es the rainbow presently stretches its peaceful arch, while on
the banks butterflies flit to and fro, and the nightingale warbles
her song.

Whenever he bends his magic wand towards great works, and the
powers of orchestra and chorus lend him their aid, still more
wonderful glimpses of the ideal world will be revealed to us.

May the Highest Genius help him onward! Meanwhile another
genius--that of modesty--seems to dwell within him. His comrades
greet him at his first step in the world, where wounds may,
perhaps, await him, but the bay and the laurel also; we welcome
this valiant warrior!

Robert Schumann had been before the public as essayist, poet, pianist
and composer for twenty years. He had given himself without stint to
almost every musical enterprise of Germany, and his sympathy was ever on
tap for every needy and aspiring genius. You may give your purse--he
who takes it takes trash--but to give your life's blood and then hope
for a renewal of life's lease, is vain.

The public man owes to himself and to his Maker the duty of reserve.

The desert and mountain are very necessary to the individual who gives
himself to the public. That any man should so bestride the narrow world
like a colossus that the multitude must stop to gaze, and thousands feed
upon his words, is an abnormal condition. The only thing that can hold
the balance true is solitude. Relaxation is the first requirement of
strength. Watch the cat, the tiger or the lion asleep. See what complete
absence of intensity--what perfect relaxation! It is all a preparation
for the spring.

Schumann had not sought the mountain, nor abandoned himself to the woods
in old shoes, corduroys and a flannel shirt. Now he was paying the
penalty of publicity. Virtue had gone out of him; and in the article
just quoted, there are signs that he is clutching for something. He
hails this new star and proclaims him, because in some way he feels that
the ruddy, valiant and youthful Brahms is to consummate his work. Brahms
is an extension of himself. It is a part of that longing for
immortality--we perpetuate ourselves in our children and look for them
to accomplish what we have been unable to do.

Johannes Brahms was the spiritual son of Robert Schumann.

In less than a year after Brahms and Schumann first met, there were
ominous signs and evil portents in the air. "Why do you play so fast,
dear Johannes? I beg of you,