As ethereal in his music as John Keats in his poetry, he was one of those creatures born of dreams and rapture that rarely visit this planet.

Happy fellow! What a death was his!" "How did he die ?" I inquired.
"He was playing the organ in one of the great churches of Rome on the day of the Feast of the Virgin.

A choir of finely trained voices sang to his accompaniment his own glorious setting of the "Regina Coeli." The music was wonderful, startling, triumphant--ever rising in power and majesty to a magnificent finale, when suddenly a slight crash was heard; the organ ceased abruptly, the singers broke off.

The musician was dead.

He had fallen forward on the keys of the instrument, and when they raised him, his face was fairer than the face of any sculptured angel, so serene was its expression, so rapt was its smile.