being finished, the lady, apparently at the request of Welbeck, sat down
to a piano-forte.

Here again I must be silent. I was not wholly destitute of musical
practice and musical taste. I had that degree of knowledge which enabled
me to estimate the transcendent skill of this performer. As if the
pathos of her touch were insufficient, I found after some time that the
lawless jarrings of the keys were chastened by her own more liquid
notes. She played without a book, and, though her bass might be
preconcerted, it was plain that her right-hand notes were momentary and
spontaneous inspirations. Meanwhile Welbeck stood, leaning his arms on
the back of a chair near her, with his eyes fixed on her face. His
features were fraught with a meaning which I was eager to interpret, but
unable.

I have read of transitions effected by magic; I have read of palaces and
deserts which were subject to the dominion of spells; poets may sport
with their power, but I am certain that no transition was ever conceived
more marvellous and more beyond the reach of foresight than that which I
had just experienced. Heaths vexed by a midnight storm may be changed
into a hall of choral nymphs and regal banqueting; forest glades may
give sudden place to colonnades and carnivals; but he whose senses are
deluded finds himself still on his natal earth. These miracles are
contemptible when compared with that which placed me under this roof and
gave me to partake in this audience. I know that my emotions are in
danger of being regarded as ludicrous by those who cannot figure to
themselves the consequences of a limited and rustic education.