"'Cease, stranger, cease those witching notes,
The art of syren choirs;
Hush the seductive voice that floats
Across the trembling wires.

"'Music's ethereal power was given
Not to dissolve our clay,
But draw Promethean beams from heaven
To purge the dross away.'"

"They are fine lines," said my brother, "but I do not see how you apply
your argument to the present instance."

"I mean," Mr. Gaskell answered, "that I have little doubt that the
melody of this _Gagliarda_ has been connected in some manner with the
life of the man you saw last night. It is not unlikely, either, that it
was a favourite air of his whilst in the flesh, or even that it was
played by himself or others at the moment of some crisis in his history.
It is possible that such connection may be due merely to the innocent
pleasure the melody gave him in life; but the nature of the music
itself, and a peculiar effect it has upon my own thoughts, induce me to
believe that it was associated with some occasion when he either fell
into great sin or when some evil fate, perhaps even death itself,
overtook him. You will remember I have told you that this air calls up
to my mind a certain scene of Italian revelry in which an Englishman
takes part. It is true that I have never been able to fix his features
in my mind, nor even to say exactly how he was dressed. Yet now some
instinct tells me that it is this very man whom you saw last night. It
is not for us to attempt to pierce the mystery which veils from our eyes
the secrets of an after-death existence; but I can scarcely suppose that
a spirit entirely at rest would feel so deeply the power of a certain
melody as to be called back by it to his old haunts like a dog by his
master's whistle. It is more probable that there is some evil history
connected with the matter, and this, I think, we ought to consider if it
be possible to unravel."

My brother assenting, he continued, "When this man left you, Johnnie,
did he walk to the door?"

"No; he made for the side wall, and when he reached the end of the
bookcase I lost sight of him."

Mr. Gaskell went to the bookcase and looked for a moment at the titles
of the books, as though expecting to see something in them to assist
his inquiries; but finding apparently no clue, he said--

"This is the last time we shall meet for three months or more; let us
play the _Gagliarda_ and see if there be any response."

My brother