ding the rout are those stately or capering figures, who, from being
the great virtuosi of their time, were finally idolised into gods in
the Golden Age, when musical critics had no columns to perpetuate their
iconoclasms in.

Mark him with the stately stride--Apollo, smiting his lyre with a
majesty hardly supported by the seven small notes he could get out of
it. The gossips said he loved Daphne, and madly withal, but she took to
a tree.--No, let the gods pass as they will. It is with men we deal,
not gods.

Note especially the cluster of those wonderful musickers, who, at the
end of the Middle Age, went from Flanders and thereabouts, into Italy
and all around Europe, weaving their Flemish counterpoint like a net
all over the world of music. They seem all to have been marrying men,
some of them super-romantical, others as stodgily domestic and workaday
as any village blacksmith. There is Marc Houtermann, called the Prince
of Musicians. He lived at Brussels, and died there aged forty, and the
same year he was followed to his grave by his musically named Joanna
Gavadia, who knew music well, and who, let us still hope, died of a
broken heart. Cipriano de Rore, De Croes, and Jacques Buus were all
married men, and begot hostages to fortune. Philippe de Monte may or
may not have married; we only know that a pupil of his wrote him a
Latin poem forty-six lines long, and we can only trust that he did not
marry her.

Orlando di Lasso, "one of the morning stars of modern times," whose
music was so beautiful that once at Munich a thunder-storm was
miraculously hushed at the first note of one of his motets, lived a
love-life much like Schumann's, save that he seems to have had no
hard-hearted parents to strengthen and purify his resolve. The only
court he went to, to win her, was the court at Munich, where his Regina
was a maid of honour. She bore him six children, and they lived
ideally, it seems. But his health gave way now and then before his hard
work, and finally, when he had reached his threescore and ten, his wife
came home to find him gone mad, and unable even to recognise her, who
had been at his side for thirty years. She guarded him tenderly, and
strove hard to cheer his last days, but melancholy surrendered him only
to death.

Adrien Willaert had a wife, and loved her long and well, and wrote many
wills, in which he grew more and more affectionate toward his helpmeet,
yet strangely he never mentioned his daughter,