“The violent death of a woman, young, lovely, and innocent, is assuredly the most terrible of tragedies,” observed Vivian. “I have often asked myself,” said Miss Fane, “which is the most terrible destiny for the young to endure: to meet death after a life of anxiety and suffering, or suddenly to be cut off in the enjoyment of all things that make life delightful.” “For my part,” said Vivian, “in the last instance, I think that death can scarcely be considered an evil. How infinitely is such a destiny to be preferred to that long apprenticeship of sorrow, at the end of which we are generally as unwilling to die as at the commencement!” “And yet,” said Miss Fane, “there is something fearful in the idea of sudden death.” “Very fearful,” muttered Vivian, “in some cases;” for he thought of one whom he had sent to his great account before his time. “Violet, my dear!” said Lady Madeleine, “have you finished your drawing of the Bingenloch?” But Miss Fane would not leave the subject. “Very fearful in all cases, Mr. Grey. How few of us are prepared to leave this world without warning! And if from youth, or sex, or natural disposition, a few may chance to be better fitted for the great change than their companions, still I always think that in those cases in which we view our fellow-creatures suddenly departing from this world, apparently without a bodily or mental pang, there must be a moment of suffering which none of us can understand; a terrible consciousness of meeting death in the very flush of life; a moment of suffering which, from its intense and novel character, may appear an eternity of anguish. I have always looked upon such an end as the most fearful of dispensations.” “Violet, my dear.” said her Ladyship, “let us talk no more of death. You have been silent a fortnight. I think to-night you may sing.” Miss Fane rose and sat down to the instrument. It was a lively air, calculated to drive away all melancholy feelings, and cherishing sunny views of human life. But Rossini’s Muse did not smile to-night upon her who invoked its gay spirit; and ere Lady Madeleine could interfere Violet Fane had found more congenial emotions in one of Weber’s prophetic symphonies. O Music! miraculous art, that makes a poet’s skill a jest, revealing to the soul inexpressible feelings by the aid of inexplicable sounds! A blast of thy trumpet, and millions rush forward to die; a peal of thy organ, and uncounted nations sink down to pray. Mighty is thy threefold power! First, thou canst call up all elemental sounds, and scenes, and subjects, with the definiteness of reality. Strike the lyre! Lo! the voice of the winds, the flash of the lightning, the swell of the wave, the solitude of the valley! Then thou canst speak to the secrets of a man’s heart as if by inspiration. Strike the lyre! Lo! our early love, our treasured hate, our withered joy, our flattering hope!