masterpiece：　　there　is　nothing　he　can　add　to　THAT；　however　he
  might　have　sought　to　improve　on　the　masterpieces　of　others。　　Is
  not　this　common？　　The　least　little　critic；　in　reviewing　some　work
  of　art；　will　say；　〃pity　this；　and　pity　that；〃　〃this　should　have
  been　altered；that　omitted。〃　　Yea；　with　his　wiry　fiddlestring
  will　he　creak　out　his　accursed　variations。　　But　let　him　sit　down
  and　compose　himself。　　He　sees　no　improvement　in　variations　THEN！
  Every　man　can　control　his　fiddle　when　it　is　his　own　work　with
  which　its　vagaries　would　play　the　devil。
  And　Viola　is　the　idol；　the　theme　of　Naples。　　She　is　the　spoiled
  sultana　of　the　boards。　　To　spoil　her　acting　may　be　easy　enough；
  shall　they　spoil　her　nature？　　No；　I　think　not。　　There；　at　home；
  she　is　still　good　and　simple；　and　there；　under　the　awning　by　the
  doorway；there　she　still　sits；　divinely　musing。　　How　often；
  crook…trunked　tree；　she　looks　to　thy　green　boughs；　how　often；
  like　thee；　in　her　dreams；　and　fancies；　does　she　struggle　for　the
  light；not　the　light　of　the　stage…lamps。　　Pooh；　child！　be
  contented　with　the　lamps；　even　with　the　rush…lights。　　A　farthing
  candle　is　more　convenient　for　household　purposes　than　the　stars。
  Weeks　passed；　and　the　stranger　did　not　reappear；　months　had
  passed；　and　his　prophecy　of　sorrow　was　not　yet　fulfilled。　　One
  evening　Pisani　was　taken　ill。　　His　success　had　brought　on　the
  long…neglected　composer　pressing　applications　for　concerti　and
  sonata；　adapted　to　his　more　peculiar　science　on　the　violin。　　He
  had　been　employed　for　some　weeks；　day　and　night；　on　a　piece　in
  which　he　hoped　to　excel　himself。　　He　took；　as　usual；　one　of　those
  seemingly　impracticable　subjects　which　it　was　his　pride　to
  subject　to　the　expressive　powers　of　his　art；the　terrible　legend
  connected　with　the　transformation　of　Philomel。　　The　pantomime　of
  sound　opened　with　the　gay　merriment　of　a　feast。　　The　monarch　of
  Thrace　is　at　his　banquet；　a　sudden　discord　brays　through　the
  joyous　notes；the　string　seems　to　screech　with　horror。　　The　king
  learns　the　murder　of　his　son　by　the　hands　of　the　avenging
  sisters。　　Swift　rage　the　chords；　through　the　passions　of　fear；　of
  horror；　of　fury；　and　dismay。　　The　father　pursues　the　sisters。
  Hark！　what　changes　the　dreadthe　discordinto　that　long；
  silvery；　mournful　music？　　The　transformation　is　completed；　and
  Philomel；　now　the　nightingale；　pours　from　the　myrtle…bough　the
  full；　liquid；　subduing　notes　that　are　to　tell　evermore　to　the
  world　the　history　of　her　woes　and　wrongs。　　Now；　it　was　in　the
  midst　of　this　complicated　and　difficult　attempt　that　the　health
  of　the　over…tasked　musician；　excited　alike　by　past　triumph　and
  new　ambition；　suddenly　gave　way。　　He　was　taken　ill　at　night。　　The
  next　morning　the　doctor　pronounced　that　his　disease　was　a
  malignant　and　infectious　fever。　　His　wife　and　Viola　shared　in
  their　tender　watch；　but　soon　that　task　was　left　to　the　last
  alone。　　The　Signora　Pisani　caught　the　infection；　and　in　a　few
  hours　was　even　in　a　state　more　alarming　than　that　of　her　husband。
  The　Neapolitans；　in　common　with　the　inhabitants　of　all　warm
  climates；　are　apt　to　become　selfish　and　brutal　in　their　dread　of
  infectious　disorders。　　Gionetta　herself　pretended　to　be　ill；　to
  avoid　the　sick…chamber。　　The　whole　labour　of　love　and　sorrow　fell
  on　Viola。　　It　was　a　terrible　trial；I　am　willing　to　hurry　over
  the　details。　　The　wife　died　first！
  One　day；　a　little　before　sunset；　Pisani　woke　partially　recovered
  from　the　delirium　which　had　preyed　upon　him；　with　few　intervals；
  since　the　second　day　of　the　disease；　and　casting　about　him　his
  dizzy　and　feeble　eyes；　he　recognised　Viola；　and　smiled。　　He
  faltered　her　name　as　he　rose　and　stretched　his　arms。　　She　fell
  upon　his　breast；　and　strove　to　suppress　her　tears。
  〃Thy　mother？〃　he　said。　　〃Does　she　sleep？〃
  〃She　sleeps；ah；　yes！〃　and　the　tears　gushed　forth。
  〃I　thoughteh！　　I　know　not　WHAT　I　have　thought。　　But　do　not
  weep：　　I　shall　be　well　now；quite　well。　　She　will　come　to　me
  when　she　wakes；will　she？〃
  Viola　could　not　speak；　but　she　busied　herself　in　pouring　forth　an
  anodyne；　which　she　had　been　directed　to　give　the　sufferer　as　soon
  as　the　delirium　should　cease。　　The　doctor　had　told　her；　too；　to
  send　for　him　the　instant　so　important　a　change　should　occur。
  She　went　to　the　door　and　called　to　the　woman　who；　during
  Gionetta's　pretended　illness；　had　been　induced　to　supply　her
  place；　but　the　hireling　answered　not。　　She　flew　through　the
  chambers　to　search　for　her　in　vain；the　hireling　had　caught
  Gionetta's　fears；　and　vanished。　　What　was　to　be　done？　　The　case
  was　urgent；the　doctor　had　declared　not　a　moment　should　be　lost
  in　obtaining　his　attendance；　she　must　leave　her　father；she　must
  go　herself！　　She　crept　back　into　the　room；the　anodyne　seemed
  already　to　have　taken　benign　effect；　the　patient's　eyes　were
  closed；　and　he　breathed　regularly；　as　in　sleep。　　She　stole　away；
  threw　her　veil　over　her　face；　and　hurried　from　the　house。
  Now　the　anodyne　had　not　produced　the　effect　which　it　appeared　to
  have　done；　instead　of　healthful　sleep；　it　had　brought　on　a　kind
  of　light…headed　somnolence；　in　which　the　mind；　preternaturally
  restless；　wandered　about　its　accustomed　haunts；　waking　up　its　old
  familiar　instincts　and　inclinations。　　It　was　not　sleep；it　was
  not　delirium；　it　was　the　dream…wakefulness　which　opium　sometimes
  induces；　when　every　nerve　grows　tremulously　alive；　and　creates　a
  corresponding　activity　in　the　frame；　to　which　it　gives　a　false
  and　hectic　vigour。　　Pisani　missed　something；what；　he　scarcely
  knew；　it　was　a　combination　of　the　two　wants　most　essential　to　his
  mental　life；the　voice　of　his　wife；　the　touch　of　his　Familiar。
  He　rose；he　left　his　bed；　he　leisurely　put　on　his　old
  dressing…robe；　in　which　he　had　been　wont　to　compose。　　He　smiled
  complacently　as　the　associations　connected　with　the　garment　came
  over　his　memory；　he　walked　tremulously　across　the　room；　and
  entered　the　small　cabinet　next　to　his　chamber；　in　which　his　wife
  had　been　accustomed　more　often　to　watch　than　sleep；　when　illness
  separated　her　from　his　side。　　The　room　was　desolate　and　void。　　He
  looked　round　wistfully；　and　muttered　to　himself；　and　then
  proceeded　regularly；　and　with　a　noiseless　step；　through　the
  chambers　of　the　silent　house；　one　by　one。
  He　came　at　last　to　that　in　which　old　Gionettafaithful　to　her
  own　safety；　if　nothing　elsenursed　herself；　in　the　remotest
  corner　of　the　house；　from　the　danger　of　infection。　　As　he　glided
  in；wan；　emaciated；　with　an　uneasy；　anxious；　searching　look　in
  his　haggard　eyes；the　old　woman　shrieked　aloud；　and　fell　at　his
  feet。　　He　bent　over　her；　passed　his　thin　hands　along　her　averted
  face；　shook　his　head；　and　said　in　a　hollow　voice；
  〃I　cannot　find　them；　where　are　they？〃
  〃Who；　dear　master？　　Oh；　have　compassion　on　yourself；　they　are　not
  here。　　Blessed　saints！　this　is　terrible；　he　has　touched　me；　I　am
  dead！〃
  〃Dead！　who　is　dead？　　Is　any　one　dead？〃
  〃Ah！　don't　talk　so；　you　must　know　it　well：　　my　poor　mistress；
  she　caught　the　fever　from　you；　it　is　infectious　enough　to　kill　a
  whole　city。　　San　Gennaro　protect　me！　　My　poor　mistress；　she　is
  dead；buried；　too；　and　I；　your　faithful　Gionetta；　woe　is　me！
  Go；　gototo　bed　again；　dearest　master；go！〃
  The　poor　musician　stood　for　one　moment　mute　and　unmoving；　then　a
  slight　shiver　ran　through　his　frame；　he　turned　and　glided　back；
  silent　and　spectre…like；　as　he　had　entered。　　He　came　into　the
  room　where　he　had　been　accustomed　to　compose；where　his　wife；　in
  her　sweet　patience；　had　so　often　sat　by　his　side；　and　praised　and
  flattered　when　the　world　had　but　jeered　and　scorned。　　In　one
  corner　he　found　the　laurel…wreath　she　had　placed　on　his　brows
  that　happy　night　of　fame　and　triumph；　and　near　it；　half　hid　by
  her　mantilla；　lay　in　its　case　the　neglected　instrument。
  Viola　was　not　long　gone：　　she　had　found　the　physician；　she
  returned　with　him；　and　as　they　gained　the　threshold；　they　heard　a
  strain　of　music　from　within；a　strain　of　piercing；　heart…rending
  anguish。　　It　was　not　like　some　senseless　instrument；　mechanical
  in　its　obedience　to　a　human　hand；it　was　as　some　spirit　calling；
  in　wail　and　agony　from　the　forlorn　shades；　to　the　angels　it
  beheld　afar　beyond　the　Eternal　Gulf。　　They　exchanged　glances　of
  dismay。　　They　hurried　into　the　house；　they　hastened　into　the
  room。　　Pisani　turned；　and　his　look；　full　of　ghastly　intelligence
  and　stern　command；　awed　them　back。　　The　black　mantilla；　the　faded
  laurel…leaf；　lay　there　before　him。　　Viola's　heart　guessed　all　at
  a　single　glance；　she　sprung　to　his　knees；　she　clasped　them；
  〃Father；　father；　_I_　am　left　thee　still！〃
  The　wail　ceased；the　note　changed；　with　a　confused　association
  half　of　the　man；　half　of　the　artistthe　anguish；　still　a　melody；
  was　connected　with　sweeter　sounds　and　thoughts。　　The　nightingale
  had　escaped　the　pursuit；soft；　airy；　bird…like；　thrilled　the
  delicious　notes　a　moment；　and　then　died　away。　　The　instrument
  fell　to　the　floor；　and　its