sweet chords, but nothing connected, not the shadow of a modulation; at last the combinations of sounds took form and shape, although she still played dreamily. It was that Prelude in E flat of Chopin, in which

'Thought and memory ring, like a funeral peal,

Weary changes on one dirge-like note."

After she had finished it, she said, as if thinking aloud,“What a gift Chopin had of phrasing in music whole volumes of unexpected joys, and dim, mystical senses of loving; not love, not tangible, practical, housekeeping love, such as you and Janet believe in, and which is good enough, I have no doubt, for those who like it, — but it is a vague, poetical expression of this joy of life,' as you call it, Ottilie. And he seemed to know, too, that for him his Psyche could never take form or shape; for just as his previsions approach positive resolutions in the music, what a flood of misgivings pour out in the fast-succeeding chords!"

She played again for a little while, and I leaned back on the sofa, with half-closed eyes, listening to the music. Janet was walking up and down the room, half hearing, half thinking. Venitia suddenly stopped, and leaning forward, looked earnestly at the "Zingarella."

"Venitia, Stendhal says,” — I commenced.

"Bah! The scoffing wretch!" interrupted Venitia. "Strike, but hear me,' as Themistocles said," I replied.

"That's right, Ottilie," said Janet, laughing, "never give up your quotation."

“Et tu, Brute?" I answered with playful reproach; but, true to the persistency of my nature, in little things at least, I repeated the same words, and at my obstinate reiteration of "Stendhal says," both women burst into a

9*

contagious fit of laughter, in which of course I joined; but, never daunted, I carried my point.

"Stendhal says, 'Is there anything true in this life, but the tender pleasure we feel while listening to Mozart and looking at the creations of Correggio?""

"That is so like him," responded Venitia; "he could not enjoy with hope and faith, but must wither everything with his doubt and unbelief."

6

"I like his appreciation of Mozart," remarked Janet. "Mozart is one of those sweet men,' as old Chaucer says, 'who giveth absolution to his grieving listeners.' His glorious draught of joy is of a

'vintage, that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
... . . a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth.'

His happiness is sparkling and clear as the note of Shelley's Skylark, and seems as 'free from sad satiety.' His love, too, if it was what you, Venitia, saucily call practical, housekeeping love, is beautiful; much more charming to my ears, certainly more healthy, than poor Chopin's sad misgivings, and wayward, doubting tenderness."

"But Figaro was gay, Janet," I remarked, with a malicious laugh.

"Yes, and so was Mozart, I admit; but happy would it be if the women who possess the real love of such men as Mozart could do as Constance Weber, his wife, — shut their eyes to the shortcomings, and receive in return for their generous faith adoring love; for to her he was, no matter what were his errors, true as the needle to the Pole-"

"North Pole, Janet," I interrupted, teasingly; "rather a cold atmosphere, but I fear the true one of many loving women."

"Heaven forbid,” said Venitia, in a low voice, and with a shudder, “that "that I should ever be the North Pole to any

man's heart."

“Or like Fancy," continued Janet, pleased with her comparison, and not hearing Venitia's half-whispered remark, "which

'like the finger of a clock,

Runs the great circuit and is still at home.'”

I shook my head with laughing doubt, and Venitia commenced playing the "Voi che sapete," Cherubino's delicious air in Figaro, of which Scudo says: "The world may grow old, a great many miracles may be performed, the very surface of the earth may be changed, but the sentiment which Mozart has expressed in this divine passage is eternal, and can never be said in any other way."

I left her playing, and came to my room, thinking I could sleep, as I felt a little weary; but as usual I have written until not only the whole Palazzo, but even the great city, are stilled in slumber, indeed are almost ready to burst out into the daily Babel of sounds.

D

PHILIP.

HILIP has come.

No need of telling any one who Philip is. Every journal I have kept since my girlhood has Philip in it, in some form or shape, with his mother, his father, his wife, or himself.

His father was my sworn defender and friend from childhood. There was a chivalric tone in Mr. Edelhertz's regard for me, which was like that love which an enthusiastic, highly cultivated man feels for a daughter, born to him in his young manhood, and who, as she grows up, is more friend and companion than child to him. It is a feeling totally different from that which he could have for any other woman, and is one of the sweetest, tenderest emotions of which a man's heart is capable. Yes, of all masculine loves, this one is to be preferred by a woman, the tender, protecting regard of a father near enough to mid-age to have enthusiasm and appreciation, and old enough to have grown generous and indulgent, and to command obedience and reverence.

Thus Gaspard Edelhertz, Philip's father, loved me, and I gave back to him the trusting, adoring love of a daughter in full measure. Ah, if he had lived, I should not be what I am! But let that pass, and

Mr. Edelhertz was a German of high birth and culture. He had come to America in his youth in the diplomatic service of his government, had married an American, and settled in the States. He had only one son, the possession of whom had cost him his wife; and poor Philip bid fair to be not only a costly but grievous possession to his father.

Brilliant, gifted, erratic, he was exposed to numberless temptations, and just on the outer lintel of manhood he returned home from Europe, where he had been sent for his education, almost a disgraced boy. I say almost, for I never knew the details of his errors, as I was too near a friend of the family. It is the curious, prying outsider, the malicious or inquisitive acquaintance, who knows "everything" in a disgraceful family trouble,- knows more, indeed, than ever happened. I needed no further information than that which I saw, the silent sorrow of my honored friend, Mr. Edelhertz, his proud anguish that but for me would have been solitary.

Philip came amongst us haughty, handsome, and with a recklessness that amounted almost to insolence; had his father been a reproachful, wordy, fretful man, he would have gone to ruin. I was only a few years his senior, but having been early settled in life, and moreover a woman, I seemed much older than he. I fancied I discovered under this recklessness resentment at injustice, and in this pride promise of future reparation.

Society, that capricious, fitful goddess, who is quite. ready to cry "Fie!" at vices which, at another moment or under other other circumstances, she will adore, had prepared herself to let down the grate against Philip, and he was just as willing to throw the scabbard aside, and wage perpetual war for life on this power which he has now made his slave.