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on;—otherwise, in his abstract reveries, who knows but the musician would have walked after his "Siren" into the sea! And then she would so patiently, perhaps (for in true love there is not always the finest taste) so delightedly, listen to those storms of eccentric and fitful melody, and steal him—whispering praises all the way—from the unwholesome night watch to rest and sleep! I said his music was a part of the man, and this gentle creature seemed a part of the music; it was, in fact, when she sat beside him, that whatever was tender or fairy-like in his motley fantasia crept into the harmony as by stealth. Doubtless her presence acted on the music, and shaped and softened it; but he, who never examined how or what his inspiration, knew it not. All that he knew was, that he loved and blessed her. He fancied he told her so twenty times a-day; but he never did, for he was not of many words, even to his wife. His language was his music, as hers—her cares! He was more communicative to his barbiton, as the learned Mersennus teaches us to call all the varieties of the great viol family. Certainly barbiton sounds better than fiddle; and barbiton let it be. He would talk to that by the hour together—praise it—scold it—coax it—nay (for such is man, even the most guileless), he had been known to swear at it; but for that excess he was always penitentially remorseful. And the barbiton had a tongue of his own, could take his own part, and when he also scolded, had much the best of it. He was a noble fellow, this Violin! a Tyrolese, the handiwork of the illustrious Steiner. There was something