efflorescence of music. And what a ripening influence he has been for others! How many little Creole boys and girls since his triumph have been spurred to the daily routine practice at the piano by stories of how little Moreau Gottschalk at seven years accomplished his six hours a day. And ah! what meteoric visions of a Moreau Gottschalk future have cheered the five-finger exercises and the long sittings on the hard, round, haircloth stool, so inexorably out of reach of the pedals. And later, when another age had succeeded to the five-finger exercise age, when all the glamourous details of the artist's life (until then so carefully concealed, which made them all the more seductive) became known, with his tragic death in South America, the fervid hearts of the young pianists beat for all that too, as for the only life and death for an artist.
Another meteor flamed into view shortly afterwards—Paul Morphy. It really appeared at that time as if the Crescent City were going to provide the United States with celebrities. She thinks still, in her pride, that she would have done so had not her most promising youth been drafted, since the Civil War, into the menial service of working for a living. It was not very long ago that, at opera, theatre, concert, ball, or promenade, or at celebrations at the cathedral, the figure of Paul Morphy was instinctively looked for. Dark-skinned, with brilliant black eyes, black hair; slight and graceful, with the hands and smile of a woman, his personality held the eye with a charm that appeared to the imagination akin to mystery. He belonged also to what is called the good old families, and dated from what is called the good old times, and lived in one of the old brick mansions on Royal street,
