which art could not reach. Nothing but feeling and sentiment could produce
them. It was soul breathed forth in sound. I was always alive to the
influence of music; indeed, I was susceptible of voluptuous influences of
every kind--sounds, colors, shapes, and fragrant odors. I was the very
slave of sensation.

I lay mute and breathless, and drank in every note of this siren strain. It
thrilled through my whole frame, and filled my soul with melody and love. I
pictured to myself, with curious logic, the form of the unseen musician.
Such melodious sounds and exquisite inflections could only be produced by
organs of the most delicate flexibility. Such organs do not belong to
coarse, vulgar forms; they are the harmonious results of fair proportions,
and admirable symmetry. A being so organized must be lovely.

Again my busy imagination was at work. I called to mind the Arabian story
of a prince, borne away during sleep by a good genius, to the distant abode
of a princess of ravishing beauty. I do not pretend to say that I believed
in having experienced a similar transportation; but it was my inveterate
habit to cheat myself with fancies of the kind, and to give the tinge of
illusion to surrounding realities.

The witching sound had ceased, but its vibrations still played round my
heart, and filled it with a tumult of soft emotions. At this moment, a
self-upbraiding pang shot through my bosom. "Ah, recreant!" a voice seemed
to exclaim, "is this the stability of thine affections? What! hast thou so
soon forgotten the nymph of the fountain? Has one song, idly piped in thine
ear, been sufficient to charm away the cherished tenderness of a whole
summer?"

The wise may smile--but I am in a confiding mood, and must confess my