All the happiness, pure joy, and innocent hope, poured forth by the innocent maiden of sixteen summers, as in the fulness of her youthful delight she warbles her pleasure at seeing, in company with her adored mother, the rising sun gild the summit of the tall trees at the moment when the flowers unfold their leaves and expand their perfumed blossoms. All the pleasing, yet serious reveries, which possess our minds as we contemplate the countless scintillations of the starry worlds revolving in their course in unlimited space. But no words can adequately describe the poetical images invoked by that sweet and gentle melody which, stealing in at intervals, appeared to cast a bright and serene charm over the gloomy style of the compositions performed by the prince. The descriptions of pieces chosen by the prince savoured, indeed, of his own peculiar character; they breathed, indeed, the very ideality of German moodiness, the soft fancies of Mignon, not altogether that which conjured up so many graceful fantasies, but, rather, the gloomy whisperings which invoked the pale shade of Leonora. The sadness of Arnold was so far peculiar to himself that, although perfectly resigned to his sorrow, he harboured neither anger nor bitterness of spirit. His greatest delight seemed to be in modulating the exquisite passage we have alluded to; to it he clung with the fondness and tenacity we are apt to feel for some dear object of our early recollections. The sharp, shrill, and prolonged sound of a bell made the prince start as though painfully aroused from his reverie. At the harsh sound of the bell he suddenly discontinued his strain. And the last vibrations of the organ died away in the vast gallery like an expiring sigh. Arnold bent his head with deep dejection on his bosom, while his thin, white hands, quitting the keys of the organ, fell listlessly on his lap. His slight, fragile form stooped languidly forward, the fictitious, feverish strength which had hitherto sustained him disappeared, and left him weak and powerless. The first dawn of a winter's morning, mingling with the light of the wax-candles burning in the Gothic chandelier, formed a sort of artificial glare, gloomy as that of tapers burning in daytime around the bed of death. This unnatural light fell direct on the forehead and cheekbones of Arnold, who still sat with his head drooping on his breast; while through his long downcast eyelashes might be observed the fixed eyeball lose the clear lustre of its limpid blue, and become motionless and rigid. His fingers, too, were stiffened by the intensity of the frost, for the fire had long since been extinct in the vast chimney. Again the bell rang forth its shrill summons, but this time the call was more imperative and repeated twice.