es me
good. Don't you like the old-fashioned ones best? I fancy, in those
days, people felt more what they wrote, and did not consider only how
the words would suit the composer."

"Probably," Keene replied. "If Charles Edward was of no other use, some
good strong lines were written about him. I do not think he lived in
vain. There are no partisans now. The only songs of the sort that I ever
saw with any _verve_ in them were some seditious Irish ones: rather
spirited--only they had not grammar enough to ballast them. The writer
either was, or wanted to be, transported. We are _all_ very fond of the
Guelphs--at least every body in decent society is--and that is just the
reason why we are not enthusiastic. We are all ready to 'die for the
throne,' etc., but we don't see any immediate probability of our
devotion being tested. So the laureate only rhymes loyally, and he at
stated seasons, and in a temperate, professional style."

"Please don't laugh at Tennyson," she interrupted; "I suppose it is very
easy to do so, for so many people try it; but I never listen to them if
I can help it."

"A premature warning," was the grave reply; "I had no such idea. I
admire Tennyson fully as much as you can do, and read him, I dare say,
much oftener. I was only speaking of his performances in the _manege_;
indeed, there is not enough of these to make a fair illustration, so I
was wrong to bring them in. When he settles to his stride, few of the
'cracks' of last century seem able to live with him. They have not set
all his best things to music. A clever composer might do great things, I
fancy, with 'The Sisters,' and the _refrain_ of 'the wind in turret and
tree.'"

"It would never be a very general favorite," Miss Tresilyan observed.
"It seems hardly right to set to music even an imaginary story of great
sin and sorrow. I saw a sketch of it some time ago. The murderess was
sitting on a cushion close to the earl's body, with her head bent so low
that one of her black tresses almost touched his smooth golden curls;
you could just see the hilt of the dagger under her left hand. That, and
the corpse's quiet, pale face were the only two objects that stood out
in relief; for the storm outside was stirring the window-curtains, and
making the one lamp flare irregularly. Her features were in the shadow,
and you had to fancy how hard, and rigid, and dreary they must be. It
was the merest sketch, but if it had been worked out, it would have ma