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 charming to see these two men, one of them just entering upon life, the other near the moment of leaving it, so closely united: the younger listening, with interest and admiration, to the elevated conversation of the man of genius, who had been so much afflicted. Mr. Erard had frequently proposed to Gottschalk the playing of his pianos. But although he admired the mechanism and brilliancy of the instruments made by this celebrated manufacturer, Gottschalk remained faithful to those of Pleyel, which had taken their sweetness and freedom, added to force of character, from him who had in some sort breathed into them the breath of life.

But it must not be supposed that the success of Gottschalk did not in some minds inspire envy and suggest adverse criticism. He was caricatured by 'Cham,' and one critic, who laboured under the misfortune of being blind, made more than one disagreeable remark on Gottschalk's givins; his compositions Creole names; he might as well, he said, "call them the melon and apple-tree, instead of 'Bananier' and 'Mancenillier,' for all that the public cared." He had even been so rude one day that Gottschalk's friends took it in hand, and wished to call him to account. This, however, Gottschalk would in no wise permit, and the matter dropped for some time. One evening, at a concert at the Hall Bonne Nouvelle, given by the wonderful little pianist Tito Mattei, Gottschalk, who had been to hear him, on coming out after the concert, was stopped by the crowd on the top of the stairs, and saw at his elbow his blind foe, who was vainly endeavouring to secure a footing to get down. Gottschalk, without being recognized, helped him down to the door, where the critic met with his assistant. Turning round, he asked to whom he was indebted for the kindness. Gottschalk simply uttered his name, and left. From that day he counted one more admirer, and, we may say, gained one more friend.

We may add another anecdote as further displaying his character. One evening, by invitation, he played at Lord Tudor's, in the Champs Elysées. Coming out from the party about two o'clock in the morning—it was a fine, balmy summer morning—he had proceeded but a short distance when he was stopped by a man who held a large