smoking a cigar, sat at
the table, while his eyes constantly wandered from his wife to the
little boy playing near. 'Did I say too much?' he asked triumphantly,
when she was at last called away to give a singing lesson to the
Burgermaster's daughter; I was not obliged to use any special
self-constraint, not to disturb my old friend in his happy illusions;
for the sunlight of happiness although it could not transform our shade
loving plant into a blooming rose, has brightened the stern, gloomy
face so much, that no one will ever fear it; often at one of her
husband's droll ideas, or when the child came bounding up to her with a
question, so sweet a smile flitted over her mouth, that one almost
forgot her mustache. Her eyes were noticeable enough in old times and
happiness has given them a soft, soul-full light. She dresses, so far
as I understand such matters, by no means in a rustic fashion, but in
extremely modest colors, and without any ornaments. That the people
value her highly and know how to prize her talents, I had ample
opportunity to notice in the evening at the concert, which all the city
attended._

"_Much might be told of this concert, but I was most glad to see how
Mohr had altered; his satirical vein was entirely lacking, I'm still
too weary from to-day's walk for a minute description, so I must
reserve this genre picture for a verbal report, I'll only mention one
episode, which shows the tender relations in which our friends stand
toward each other. While Father Hayden was being played, in which
Christiane did herself great credit, Mohr sat on a bench in the garden,
with the boy beside him, who, after a liberal supply of fruit and bread
and butter listened very quietly. It had grown tolerably late, and in
the pause before the quartette began, the 'sand man' appeared. As the
maid-servant was no where to be seen, Papa Mohr took the child in his
arms and carried it home, where he stayed until he had put it to bed
and given it into the charge of the negligent servant. When he again
entered the garden, to enjoy the remainder of the programme, he stood
still in astonishment and could scarcely believe his ears. Was that
Mendelssohn? No. But what was it? It seemed so familiar--and yet--it
could not be what he thought. Yet what else could it be? Yes, it was a
quartette which he had himself composed years ago and locked up in a
large box with other unsuccessful attempts, including the 'Sinfonia
Ironica.' And now h