By the winds of his musical frenzies.
There's a rest, thank our stars, of ninety-nine bars,
Ere the tempest of sound recommences.

When all the bad players are sent
Where all their false notes are protested,
I am sure that Old Nick will play him a trick,
When his bad trump and he are arrested,
And down in the regions of Discord's own legions
His head with two French horns be crested.

* * * * *


MY JOURNAL TO MY COUSIN MARY.


March, 1855.

Of all the letters of condolence I have received since my misfortune,
yours has consoled me most. It surprises me, I confess, that a far-away
cousin--of whom I only remember that she had the sweetest of earthly
smiles--should know better how to reach the heart of my grief and soothe
it into peace, than any nearest of kin or oldest of friends. But so it
has been, and therefore I feel that your more intimate acquaintance
would be something to interest me and keep my heart above despair.

My sister Catalina, my devoted nurse, says I must snatch at anything
likely to do that, as a drowning man catches at straws, or I shall
be overwhelmed by this calamity. But is it not too late? Am I not