moved by some unique thought, dream, or emotion. To this poetical conception he dedicates his own work, and for this dedication we should at least have a degree of modest respect. And yet an ignorant, inartistic public, enamored of sweet sounds without the slightest comprehension, apparently, of their especial significance, seizes a solomeant only for a solo, a love-song, perhaps, a personal regret, hope, or reverie -cuts it into four parts, and unites it to the words of some especial church creed, or some drinking-chorus, without any consideration whatever for the author's own intention. In an equally barbarous manner concerted music is diluted into solos. Symphonic movements, too subtle for any language of the sense, are arranged by the G. F. Roots of the community for some ecclesiastic organization, Romanistic or Puritan; duos and quartos, expressing rage, jealousy, love, despair, are selected from the different operas, and sung to-day in the churches everywhere. And yet our noblest composers have left us a wealth of true church-music, whose very inspiration was born of some grand religious idea or devotional sentiment. With such music attainable, the church choirs substitute Verdi's operas in its stead, and the public not only tolerates, but approves. Verily, they have not yet learnt here the A B C of the true mission of music. There is no reverence, no real comprehension; and the pretended connoisseurship would be ludicrous, if it were not so sickening and so saddening. Ah, my beloved Art! God be my witness, I have been true to thee. I am weak to sue for thee, but it will be glory enough if I may stand guard over thee, to shield thy pure robe from any profaning touch. This evening I worked at composition, but heart and brain were too restless. Sometimes I wish I had been born a plodding, practical man, any thing that would spare me these quivering pulses, these hopes and despairs, these heights and depths. Ah, the artist-life! what a mystery! While the matter-of-fact men-and God be thanked for them-with feet planted firmly in the solid earth, go on in a straight line, wrestling with present practical realities, and content with to-day's experience and gain-the artist, an instrument whose chords must vibrate with the ebb and tide, the air and sunshine, the common joy and sorrow, that the weary world may be consoled, inspired, liberated, lives ever with the unseen hope in a twofold existence, working from within outward. And that within -ah! who can fathom it! To-night I am too bitter and restless for sleep. I bleed on the thorns of life! You have prided yourself on your strong will and good sense, Herman Ehrthal! Will you now forfeit all claim to those admirable qualities? May 20th.-This evening I heard Herr play for the first time. What poetic comprehension! what living fire! I felt it a blessed privilege to listen to him, and I told him so; for I am always proud and glad to acknowledge the true in art wherever I find it. I am not easily satisfied, to be sure, and often grumble when others applaud. Mrs. Grundy calls this grumbling the ebullition of jealousy; and people are afraid often to speak their real thought for fear of her tongue. What a near-sighted creature this same female is! How little she comprehends that the true artist loves his art infinitely better than himself, and that, far from feeling a petty, ignoble jealousy, he glories in her true advance and success.-A letter from mother to-day. That, and -'s noble playing, make me happy to-night. May 30th.-Four weeks have gone by, four weeks of drudgery; but Duty is an ennobling master. The Spring is really here in her fulness. I feel, shut in by these stifling walls, like a fish thrown out on dry sand, hearing in the distance the sound of rushing streams. Since sunrise I have been singing, from out of my brick-and-mortar imprisonment, Handel's divine song from Rinaldo, "Lascia ch'io pianga, la dura Sorte This evening, on my return home, I found a note from Mrs. Irving, inviting me to join Dr. A- -on a little visit to her country-home. It seemed an answer to the song, and "la Liberta," clothed in a radiant robe, beckoned to me from the fields beyond. I went directly to see the Doctor, and promised to join him. So I shall see her face again, and hear her voice! It may be rash; but I feel a moth's madness for the light, and, to bathe myself in the alluring fire, am willing to accept the moth's destiny. June 3d.-Here you are, my Journal, under the roof of a luxurious house! How do you like the change of position? How glorious to be again in the country! Through the crystalline clearness of the fragrant air the eye catches free sweeps of sky and earth, and the soul expands in the noble space. The young Colonel is here on a visit. But this evening I had Miss Estelle quite to myself. Mrs. I. proposed a whistparty; the company repaired to the adjoining room, and I was left alone with my young hostess. She sang our songs with an enchanting abandon, and gave me again a new revelation of them. I, too, was musical, nerve and soul, and played many things at the bidding of my charming companion. Then, through the avenues of subtilized sense, the gift of creation stole in entrancingly upon me. Beyond the open windows I caught glimpses of amethyst skies and moonlit paths, that seemed to lead back into the mysterious horizon-land. The passionate souls of the night-flowers breathed themselves out upon the air in a ravishing, languishing fragrance, that entered my blood like a burning charm. Compassionate angels whispered heavenly promises into my ear; celestial visions visited me, and took form under my fingers. I know not how long I played, but I awoke from the intoxicating dream to find my companion sitting near the window, with that rapt expression of face and attitude peculiar only to him or her to whom music is supreme. I had hardly risen from my seat, when the company entered from the adjoining room, and the spell was broken! Ah, this evening she was mine in a peculiar sympathy. The handsome young officer may have sweet privileges that are denied to me, but I have a power to move and thrill her which is my especial secret and possession. June 4th.-Ye gods! what enchanting weather! O ineffable, immortal Spring! All day Goethe's delicious" Frühlingslied" has been singing itself in my brain. "O Erd! O Sonne! O Glück! O Lust!" This afternoon we had a sailing-party. Miss Estelle sat apart from me, but she kept me always in the circle of the conversation, and drew me out of my habitual reserve into discussion and description. She sang, too, on the water, the song I asked for; but the Colonel was at her side, and took eager care of her. Once, in wrapping her shawl about her, he touched her hair-only a touch, but it maddened me. For a short moment I wanted to get down under the water-anywhere, anywhere, where his happiness would be neither visible nor audible. Thanks to a muscular pride, however, I wore a most serene exterior. In the early twilight this evening, while the others still lingered on the piazza, Miss Estelle decoyed me into the parlor, and, pointing to the piano, said, “In this hour, of all others, I enjoy music; don't refuse me." I gladly obeyed the gracious bidding of my young hostess, for my fingers craved the white keys which alone could liberate my imprisoned spirit. So, while the sunset-light played triumphantly with early shadows through the room, I seated myself at the piano, and many were the confidences I gave my beloved instrument which no mortal ear might hear. When I began to play, I noticed that Miss Estelle seated herself in the alcove of a window near. Afterward, as I raised my eyes, I saw that another had joined her; but even with the glance came a fierce resolve. "He shall not hold her," it said. Undoubtedly superb eyes, mellow tones, graceful gestures, and a bullet-laden arm make an impressive tout ensemble; but I, who have none of these, do yet possess a power that he knows nothing of, and through it I will draw her from his side to mine, like a magnet. And now my theme suddenly changed. Through a network of harmonies, ravishingly sweet, startlingly questioning, I modulated into a wordless song, every note of which, as it dropped from my fingers, carried a drop of life-blood with it. I knew that no sound was lost to her exquisite sensitiveness, and that she was throbbing under the mysterious influence. Another moment, and she rose, took a seat somewhat nearer, and dropped her head in her hand. The song flowed on, but now it took another form -became wild, almost defiant, yet always imploring. Closer and closer she came, leaving with every step her handsome admirer further behind her-she the bird, I the serpent, and a very devil under the serpent-skin. If I were doomed to be her slave, I would not lose my freedom for nothing. I kept my eyes on the keys now, and did not know she was so near, till a faint perfume of violet (for she always has violet about her oh! the subtle, bewildering power of odor-association!) first announced her closer presence. This perfume, which is so a part of her, sent to my pulses a mingled thrill of bliss and anguish. For an instant I was dizzy, but the instant over, I felt a keener force than before. Yes, I had triumphed, had drawn her to my side, and, knowing I had the power to move her, I gloried in exercising it. The wild, mystic spirit of the Teutonic legends entered into me; now lambent flames leapt and played among the notes; now I was whirling on in the bewildering revelry of the dizzy waltz-my arm about her, bearing her on with me in the dreamy maze. She was mine-mine now-so near that her hair stirred with my breath, and I need only whisper to be heard. But suddenly she melted from my arms, and, with a mocking laugh, vanished. Then I became mad, despairing; and yet-and yet, I knew it was all but a dream, for I saw her step nearer, and heard the rustle of her dress at my side. With a sudden impulse she drew my hand from the keys, and said, in quick, faint accents, "I beg you to stop; you are restless and bitter. Your music makes me so unhappy. I cannot bear it." That touch! soft as the fall of dew; a helpless, appealing touch; but it thrilled to the quick. I turned from the piano. "Since you will not permit me to continue," I said, "and the cry is still for music, you must sing. But you must play your own accompaniments this time, and make no mistakes. I am in a critical mood." An instant since, and she was soft and imploring; now she was gay and defiant. With a mocking reply, she seated herself at the piano, while I crawled into the recess of a window near. After singing one or two ballads, she modulated into the key of A bemol, and sung that divinest of love-songs, that very epitome of all heart-inspiration, Schumann's "Widmung." At first the music awoke in me only a keen desolation; but it was the misgiving of a renewed faith. On the wings of her heavenly tones I soared into an atmosphere whose very breath was spiritual intoxication. All pangs, all doubts, all despairs, were now but mocking shams, and the divine ideal became a fact to my innermost conviction. Ah, can woman love as she sang she could? With the last impassioned phrase, "Mein besseres ich!" I crept through the window into the still garden, for I was in no mood now for commonplaces. The night was radiant. The moonlight filled the air with an ethereal lustre; the faint murmur of the water an endless minor-note-came up through the deep quiet, and the flowers sent perfumed words on swift wings to every heart that could translate the language. I wandered to a summerhouse near the bank, and seated myself within. I do not know how long I remained there, for I had been lost in thought; but suddenly I heard the sound of voices. It died away, then grew clearer as the speakers drew near. Suddenly they turned the curve by the summer-house, and stood a moment at the door, though the low hanging She branches almost screened them from view. Then a voice, whose deep tones were unmistakable, said, "No, no, Estelle; you are not to blame-you have known me long and loved me as a brother, and I was a fool to expect any thing else; but-" and here he paused, then added, impetuously, "You must answer me one question: Do you love another? Tell me you must." did not reply at first, and the silence stung him. "You shall not leave here," he added, passionately, "until you answer me this." Then she said, quickly, "Robert, you have no right to say 'shall' to me. Let go my hand; you hurt me. We ought to go in; it is getting damp, and I am chilly." "Yes," he replied, in scornful accents, “I see you are trembling. My suspicions were right, then; you have become enamored of the pale-faced Dutchman. You, with your name and position, would give yourself to a poor musician-a foreigner, for aught you know an adventurera-" But something in her look stopped him, and she replied, “Mr. Ehrthal is a noble man, and a gentleman, and worthy of the true love of any true woman. At present he is our guest, and any disrespect to him is incivility to me." Her voice was low, but it cut the air with its clear tones. She moved on; he followed with an eager movement, and said something, but I did not catch the words. I was startled by what I had heard. I came quietly up to my room, but not to sleep, for thought and feeling were never more awake. June 5th.-The Colonel left this morning. Mrs. I. gave a lunch to-day to a few invited neighbors, and I had my part to perform towards the entertainment of her guests. I suited myself to my audience, and gave them light but good music. And after all, what is the meaning of this sanctimonious horror of light music among the so-called recherché connoisseurs? Do we despise the sparkle of wit and humor?—the exuberant good-nature of animal life? Some merely frisky music is delightful. There is an affluence of joy in mere existence. Nature herself is full of sport, and why should we despise this phase of her life in its expression through Tone? This afternoon, as I was sitting under the vine-shade of the southern piazza, reading, Miss Estelle and a young friend of hers, a neighbor, seated themselves at a window near. I could see them, but the luxuriant vine hid me from view. I continued reading dreamily to the indistinct murmur of their voices, when suddenly I caught my name uttered by her lips. Was it weakness that I stopped to listen? "His first name is Herman. He is full of genius, but he will never be popular; he is too highminded and modest." "Modest?" said the other voice. "Why, there is a hauteur in his look and manner that makes me afraid of him; and then, what a veiled fire there is in his eye! I know he has a bad temper." Miss Estelle laughed. "Now, I find his eyes very beautiful, and the proud carriage of his head I particularly admire. He is not handsome, however-something better-noble-looking." Here I rose; I had been eaves-dropper long enough. I came up to my room directly, and studied myself in the mirror. I was in excellent spirits, and contemplated myself more favorably than ever before. I have found some favor in her eyes, then! "Not handsome-something betternoble-looking." Pleasant words to sleep on. June 6th.-Another day to record; but not too quick, oh, my eager pen ! After an early tea this afternoon, Miss Estelle and I went for a sunset-walk; but when we reached the water, we were tempted to have a sail instead. In a moment we were off-shore. A soft breeze caught the sail, and carried us tranquilly on as if bound for the radiant horizon perspective beyond. Miss Estelle leaned over the side of the boat, and drew her hand through the water. "I wish I could catch that light," she said. "Why can't we ever have any thing we want?" I laughed somewhat scornfully. "Why need you want any thing? A spoiled child, that has been fed on luxuries, never knew for an instant the pangs of poverty, loneliness, distrust, temptation. And yet you sigh that the very sunbeams should evade your grasp!" "The spoiled child is weary of being pampered and never truly fed. Do you think she is never hungry for deeper satisfactions?" "Yes, deeper satisfactions!" I said; "to be mistress of a palace all her own; to look abroad on fair lands, and say, 'These are mine.' In short, to wed a millionaire, and be borne abroad in the finest establishment' in the country. A happy life, indeed! all success to her." She turned upon me a flashing glance. "So you think that my highest aspiration? Well, you have an ambition quite as unworthy.1 Under your modest demeanor you conceal a profound sense of your own superiority. A millionaire feels no greater vanity in his palace, than you in the very unpopularity of your position." I had stung her, and she turned on me. She was like a young leopardess aroused now, and I liked to study her under the spotted skin. I made no reply, but, assuming an air of alarming recklessness, pulled my cap over my brow in bandit style, set my "fiery" eyes into a significant stare, and informed her coolly that I had brought her on the water for the express purpose of drowning her. "You see, I have the rudder," I added, "and you are at my mercy. I am very strong, and it is such a delight to exercise power." She caught my defiant mood, and, affecting a little mien of mock bravery, declared herself a match for any enemy. She looked, now, like a thing made out of fire, so sparkling, so wilful! And yet I knew how dependent she was upon me. I glanced from the spirited face to the tender form, the soft hands; then at my own athletic arms, and laughed. Then I gazed into the distant horizon, and wished that my haven might ever be there, so I had her quite to myself. Heavens! as I turned, I caught her eyes fixed upon me with an intensity that sent my blood in fiery pulses through my veins. A mad longing interpreted the look to suit its own need, but there was no time for hope to become certainty. Again I gazed into the distant sky, and mocked at the wild hope of a moment before. Even as I looked, Nature was rapidly changing her aspect. A little Icloud that hovered in the east as we left had now swollen to a full size, and led a train of hurrying companions across the zenith. A cold, suspicious wind crept suddenly over the water, with a noiseless, treacherous step, and chilled like the touch of a sly foe-a guerilla wind, that seemed at times to hide itself that it might at last, all the better, take you unawares. A weird gloom stole on. The lines of the surrounding shores faded gradually away, and out from the lonely deep of the far horizon a single patch of pale, amber light, cast a melancholy glimmer over the gray water. The clouds now gathered thicker and darker, and under their cover the guerilla wind finally aimed its blow, lashed the sail heavily, and threw the water against the boat with an angry motion that growled low as it spent itself. I took in the sail partly, and held fast; then turned to my companion: "Well, this is sudden; are you much startled?" "Oh, no, indeed!" was the reply; "there is something splendid in the commotion; only I hope it won't rain, for just think of my new dress!" "Sad, indeed," I said; "but accept the possibility of something even more tragic-a hurricane, torn sail, broken boat, and the pathetic finale of two bodies drifted ashore in the morning light as the tide went down.'" She laughed. "How touching! Who would be worthy to write the epitaph?" The wind calmed itself suddenly now, but the air was still penetrating, and I noticed that my companion drew her mantle about her with an eager movement. I slipped off my coat and threw it to her. She would not accept it. I had drawn in the sail, and had fastened it well, intending to scud to shore. My hands were free now, and I resolved to have my own way. I put my coat about her. As I did So, I felt that the "new dress," alas! had met with the dreaded fate; it was quite drenched. A longing pity seized me, |
