But memory turned traitor , and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl , would only recall Jo 's oddities , faults , and freaks , would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects -- beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna , barricading herself with the sofa pillow , or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge -- and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint . Jo would n't be put into the opera at any price , and he had to give her up with a `` Bless that girl , what a torment she is ! '' and a clutch at his hair , as became a distracted composer . When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody , memory produced one with the most obliging readiness . This phantom wore many faces , but it always had golden hair , was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud , and floated airily before his mind 's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses , peacocks , white ponies , and blue ribbons . He did not give the complacent wraith any name , but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her , as well he might , for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun , and escorted her , unscathed , through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman . Thanks to this inspiration , he got on swimmingly for a time , but gradually the work lost its charm , and he forgot to compose , while he sat musing , pen in hand , or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind , which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter . He did not do much , but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself . `` It 's genius simmering , perhaps . I 'll let it simmer , and see what comes of it , '' he said , with a secret suspicion all the while that it was n't genius , but something far more common . Whatever it was , it simmered to some purpose , for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life , began to long for some real and earnest work to go at , soul and body , and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a composer . Returning from one of Mozart 's grand operas , splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre , he looked over his own , played a few of the best parts , sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn , Beethoven , and Bach , who stared benignly back again . Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets , one by one , and as the last fluttered out of his hand , he said soberly to himself ... `` She is right ! Talent is n't genius , and you ca n't make it so . That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her , and I wo n't be a humbug any longer . Now what shall I do ? '' That seemed a hard question to answer , and Laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread . Now if ever , occurred an eligible opportunity for ` going to the devil ' , as he once forcibly expressed it , for he had plenty of money and nothing to do , and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands . The poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within , but he withstood them pretty well , for much as he valued liberty , he valued good faith and confidence more , so his promise to his grandfather , and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him , and say `` All 's well , '' kept him safe and steady . Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe , `` I do n't believe it , boys will be boys , young men must sow their wild oats , and women must not expect miracles . ''
I dare say you do n't , Mrs. XXXXX , but it 's true nevertheless .
Bach Beethoven Grundy Gummidge Mozart Rome bandanna daily right wraith