Isaacs struck a few chords softly, and then began a sort of running accompaniment.  His voice, which seemed to me to be very high, was wonderfully smooth and round, and produced the impression of being much more powerful than he cared to show.  He sang without the least effort, and yet there was none of that effeminate character that I have noticed in European male singers when producing high notes very softly.  I do not understand music, but I am sure I never heard an opera tenor with a voice of such quality.  The words of his song were Persian, and the pure accents of his native tongue seemed well suited to the half passionate, half plaintive air he had chosen.  I afterwards found a translation of the sonnet by an English officer, which I here give, though it conveys little idea of the music of the original verse.

Last night, my eyes being closed in sleep, but my good fortune awake, The whole night, the livelong night, the image of my beloved one was the companion of my soul.  The sweetness of her melodious voice still remains vibrating on my soul; Heavens! how did the sugared words fall from her sweeter lips; Alas! all that she said to me in that dream has escaped from my memory, Although it was my care till break of day to repeat over and over her sweet words.  The day, unless illuminated by her beauty, is, to my eyes, of nocturnal darkness.  Happy day that first I gazed upon that lovely face!  May the eyes of Jami long be blessed with pleasing visions, since they presented to his view last night The object, on whose account he passed his waking life in expectation.[1]

His beautiful voice ceased, and with infinite skill he wove a few strains of the melody into the final chords he played when he had finished singing.  It was all so entirely novel, so unlike any music most of us had ever heard, and it was so undeniably good, that every one applauded and said something to the singer in turn, expressing the greatest admiration and appreciation.  Miss Westonhaugh was the last to speak.

“It is perfectly lovely,” she said.  “I wish I could understand the words—­are they as sweet as the music?”

“Sweeter,” he answered, and he gave an offhand translation of two or three verses.

“Beautiful indeed,” she said; “and now sing me another, please.”  There was no resisting such an appeal, with the personal pronoun in the singular number.  He moved a little nearer, and emphatically sang to her, and to no one else.  A song of the same character as the first, but, I thought, more passionate and less dreamy, as his great sweet voice swelled and softened and rose again in burning vibrations and waves of sound.  She did not ask a translation this time, but some one else did, after the applause had subsided.

“I cannot translate these things,” said Isaacs, “so as to do them justice, or give you any idea of the strength and vitality of the Persian verses.  Perhaps Griggs, who understands Persian very well and is a literary man, may do it for you.  I would rather not try.”  I professed my entire inability to comply with the request, and to turn the conversation asked him where he had learned to play the guitar so well.