A Nest of Linnets

rt of fondling hands, having been for four years in Italy. The family had returned to the drawing-room after supper, but as Mr. Linley and his son had begun t

just as they had eaten of it, and now he was beginning to talk quite easily of music, when they

n England," said the father; "but that

that there is no singer in England who can compare with Miss Linley," said Tom. "Why, the great Aguj

hen, though she is an I

should we talk of music within the first hour of Tom's r

their eyes was not the same. The soft, beseeching look that she cast at him was very diff

een it in Mr. Garrick's face when he was playing in Hamlet; she had seen it in Mr. Gainsborough's face when he was painting the picture of her and her brother; she had seen it in the plain face of little Dr. Goldsmith when he had repeated in her hearing the opening lines of his sublime poem, "The Traveller"; she had seen it in the face of Mr. Burke

springing from his chair with a han

use there is nothing else in the world

the father threw himse

u have not worked in vain, my boy; I have not prayed in v

that this is the tr

oking in her direction. That was why she

dden the hearts of all who come near us! Even at Oxford-I have sung a great deal at Oxford, you know-I have seen the tears upon the faces of those men-the most learned men in the world. Just think of a poor i

face g

the room at the first mention of music. "I always think that eating is a huge waste of time. We might have been singing an hour ago. And what think you of this new

n giving his concerts in the Thatched House in St. James's Street, has surprised us al

ll speak to one as does your violin, Tom," said Betsy. "Yo

sm

can create a soul. Doubtless God could make another instrument with a soul,

celestial mysteries to us," said the father. "I am more than anxious to learn h

all that was in my power to do," s

Then he got upon his feet and walked across the room and back again

nd then I feel that I am very near to God. Surely music is the voice of God speaking to the soul of man-speaking its message of infinite tenderness-gladness that is the gladness of heaven.... I thin

uth since those days!" c

le mystery of the violin?" said the boy. "I think that I have crept a l

true musician is the one who fears to speak with assurance. He is never without his doubts, his fears, his ho

that day? I was sent by my master with a message to his house on that hill where the olive-trees mingle with the oranges and the vines. I remember how the red beams of the

n with you!" said Bet

arned more of music in half an hour than you could

or you?" sai

ing through the orange-grove, the sun had sunk, and from a solitary oleander a nightingale had begun to sing

'Sweet Bird' when you have told

presently,' said he. I thanked him, and, wishing to be civil, I said: 'His garden does you great credit-you are, I venture to think, his gardener?' 'Alas! sir,' said he, smiling,'I am a much humbler person than his gardener. I have, it is true, dared to cut a bunch of grapes, but I am even now trembling at my boldness. I shall have to face the gardener before night, for he is sure to miss it. You are one of Maestro Grassi's pupils, sir?' he added; and when I assented, 'I, too, am learning to play the violin,' he said. 'It is very creditable to you to wish to master the instrument,' said I. 'You must have many opportunities in this household of hearing good music. Your master is, I believe, one of the greatest composers. I am overcome with admiration of his night piece-La V

ck in his chair, he laughed heartily. H

ou were in the presence of the compo

impassioned cry for rest-the rest brought by night. While it sounded I seemed to hear the far-off cry of the whole creation that travaileth, yearning for the rest that is the consummation of God's promises. Again he moved the bow, and that wailing note increased.... Ah, how can I express the magic of that playing?... I tell you that in a moment before my eyes the dim hall was crowded with figures. I sat in amazement watching them. They were laughing together in groups. Lovely girls in ravishing dishevelment flung roses up to the roof of the hall, and the blooms, breaking there, sent a shower of rosy perfumed petals quivering and dancing like butterflies downward. Children ran to catch the frail falling

elf struggling for breath, a long ray of moonlight slipped aslant the pavement of the hall, and the atmosphere became less dense. In a few moments the hall was filled with moonlight, and I saw that, just where the light streamed, there was growing a tree-a tree of golden fruit that shone in the moon's rays. A little way off a fountain began to flash, and

repose. I only know that I was on my feet straining to catch the last exquisite notes t

have played the whole of the Voce. I hope

recollection of that playing which makes me feel that, even though I give up

e playing of a great musician. But what you have proved to us is not that Signore Pugnani is

d her eyes