mime of Adina R., who looked by his side like a
wounded lioness. Poor woman! What has been your
fate? The glossy tresses of which you were so proud in
your scenes of insanity, those tresses that brought down
the house when your talent might have failed to do so, are
now frosted with the snow of years. Your husband has
forsaken you.
After a long career of success, he has
buried his fame under the orange-groves of the Alhambra.
There he directs, according to his own statement (but I
can scarce credit it), the phantom of a conservatory for
singing. I am convinced he has too much taste to break
in upon the poetical silence of the old Moorish palace with
portamenti, trills, and scales; and I flatter myself that the
plaintive song of the nightingales of the Generalife, and
the soft murmur of the Fountain of the Lions, are the only
concerts that echo gives to the breeze that gently sighs at
night from the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. Alas, poor
woman! your locks are silvered, and Brignoli - has grown
fat! Sic transit gloria mundi !'"

PIANO.

"Home again! home again!

From a foreign shore:

And, oh! it fills my soul with joy

To meet my friends once more!"-M. 8. PIKE.

N February, 1862, Mr. Gottschalk returned to

IN

New York. His concert was announced for the 11th of February, the anniversary of his first concert in America. In a letter to a friend, he makes amusing comment of this: "The public have been duly informed of my arrival, and the time of my concert postponed until the 11th, as if that was any grand prestige of success; mais que voulez-vous, when one is in the hands of an impressario, il faut obeir! My friends know I am not such a dolt as to allow these things published by will of my own."

At this first concert, in Irving Hall, he was assisted by Miss Hinckley, Brignoli, Susini, Mancusi, and Mollenhauer, violoncellist. Spanish subjects seemed to possess his fancy; for his programme was filled with Souvenirs de la Havane. He played brilliantly, but some arrière-pensée seemed to hold his heart in check: his touch pos

LOUIS MOREAU GottSCHALK.

103

sessed wondrous technique, but the magnetic thrill was gone. It was but for a season: at his next appearance, before the Brooklyn Philharmonic Society, he was the same electric, dreamy, and passionate child of a tropical clime.

In March, he gave concerts in Philadelphia, and his praises were heard on every tongue. Writing to a friend, he says,

"I'll not send you the newspapers: they will sicken you. I am glad, of course, to give pleasure; but such flattery is overdoing the matter. I go West, to Chicago, next month; but will return to New York before that, and show you some MSS. I have ready for Hall. So you don't like Polonia (caprice de concert)? Neither do I; but I have a poor opinion of all I do. I wish all was better. Perhaps it will be some day: until then continue to scold and criticise "Your unworthy friend,

April 14, 1862, he first appeared in Chicago, in conjunction with Carlotta Patti, George Simpson, Morine, and Carl Bergmann. The enthusiasm of his reception was characteristic of Western whole-heartedness. No silly hypercriticism chills. true merit at the West. Fortunately for Chicago, old fogyism has been left growling at the East ; and life is too short and brilliant to be wasted in picking flaws in an art which entrances them.

In May and June, Mr. Gottschalk remained in New York. One concert, however, he gave, at the

!

solicitation of friends, in Roxbury. It was "delectable fine fun" to hear and read the criticisms his kindly consent to please his friends drew upon him. Certain critics remind us of hungry dogs, like old Mother Hubbard's who found the cupboard bare of bones; and when, from sheer sympathy, a neighbor tossed one to the starving animal, how the poor doggie growled! he didn't often get such nice rich meat to satisfy his hunger! Just so hungry, pedantic critics caught at the joyous, happy-hearted Gottschalk, and growled over him, and criticised according to classic rule and measure; thus writing themselves down the truest Dogberrys upon earth!

Why will they exhaust their ten-pounders in order to kill mosquitoes?" exclaimed Moreau Gottschalk, with his merry laugh, when one of these criticisms was placed before him. "Poor Don Quixote of a critic: let us smoke a cigarette to his memory!"

The warm, sunny August days found him at Schooley's Mountains. His letters are full of beautiful thoughts, and descriptions of the scenery, the rest and refreshment he found in Nature. These letters are too personal to be of general interest; and the friend to whom they were written declines to make them public. extract alone seems too beautiful to be lost. letter is dated Aug. 18:

One

The

"Your letter telling me of 's death saddened me all last evening; nor has the feeling passed away. I have just been thinking that the use of great sorrow and trouble may be to serve as rocks for the echo!

"Our paths lie not together!

Thine as far from mine as heaven's pure sunlight

From the cavern's gloom.

Our paths lic not together!

Mine o'er roughened rocks is traced,

My pathway smoothed by tears.

Angel-guide, with hand upon my shoulder resting,

Is it thy voice I hear?