers, darted with bird-like speed across the miniature sea-port, and disappeared round the angle of the barrier. I passed some hours in wandering through the streets of this

ancient city, surveying its walls and towers, its noble cathedral of white marble, and the most striking of a dozen minor churches. To one, however, accustomed to the stir and magnitude of Milan, the quiet city of Como held out few attractions, even in the season of villeggiatura, and after a second stroll through every leading street, and a third look-out for Romanelli at the harbour, I determined to toil my way up the flank of the cube-like hill, crowned by the ruins of the once formidable citadel. I reached the summit about half an hour before sunset, and, forgetting all sense of fatigue, paused in rapturous delight at the immense landscape. It was, indeed, a sight of splendour. The sun's broad disk, now near the western hills, threw a golden radiance over the long line of waters; the white sails of numerous barks and lighter vessels were glancing in the sun-beams; and the white arcades of the numerous villas along the undulating shore, glittered like gems beneath the chestnut groves, and bending rocks, which margin this most lovely of Italian lakes.

"How beautiful the evening! how rich the landscape!" exclaimed in English a voice above me. Gazing upward in surprise, I beheld a man in priestly garb, seated on a lofty fragment of the ruined fortress, and recognized the urbane features and winning smile of Father Egan, an Irish priest, whom I had often met in Milan, and formerly known in Spain, and who had, like myself, been attracted to Italy by an unconquerable appetite for musical gratification, to which he added a fine taste for the paintings of the Italian schools. "Look,

my son!" he continued, "at the fiery edges of that glorious cloud, immoveable in a serene sky! Observe the interchanging tints of flame and crimson on its edge and surface, and say if thou could'st not almost fancy it the Shekinah of Holy Writ. Were I a landscape painter, I would only paint sunsets; they are the poetry of nature and yet how poor the boasted colouring of Titian and Claude, when compared with the golden radiance of earth, sea, and sky, in this heavenly climate !"

I was just in a mood to enjoy the conversation of the enthusiastic and sincerely devout Irishman, and remained with him until the last streak of red had disappeared in the west, and the stars began to drop faint streams of light upon the dark waters beneath. Quitting our lofty stand, we left the ruins, and had made some progress down the hill, when the low and mellow chime of a convent bell struck our musical ears. We paused by tacit consent, to hear the inmates of a nunnery in the glen beneath, chant the evening service to the Virgin, and soon the hymn swelled out in solemn and affecting harmony through the stillness of night.

I have ever loved the devotional singing of women. Their religion is not the growth of controversy it is deeply rooted in their sensibilities; and their performance of sacred music, if less accurate and powerful than that of male singers, is far more prayerful and heaven-devoted. Every note is a supplication, and from the depth of their hearts.

I left the worthy priest at the gate of the Benedictines, where he was a guest, and hastened to my dwell