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One cannot but regard with pity the semi-insane actions of the people who rave over the playing of some popular artist, and lose their good sense, dignity, and self-possession in their mad worship of the idol of the hour.

The latest craze of this style has been over that excellent pianist, Paderewski, when people—that is to say, women—have thrown themselves at him, wept over him, kissed him, and made fools of themselves generally.

Certainly, emotional playing affects emotional people. But if we subtract from such scenes the maundering sentimentality, the shallow brain, and the feeling that it is "the proper thing" to rave over the unfortunate object of their sentimental vaporings, popular artists might then venture before the public without a body-guard to ward off the emotional female.

Those who best appreciate good playing, and who really have the deepest emotional nature, do not manifest their sentiments on the surface for the benefit of a curious crowd.

In this sentimental excitement the imagination is a powerful factor. This was proved by Liszt on one occasion. Excitable ladies were affected by Liszt's playing just as, in later days, they have been by that of Paderewski.

In this instance Liszt found himself surrounded by a bevy of beautiful dames and damsels, a circumstance which, by the way, was not opposed to his tastes, for Liszt was a lover of the beautiful, to which feminine beauty was no exception. Of course, the universal desire was that he should play for them, that he should produce for them "the ecstacies, the artistic raptures, which his magnificent talent never failed to evoke." Overcome by their persuasions, Liszt seated himself at the piano and played. By his wonderful skill some of