notes of ’linked sweetness long drawn out,’ his neighbour is trying acoustic experiments on the French horn.  The numerous dogs of the neighbourhood are growing unquiet, and my landlord’s cat, inspired by that sweet duet, is making close by my window (for, of course, my musico-poetic laboratory is an attic,) certain tender confessions,—­upward through the whole chromatic scale, soft complaining, to the neighbour’s puss, with whom he has been in love since March last!  Till this is all fairly over, II think will sit quietly here.  Besides, there is still blank paper and Burgundy left, of which I forthwith take a sip.

“There is, as I have heard, an ancient law, forbidding those, who followed any noisy handicraft, from living near literary men.  Should not then musical composers, poor, and hard beset, and who, moreover, are forced to coin their inspiration into gold, to spin out the thread of life withal, be allowed to apply this law to themselves, and banish out of the neighbourhood all ballad-singers and bagpipers?  What would a painter say, while transferring to his canvass a form of ideal beauty, if you should hold up before him all manner of wild faces and ugly masks?  He might shut his eyes, and in this way, at least, quietly follow out the images of fancy.  Cotton, in one’s ears, is of no use; one still hears the dreadful massacre.  And then the idea,—­the bare idea, ’Now they are going to sing,—­now the horn strikes up,’—­is enough to send one’s sublimest conceptions to the very devil.”

CHAPTER V. SAINT GILGEN.

It was a bright Sunday morning when Flemming and Berkley left behind them the cloud-capped hills of Salzburg, and journeyed eastward towards the lakes.  The landscape around them was one to attune their souls to holy musings.  Field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the perfume of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birds singing, and the sound of village bells, and the moving breeze among the branches,—­no laborers in the fields, but peasants on their way to church, coming across the green pastures, with roses in their hats,—­the beauty and quiet of the holy day of rest,—­all, all in earth and air, breathed upon the soul like a benediction.

They stopped to change horses at Hof, a handfulof houses on the brow of a breezy hill, the church and tavern standing opposite to each other, and nothing between them but the dusty road, and the churchyard, with its iron crosses, and the fluttering tinsel of the funeral garlands.  In the churchyard and at the tavern-door, were groups of peasants, waiting for divine service to begin.  They were clothed in their holiday dresses.  The men wore breeches and long boots, and frock-coats with large metal buttons; the women, straw hats, and gay calico gowns, with short waists and scant folds.  They were adorned with a profusion of great, trumpery ornaments, and reminded Flemming of the Indians in the frontier villages of America.  Near the churchyard-gate was a booth, filled with flaunting calicos; and opposite sat an old woman behind a table, which was loaded with ginger-bread.  She had a roulette at her elbow, where the peasants risked a kreutzer for a cake.  On other tables, cases of knives, scythes, reaping-hooks, and other implements of husbandry were offered for sale.