right blue garment enclosed his noble limbs,
his shoulders were covered by gleaming locks of black hair; and as
he stood there, sure and secure, a sublime divinity, and played the
violin, it seemed as if the whole creation obeyed his melodies. He
was the man-planet about which the universe moved with measured
solemnity and ringing out beatific rhythms. Those great lights,
which so quietly gleaming swept around, were they stars of heaven,
and that melodious harmony which arose from their movements, was it
the song of the spheres, of which poets and seers have reported so
many ravishing things? At times, when I endeavored to gaze out into
the misty distance, I thought I saw pure white garments floating
ground, in which colossal pilgrims passed muffled along with white
staves in their hands, and singular to relate, the golden knob of
each staff was even one of those great lights which I had taken for
stars. These pilgrims moved in a large orbit around the great
performer, the golden knobs of their staves shone even brighter at
the tones of the violin, and the chorale which resounded from their
lips, and which I had taken for the song of the spheres, was only
the dying echo of those violin tones. A holy, ineffable ardor dwelt
in those sounds, which often trembled scarce audibly, in mysterious
whisper on the water, then swelled out again with a shuddering
sweetness, like a bugle's notes heard by moonlight, and then
finally poured forth in unrestrained jubilee, as if a thousand
bards had struck their harps and raised their voices in a song of
victory.

* * * * *

In Seventeen Hundred Eighty-four, Niccolo Paganini was born at Genoa.
His father was a street-porter who eked out the scanty exchequer by
playing a violin at occasional dances or concerts. That his playing was
indifferent is evident from the fact that he was very poor--his services
were not in demand.

The poverty of the family and the failure of the father fired the
ambition of the boy to do something worthy. When he was ten years old he
could play as well as his father, and a year or so thereafter could play
better. The lad was tall, slender, delicate and dreamy-eyed. But he had
will plus, and his desire was to sound the possibilities of the violin.
And this reminds me that Hugh Pentecost says there is no such thin