eas directly, like a perfume. The singer's voice impinges not on the
mind, not on the memory of happiness, but on the first principle of
thought; it stirs the elements of sensation.

"It is a grievous thing that the populace should have compelled
musicians to adapt their expression to words, to factitious emotions;
but then they were not otherwise intelligible to the vulgar. Thus
the _cadenza_ is the only thing left to the lovers of pure music,
the devotees of unfettered art. To-night, as I listened to that last
_cavatina_, I felt as if I were beckoned by a fair creature whose look
alone had made me young again. The enchantress placed a crown on
my brow, and led me to the ivory door through which we pass to the
mysterious land of day-dreams. I owe it to Genovese that I escaped for
a few minutes from this old husk--minutes, short no doubt by the clock,
but very long by the record of sensation. For a brief spring-time,
scented with roses, I was young again--and beloved!"

"But you are mistaken, _caro_ Capraja," said the Duke. "There is in
music an effect yet more magical than that of the _cadenza_."

"What is that?" asked Capraja.

"The unison of two voices, or of a voice and a violin,--the instrument
which has tones most nearly resembling those of the human voice,"
replied Cataneo. "This perfect concord bears us on to the very heart of
life, on the tide of elements which can resuscitate rapture and carry
man up to the centre of the luminous sphere where his mind can command
the whole universe. You still need a _thema_, Capraja, but the pure
element is enough for me. You need that the current should flow through
the myriad canals of the machine to fall in dazzling cascades, while
I am content with the pure tranquil pool. My eye gazes across a lake
without a ripple. I can embrace the infinite."

"Speak no more, Cataneo," said Capraja, haughtily. "What! Do you fail to
see the fairy, who, in her swift rush through the sparkling atmosphere,
collects and binds with the golden thread of harmony, the gems of melody
she smilingly sheds on us? Have you ever felt the touch of her wand, as
she says to Curiosity, 'Awake!' The divinity rises up radiant from the
depths of the brain; she flies to her store of wonders and fingers them
lightly as an organist touches the keys. Suddenly, up starts Memory,
bringing us the roses of the past, divinely preserved and still fresh.
The mistress of our youth revives, and strokes the young man's