Having seated herself at the harp and essayed its strings, she paused, and seemingly unconscious of the many eyes riveted upon her, she raised her head, and gazing into the far-off distance, threw her white arm across the instrument, and swept its chords in a deep, soul-thrilling prelude--not to a national ode or popular song, but to a spirit-stirring, glorious improvisation! This prelude seemed a musical paraphrase of the great national struggle and victory. She struck a few deep, solitary notes, and then swept the harp in a low, mournful strain, like the first strokes of tyranny, followed by the earliest murmurs of discontent; then the music, with intervals of monotone, arose in fitful gusts like the occasional skirmishes that heralded the Revolution; then the calm was lost in general storm and devastation--the report of musketry, the tramp of steeds, the clashing of swords, the thunder of artillery, the fall of walls, the cries of the wounded, the groans of the dying, and the shouts of victory, were not only heard, but seen and felt in that magnificent tempest of harmony. Then the voice of the _improvvisatrice_ arose. Her subject was the retiring chief. I cannot hope to give any idea of the splendor of that improvisation--as easily might I catch and fix with pen, or pencil, the magnificent life of an equinoctial storm, the reverberation of its thunder, the conflagration of its lightning! Possessed of Apollo, the light glowed upon her cheeks, irradiated her brow, and streamed, as it were, in visible, living rays from her glorious eyes! The whole power of the god was upon the woman, and the whole soul of the woman in her theme. There was not a word spoken, there was scarcely a breath drawn in that room. She finished amid a charmed silence that lasted until Colonel Compton appeared and broke the spell by leading her from the harp. Then arose low murmurs of enthusiastic admiration, restrained only by the deep respect due to the chief personage in that assembly. “_La Marguerite des Marguerites!_” said the gallant French _attaché_. “A Corinne! I must know her, sir. Will you do me the honor to present me?” inquired the English student, turning again to the Frenchman. “Lord William!” interrupted the clerical companion, with an air of caution and admonition. “Well, Mr. Murray! well! did not my father desire that I should make the acquaintance of all distinguished Americans?--and surely this lady must be one of their number.” “Humph,” said the clergyman, stroking his chin, “the marquis did not, probably, include distinguished actresses, Lord William.” “Actresses! have you judgment, Mr. Murray? Do but look with what majesty she speaks and moves!” “So I have heard does Mrs. Siddons. Let us withdraw, Lord William.” “Not yet, if you please, sir! I must first pay my respects to this lady. Will you favor me, monsieur?”