hers；　her　cares！　　He　was　more　communicative　to　his　barbiton；　as
  the　learned　Mersennus　teaches　us　to　call　all　the　varieties　of　the
  great　viol　family。　　Certainly　barbiton　sounds　better　than　fiddle；
  and　barbiton　let　it　be。　　He　would　talk　to　THAT　by　the　hour
  together；praise　it；　scold　it；　coax　it；　nay　（for　such　is　man；
  even　the　most　guileless）；　he　had　been　known　to　swear　at　it；　but
  for　that　excess　he　was　always　penitentially　remorseful。　　And　the
  barbiton　had　a　tongue　of　his　own；　could　take　his　own　part；　and
  when　HE　also　scolded；　had　much　the　best　of　it。　　He　was　a　noble
  fellow；　this　Violin！a　Tyrolese；　the　handiwork　of　the
  illustrious　Steiner。　　There　was　something　mysterious　in　his　great
  age。　　How　many　hands；　now　dust；　had　awakened　his　strings　ere　he
  became　the　Robin　Goodfellow　and　Familiar　of　Gaetano　Pisani！　　His
  very　case　was　venerable；beautifully　painted；　it　was　said；　by
  Caracci。　　An　English　collector　had　offered　more　for　the　case　than
  Pisani　had　ever　made　by　the　violin。　　But　Pisani；　who　cared　not　if
  he　had　inhabited　a　cabin　himself；　was　proud　of　a　palace　for　the
  barbiton。　　His　barbiton；　it　was　his　elder　child！　　He　had　another
  child；　and　now　we　must　turn　to　her。
  How　shall　I　describe　thee；　Viola？　　Certainly　the　music　had
  something　to　answer　for　in　the　advent　of　that　young　stranger。
  For　both　in　her　form　and　her　character　you　might　have　traced　a
  family　likeness　to　that　singular　and　spirit…like　life　of　sound
  which　night　after　night　threw　itself　in　airy　and　goblin　sport
  over　the　starry　seas。。。Beautiful　she　was；　but　of　a　very　uncommon
  beauty；a　combination；　a　harmony　of　opposite　attributes。　　Her
  hair　of　a　gold　richer　and　purer　than　that　which　is　seen　even　in
  the　North；　but　the　eyes；　of　all　the　dark；　tender；　subduing　light
  of　more　than　Italianalmost　of　Orientalsplendour。　　The
  complexion　exquisitely　fair；　but　never　the　same；vivid　in　one
  moment；　pale　the　next。　　And　with　the　complexion；　the　expression
  also　varied；　nothing　now　so　sad；　and　nothing　now　so　joyous。
  I　grieve　to　say　that　what　we　rightly　entitle　education　was　much
  neglected　for　their　daughter　by　this　singular　pair。　　To　be　sure；
  neither　of　them　had　much　knowledge　to　bestow；　and　knowledge　was
  not　then　the　fashion；　as　it　is　now。　　But　accident　or　nature
  favoured　young　Viola。　　She　learned；　as　of　course；　her　mother's
  language　with　her　father's。　　And　she　contrived　soon　to　read　and
  to　write；　and　her　mother；　who；　by　the　way；　was　a　Roman　Catholic；
  taught　her　betimes　to　pray。　　But　then；　to　counteract　all　these
  acquisitions；　the　strange　habits　of　Pisani；　and　the　incessant
  watch　and　care　which　he　required　from　his　wife；　often　left　the
  child　alone　with　an　old　nurse；　who；　to　be　sure；　loved　her　dearly；
  but　who　was　in　no　way　calculated　to　instruct　her。
  Dame　Gionetta　was　every　inch　Italian　and　Neapolitan。　　Her　youth
  had　been　all　love；　and　her　age　was　all　superstition。　　She　was
  garrulous；　fond；a　gossip。　　Now　she　would　prattle　to　the　girl　of
  cavaliers　and　princes　at　her　feet；　and　now　she　would　freeze　her
  blood　with　tales　and　legends；　perhaps　as　old　as　Greek　or　Etrurian
  fable；　of　demon　and　vampire；of　the　dances　round　the　great
  walnut…tree　at　Benevento；　and　the　haunting　spell　of　the　Evil　Eye。
  All　this　helped　silently　to　weave　charmed　webs　over　Viola's
  imagination　that　afterthought　and　later　years　might　labour　vainly
  to　dispel。　And　all　this　especially　fitted　her　to　hang；　with　a
  fearful　joy；　upon　her　father's　music。　　Those　visionary　strains；
  ever　struggling　to　translate　into　wild　and　broken　sounds　the
  language　of　unearthly　beings；　breathed　around　her　from　her　birth。
  Thus　you　might　have　said　that　her　whole　mind　was　full　of　music；
  associations；　memories；　sensations　of　pleasure　or　pain；all　were
  mixed　up　inexplicably　with　those　sounds　that　now　delighted　and
  now　terrified；　that　greeted　her　when　her　eyes　opened　to　the　sun；
  and　woke　her　trembling　on　her　lonely　couch　in　the　darkness　of　the
  night。　　The　legends　and　tales　of　Gionetta　only　served　to　make　the
  child　better　understand　the　signification　of　those　mysterious
  tones；　they　furnished　her　with　words　to　the　music。　　It　was
  natural　that　the　daughter　of　such　a　parent　should　soon　evince
  some　taste　in　his　art。　　But　this　developed　itself　chiefly　in　the
  ear　and　the　voice。　　She　was　yet　a　child　when　she　sang　divinely。
  A　great　Cardinalgreat　alike　in　the　State　and　the　Conservatorio
  heard　of　her　gifts；　and　sent　for　her。　　From　that　moment　her
  fate　was　decided：　　she　was　to　be　the　future　glory　of　Naples；　the
  prima　donna　of　San　Carlo。
  The　Cardinal　insisted　upon　the　accomplishment　of　his　own
  predictions；　and　provided　her　with　the　most　renowned　masters。　　To
  inspire　her　with　emulation；　his　Eminence　took　her　one　evening　to
  his　own　box：　　it　would　be　something　to　see　the　performance；
  something　more　to　hear　the　applause　lavished　upon　the　glittering
  signoras　she　was　hereafter　to　excel！　　Oh；　how　gloriously　that
  life　of　the　stage；　that　fairy　world　of　music　and　song；　dawned
  upon　her！　　It　was　the　only　world　that　seemed　to　correspond　with
  her　strange　childish　thoughts。　　It　appeared　to　her　as　if；　cast
  hitherto　on　a　foreign　shore；　she　was　brought　at　last　to　see　the
  forms　and　hear　the　language　of　her　native　land。　　Beautiful　and
  true　enthusiasm；　rich　with　the　promise　of　genius！　　Boy　or　man；
  thou　wilt　never　be　a　poet；　if　thou　hast　not　felt　the　ideal；　the
  romance；　the　Calypso's　isle　that　opened　to　thee　when　for　the
  first　time　the　magic　curtain　was　drawn　aside；　and　let　in　the
  world　of　poetry　on　the　world　of　prose！
  And　now　the　initiation　was　begun。　　She　was　to　read；　to　study；　to
  depict　by　a　gesture；　a　look；　the　passions　she　was　to　delineate　on
  the　boards；　lessons　dangerous；　in　truth；　to　some；　but　not　to　the
  pure　enthusiasm　that　comes　from　art；　for　the　mind　that　rightly
  conceives　art　is　but　a　mirror　which　gives　back　what　is　cast　on
  its　surface　faithfully　onlywhile　unsullied。　　She　seized　on
  nature　and　truth　intuitively。　　Her　recitations　became　full　of
  unconscious　power；　her　voice　moved　the　heart　to　tears；　or　warmed
  it　into　generous　rage。　　But　this　arose　from　that　sympathy　which
  genius　ever　has；　even　in　its　earliest　innocence；　with　whatever
  feels；　or　aspires；　or　suffers。
  It　was　no　premature　woman　comprehending　the　love　or　the　jealousy
  that　the　words　expressed；　her　art　was　one　of　those　strange
  secrets　which　the　psychologists　may　unriddle　to　us　if　they
  please；　and　tell　us　why　children　of　the　simplest　minds　and　the
  purest　hearts　are　often　so　acute　to　distinguish；　in　the　tales　you
  tell　them；　or　the　songs　you　sing；　the　difference　between　the　true
  art　and　the　false；　passion　and　jargon；　Homer　and　Racine；echoing
  back；　from　hearts　that　have　not　yet　felt　what　they　repeat；　the
  melodious　accents　of　the　natural　pathos。　　Apart　from　her　studies；
  Viola　was　a　simple；　affectionate；　but　somewhat　wayward　child；
  wayward；　not　in　temper；　for　that　was　sweet　and　docile；　but　in　her
  moods；　which；　as　I　before　hinted；　changed　from　sad　to　gay　and　gay
  to　sad　without　an　apparent　cause。　　If　cause　there　were；　it　must
  be　traced　to　the　early　and　mysterious　influences　I　have　referred
  to；　when　seeking　to　explain　the　effect　produced　on　her
  imagination　by　those　restless　streams　of　sound　that　constantly
  played　around　it；　for　it　is　noticeable　that　to　those　who　are　much
  alive　to　the　effects　of　music；　airs　and　tunes　often　come　back；　in
  the　commonest　pursuits　of　life；　to　vex；　as　it　were；　and　haunt
  them。　　The　music；　once　admitted　to　the　soul；　becomes　also　a　sort
  of　spirit；　and　never　dies。　　It　wanders　perturbedly　through　the
  halls　and　galleries　of　the　memory；　and　is　often　heard　again；
  distinct　and　living　as　when　it　first　displaced　the　wavelets　of
  the　air。　　Now　at　times；　then；　these　phantoms　of　sound　floated
  back　upon　her　fancy；　if　gay；　to　call　a　smile　from　every　dimple；
  if　mournful；　to　throw　a　shade　upon　her　brow；to　make　her　cease
  from　her　childishmirth；　and　sit　apart　and　muse。
  Rightly；　then；　in　a　typical　sense；　might　this　fair　creature；　so
  airy　in　her　shape；　so　harmonious　in　her　beauty；　so　unfamiliar　in
  her　ways　and　thoughts；rightly　might　she　be　called　a　daughter；
  less　of　the　musician　than　the　music；　a　being　for　whom　you　could
  imagine　that　some　fate　was　reserved；　less　of　actual　life　than　the
  romance　which；　to　eyes　that　can　see；　and　hearts　that　can　feel；
  glides　ever　along　WITH　the　actual　life；　stream　by　stream；　to　the
  Dark　Ocean。
  And　therefore　it　seemed　not　strange　that　Viola　herself；　even　in
  childhood；　and　yet　more　as　she　bloomed　into　the　sweet　seriousness
  of　virgin　youth；　should　fancy　her　life　ordained　for　a　lot；
  whether　of　bliss　or　woe；　that　should　accord　with　the　romance　and
  reverie　which　made　the　atmosphere　she　breathed。　　Frequently　she
  would　climb　through　the　thickets　that　clothed　the　neighbouring
  grotto　of　Posilipo；the　mighty　work　of　the　old　Cimmerians；and；
  seated　by　the　haunted　Tomb　of　Virgil；　indulge　those　visions；　the
  subtle　vagueness　of　which　no　poetry　can　render　palpable　and
  defined；　for　the　Po