“Over the way. I do not think you can procure any now elsewhere.”
I hastened to get one.
The concert hall was so crowded that I could not get in, but was forced to remain outside with many others. The tutti of the last composition was ended; the solo—a pollacca—began.
“’Tis he, or none!” cried I. “I have heard those tones before; they are unforgotten, deep in my heart. But what a miracle! Do two play, or three? That I have never heard. I will not trust my ear. If I might but see him—only one look! In vain: the crowd presses the door too closely. I will, at least, lose not one note.”
The performer ceased. A thunderburst of applause shook the building. I pressed forward and strove to get a sight of him; others, equally eager, pushed before me: I was again disappointed. What thoughts swelled in my heart! I waited with impatience to hear him begin once more. At last——. “Now he plays on the G string,” said some one near me. He began. Is it possible? That was the very melody I heard in prison! Those were the self-same tones that once—calming, elevating, faith-inspiring, as if sent down from heaven—shed light into my gloomy soul!
I forced my way forward through the multitude. I saw once more the pale, melancholy brow, the sunken eyes, the long dark hair, the same feeble aspect of the whole person. It was HE! The mystery of nineteen years was at length solved. The stranger who had filled my youthful breast with feelings wonderful, unutterable, who had ceaselessly accompanied me since, like a veiled apparition, familiar, yet from which I could not tear the covering, stood before me. I heard, I saw——Paganini!
THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN.
One morning in the summer of 1812, the busy manager of an Italian theatrical company returned to his lodgings in a hotel in one of the principal streets of Naples. His brow was contracted, and an air of disquietude spread over his whole countenance. He announced to the landlord that he was in an hour to leave the city with his company. Mine host divined that he would not depart in the sunniest of humors.
“So, you have not been successful in your search, Master Benevolo,” he asked.
“Mille diavoli! there never was such luck!” was the petulant reply. “Here I have stayed three days beyond my time, in the hope of finding what Naples, it seems, does not afford; and now I must begone to play at Salerno, without an actor of tragedy in my company!”