the
description? Let us leave the old bass to snore away his lethargic
accompaniment for ten minutes more, and the affair will end. The
pianist, the Octavius of the triumvirs, thinks it necessary to excuse
Signor ----, telling us, "He has bad violin, he play like one angel on
good one"--but hisht, hisht! the evening-star is rising, and we are to
be repaid, they say, for all we have gone through! Signor * * * is going
to play. The _maestro_ advances with perfect consciousness of his own
powers; his gait is lounging, he does not mean to hurry himself, not
he--his power of abstraction (from the company) is perfect; he is
going to play in solitude before fifty people, and only for his own
amusement. He placed himself at least a foot from the piano, his knees
touching the board, his body rises perpendicularly from the
music-stool, his head turns for a moment to either shoulder as if he
were glancing at epaulettes thereon, and then he looks right ahead; he
neither has nor needs a book; with the wide-extended fingers of both
hands, down he pounces, like a falcon, on the sleeping keys, which,
caught by surprise, now speak out and exert all their energies. Those
keys, which a few minutes ago vibrated so feebly, and spoke so
inarticulately, now pour forth a continuous swell of the richest
melody and distinctest utterance. The little wooden parallelograms at
first seem to be keeping out of their ranks just to see what is going
on, till, the affair becoming warm, they can no longer stand it, but
grow excited and take part in the general action. Relying fully on the
perfect obedience of his light troops, and relaxing a little from his
erect attitude of command, he gently inclines his body to the left,
leads his disposable force rapidly upwards in that direction, where,
having surprised the post against which they were dispatched, he
recovers his swerve, and they retrace with equal precision and
rapidity their course from the wings to the centre.

Come, _this_ is playing! This is worth coming to; the instrument seems
but the organ of the man's own feelings; its mournful tones are only a
paraphrase of his sighs; its brilliant arabesques are but the playful
expression of his own delight with every thing and every body! His
cheek is warm, his eyes sparkle, his hands detonate thunder and
lightnings from the keys, and he concludes as suddenly as he began;
the very silence is felt, and the breathless guests, who have watched
the fingers a