"You are right," I answered, "in saying musical tones and harmonies should not be literally classed in colors; nor did I mean that. Each form of art-beauty has its separate and distinct individuality; but one form can very properly suggest to the observing and imaginative spectator or hearer other art manifestations. It is difficult to express in words clear descriptions of either music or color, without borrowing technical terms from one for the other; for music and painting are nearer akin than poetry or any word form. Indeed, I never look at the works of great colorists, without thinking what fine musicians they would have made."

"That gifted man Alfred Tonnellé," said Luigi, "made a beautiful observation, which is apropos to your remarks : If the lips of the young man of Urbino could have opened to music, they would have sung the melodies of the young man of Salzburg.""

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Charmingly true. Mozart was indeed the Raphael of music!" I exclaimed.

In all the short arguments which Philip playfully provokes, Luigi if possible helps me, partly for the reason that we think alike on most subjects, but chiefly because he sees, what is really the truth, I am not a fair match for Philip; so on this occasion he came as usual to my

rescue.

"You are right also, Ottilie, about the fitness of drawing comparisons between color and music; and, as you say, using the technical terms of one in describing the other often helps two cultured artists to understand each other. Thus, for example, when Euler said the strength and intensity of a color depended on the vibrations of light, he compared the sun to an immense clock, whose movements, transmitted by ether, acted on the optic nerve

in the same manner as the vibrations of the air act upon the nerve of the ear in producing sound.

"Yes," I said, "it is in these vibrations of light that the great melodic secret of color lies, just as in the vibrations of sound skilfully arranged agreeable harmonies exist."

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Exactly so. The science of color consists in producing equal vibrations, and the great skill of the colorist is shown in making tones which are wide apart harmonize together and produce an equal vibration on the eye: but the variable fashion in which ether vibrates makes it difficult of command; the colorist has not the same degree of power over it that the harmonist has over sound. This very variability of vibration, however, enables us to regard in Nature the marvellous and complicated assemblages of colors without confusion and fatigue. Nature is always perfect in color as in design."

Janet added her information to this pleasant sunset talk, and told us of the gamut of harmony which M. Chevreul, the director of the Gobelin and Beauvais manufactories, has given to color. He produces ten chromatic circles from the three primitive colors; these ten circles make thirty series; each tint has its gamut of twenty-four tones; thus over fourteen thousand tones are produced, all of which are said to be needed for the "chromatic arsenal" of the Gobelin and Beauvais works. We talked afterwards of the wonderful variety of colors which the skill of chemists is now producing.

"But the cleverness of chemists," said Philip, "is destroying the power of the eye for delicate effects of color, just as the so-called improvements in brass instruments is destroying the ear for subtle effects in orchestration. The purple shadows accompanying chemical reds, blues,

and greens are totally deficient in transparency, and are quite unlike those suggested by the clear cochineal red, the carnation of Adrinople, the soft China indigo, or the tender azure of lapis lazuli and cobalt. Shadows no longer resemble nature, nor do they fulfil the meaning of their name, for they have become opaque and unvarying."

With something of a woman's obstinacy I added, as we arose to leave the ruins, "These modern chemical colors have been justly styled, 'false harmonies in the place of resolving discords.'"

And thus ended our day at Pompeii.

A MUSICAL EVENING.

AST night the Folhams and Rochesters called to see us, on their way home from a fine dinner-party. Luigi also came in, and we had a

charming evening without ruffle or tangle. Philip and Florence sang together, which they do very cleverly, and their voices harmonize nicely. I had been riding with Philip in the afternoon, and had the excuse of fatigue for my silence; so without much interference from loquacious Mrs. Folham, I rested on one of the window lounges, listened to the music, looked at the happy young people, and felt so comfortable that I found myself wondering if there was any real trouble in the world.

"What pang

Is permanent with man? From the highest

As from the vilest thing of every day,

He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours
Conquer him."

But the sweet and happy hours are conquering me. Last evening a powerful charm was worked on every one, however, by that subtle and delicate interpreter of hidden emotions and inexpressible thoughts, music. Some one has said finely, "Music's form, composed of vibrations of the air, lives in space and gives form and shape to the impalpable." Indeed, the most impressive,

direct, and irresistible language for the ideal is the Tone tongue; it is a much more powerful expression of feeling than any other art form.

I watched its effect with great interest last night. Our lovers are just at the most difficult point of their intercourse; their love is unacknowledged, even half unknown to themselves. It is without speech, words have not given it tangible form, therefore music is a pleasant relief to their full hearts; it produces the happiest harmony of feeling. Last evening Venitia and Luigi stood near each other in tender, gentle silence, and during some passages in the singing I observed their eyes meeting without startle in long, quiet looks.

The merry conversational intercourse between Philip and Florence formed a pleasing contrast. He complimented her gayly on the success of her toilette, making her blush bewitchingly; and she tinkled out her pretty foam-bell laugh, which always reminds me of dancing waters rippling over pebbles. These blondes are truly "the stars of the earth."

She was dressed in exquisite taste; the texture of her robe was as delicate as gossamer; its flounces and light ornaments were in perfect keeping, and she moved gracefully about in a half gliding step. I fancy a Parisian modiste would have thought her an exact representation of an Aphrodite rising from the foam of the sea.

Her beautiful hair seemed more radiant than usual; it was turned off from the blue-veined temples, and rolled back in that style called "L'Impératrice," which suits so well a blonde like Florence. The hue of the roots of the hair and the skin is so nearly the same as scarcely to show the line of separation, and both seem to have golddust mingled in their precious compound. The rich mass