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