zeal, when the disabling of one of his fingers, a
consequence of his over-exertions, obliged him to give up this career
forever. He did not yet suspect that this accident would prove fortunate
for him in the end, by directing him to his true vocation, composition.
Perhaps, too, it was the first germ of love, in the garb of admiration
for the wondrous talent of Clara, which made young Robert so quiet and
dreamy. His companions were all the more lively. There sat the eccentric
Louis Boehner,[A] who long ago had served as the model for E.T.A.
Hoffmann's fantastic pictures. Here J.P. Lyser, a painter by profession,
but a poet as well, and a musician besides. Here Carl Bauck, the
indefatigable, yet unsuccessful composer of songs,--now, in his capacity
of critic, the paper bugbear of the Dresden artists. He had just
returned from Italy, and believed himself in possession of the true
secret of the art of singing, the monopoly of which every singing-master
is wont to claim for himself. C.F. Becker, too, the eminent organist and
industrious collector, belonged to this circle, as well as many more
young and old artists of more or less merit and talent."[B]

[Footnote A: The "Florestan" of the "Scenes Mignonnes"; "Chiara" is
Clara herself; "Eusebius" was Robert Schumann.]

[Footnote B: See Dwight's _Journal of Music_, Vol. VIII. No. 3.]

Florestan then stood before me; and with him, although invisible, stood
that sacred circle, which had unconsciously borne within it the germs of
so many future sorrows and glories.

"With him," said Louis Boehner, "I began life, when we were boys
together at Heidelberg; with him I stood when the dawn of a better day,
which since has blessed hill and vale, was glowing for his eye alone;
this breast held his sorrows and his hopes, when he was struggling to
reach his Clara; these hands saved him when in his madness he cast
himself into the Rhine; these eyes dropped their hot tears on his
eyelids when they were closed in death."

Overcome by his emotion, he sat down and sobbed aloud.

At that moment, hearing my name called loudly in the hall, I went out,
and was informed that my audience was waiting at the Lyceum, and had
been waiting nearly fifteen minutes!

II.

Next morning, bright and early, I was in the artist-pilgrim's room,
listening to that which it thrilled him to tell and me to hear. And
first he told me the story of Schumann's love.

The "old schoolmaster," Wieck, trained his da