I done that thou shouldst so often visit me? It is not
well, O thou Lofty and Divine One, that thou shouldst stoop so low as
to console him who is the unworthiest of all thy servants. For I am too
feeble to tell the world how soft is the sound of thy rustling pinions,
how tender is the sighing breath of thy lips, how beyond all things
glorious is the vibration of thy lightest whisper! Remain aloft, thou
Choicest Essence of the Creator's Voice, remain in that pure and
cloudless ether, where alone thou art fitted to dwell. My touch must
desecrate thee, my voice affright thee. Suffice it to thy servant, O
Beloved, to dream of thee and die!"

Meeting Cellini's glance as I finished reading these lines, I asked:

"Did you know the author of this book, signor?"

"I knew him well," he replied; "he was one of the gentlest souls that
ever dwelt in human clay. As ethereal in his music as John Keats in his
poetry, he was one of those creatures born of dreams and rapture that
rarely visit this planet. Happy fellow! What a death was his!"

"How did he die?" I inquired.

"He was playing the organ in one of the great churches of Rome on the
day of the Feast of the Virgin. A choir of finely trained voices sang
to his accompaniment his own glorious setting of the "Regina Coeli."
The music was wonderful, startling, triumphant--ever rising in power
and majesty to a magnificent finale, when suddenly a slight crash was
heard; the organ ceased abruptly, the singers broke off. The musician
was dead. He had fallen forward on the keys of the instrument, and when
they raised him, his face was fairer than the face of any sculptured
angel, so serene was its expression, so rapt was its smile. No one
could tell exactly the cause of his death--he had always been
remarkably strong and healthy. Everyone said it was heart-disease--it
is the usual reason assigned by medical savants for these sudden
departures out of the world. His loss was regretted by all, save myself
and one other who loved him. We rejoiced, and still do rejoice, at his
release."

I speculated vaguely on the meaning of these last words, but I felt
disinclined to ask any more questions, and Cellini, probably seeing
this, worked on at his sketch without further converse. My eyes were
growing heavy, and the printed words in the "Dead Musician's Letters"
danced before my sight like active little black demons with thin waving
arms and legs. A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness stole