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Updated: June 23, 2025
Music's melody vies with the drive and bluster of the wind, sobbing and sighing, whistling round corners and playing pranks. Then, maybe, it sinks to silence, and the white mist creeps up: and now there is no melody, no outline, but just the one still sameness over all. We live in a three dimensional world, and in its length, breadth, and solidity do we disport ourselves.
I wisht I could dance all the dances there'll be in your life with you.... Come on. This here's a quadrille." Pliny Pickett, self-appointed caller of square dances, was arranging the floor. "One more couple wanted to this end," he bellowed. "Here's two couples a-waitin'. Don't hang back. Music's a-waitin'.... Right there. All ready?... Nope. One couple needed in the middle."
Sometimes a lamp gleam would fall through the plate-glass windows of some princely structure, where light forms of beauty, attired in fashion's garb, were flitting through the mazy dance or listening to music's enrapturing strain.
"Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished in music's realm?" Diotti ventured. "I never have been." She spoke sadly and reflectively. "But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous feeling of a player awaken your emotions?" persisted he. She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain.
"Lord!" he said, throwing himself into one of the shining arm-chairs. "There's nothing like music, nothing under the shining sun. 'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast." This in his most sonorous quotation tones: "Let a man get tired or out of sorts, or infernal mad at a pack of cursed fools, and music's the thing that'll set him straight every time, if he's any sort of a fellow.
At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her room. Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye, Can Painting's glowing hand supply A charm so suited to my mind, As blows this hollow gust of wind? As drops this little weeping rill, Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill; While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?
Already she wondered if she had better write everything. Then the dancing pair came back to them and the young man sat down and talked a little to her cousins. But at the music's recommencement he turned directly to her. "Signorina, are you going to do me the honor?"
Its chief merit to her lies in its alliance to the strange Eastern air which she heard at her first interview with the senator who presented her with the lute. Paraphrased in English, the words of the composition would run thus: Spirit, whose dominion reigns Over Music's thrilling strains, Whence may be thy distant birth? Say what tempted thee to earth?
A shade of sadness passed over his face, and was gone again, as he smilingly answered, stroking the cat that purred and rubbed herself against his shoulder. "Just puss and me and the guitar," he said. "The happiest of families. Ah! Music's a great thing of a lonely evening."
Even Crashaw, whose translation of Strada's "Music's Duel" is a masterpiece for litheness of phrase and sinuous suppleness of rhythm, quails before the "Dies Irae," and contents himself with a largely watered paraphrase. No one has ever yet succeeded more than tolerably with the opening stanza,
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