pieces, among others, one which is a chef d'œuvre. This piece he calls 'Bamboula.' I have heard this 'Bamboula' ten times; in the salons of Mme. Merlin, of Mr. Orfila, of the Marquis d'Albucenza, etc., and ten times the young artist has had to repeat it amid the warmest applause.
On these words, Quand patate la cuite na va mange li, na va mange li, the Creoles chant a short, but poetic and nonchalant motive. Gottschalk has taken the first four bars of this motive, and on this theme has embroidered all sorts of charming fantasies. The pianist vigorously attacks the Creole chant, then follows a second motive in f sharp of an original and singing rhythm. The accompaniment he makes very staccato, the middle chant, played languidly, contrasts in a strange, but deliciously poetic way, with the bass, which always energetically marks the rhythm.
On the third chant, in b flat, comes a variation with a crescendo fortissimo, and directly afterwards the same motive in b flat reappears, and progressively disappears; hardly is it finished, when the rentrée is made by a dazzling trait dash, which I can only compare to a cascade of pearls; this trait very beautifully brings back the motive in d flat. After this succeed variations in triplets, made with wonderful lightness. The theme in b flat reappears with a pianissimo variation, whose harmonies are of unrivalled richness. The pianist immediately falls back on the chord of d flat, escapes by an ascending fusée, and immediately returns to the theme, b flat minor, by a descending scale made with prodigious agility. But why continue the analysis of this 'Bamboula?' How give with the pen even an incomplete idea of it? I would say, and would repeat it a hundred times, that there are new variations, motives in b flat, or in d flat crescendo, forte, traits, arpeggios, etc. 'Bamboula' is a musical poesy which defies analysis, and Gottschalk is a pianist whose name is inscribed in the front of popular favour. Behold his horoscope! He will march alongside of the stars of the piano, in the midst of applauses and triumphs.
Gottschalk, whose health demanded a change of scene and air, resolved to make a pedestrian tour in the Vosges. He left Paris on foot, carrying his passport in a carpet bag; arriving at an inn, he passed the night there, and at daybreak next morning rose and went out to take a walk. The beauty of the landscape, and perhaps absence of mind, prevented him from recognizing how far he had gone, and consequently how distant he was from his inn, where he had left his carpet bag, expecting to return to breakfast. To his surprise, on looking around, he found himself in the large street of a village, while he still thought himself in the open country; but his surprise was increased by the disagreeable sensation of a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. Turning round he saw a gendarme, who regarded him with suspicion, and seemed ready to arrest him.
"Your passport!"
"My passport! but I have not got it with me; I left it at my inn this morning," replied Gottschalk.
