th as little success, until at length the band, almost in despair of
discovering the favourite air, began _tuning_ their instruments,
when his highness instantly exclaimed, "_Inshallah_, heaven be
praised, that is it!" The Turkish prince may be excused, when it is
known that at the commemoration of Handel in 1784, Dr. Burney thought
the mere tuning of that host of instruments more gratifying than the
ordinary performances to which he had been accustomed.--_Ibid._

* * * * *

RODE, THE VIOLINIST.

In 1814, he was resident at Berlin, where he gave a concert for the
benefit of the poor, and on quitting that capital, returned to his
native city, not again to quit it, except for one ill-starred visit to
Paris in 1818. This visit threw a fatal colouring over all the rest of
Rode's days, and probably contributed to shorten his life. For several
years he had played only in a small circle of admiring friends, who
persuaded him (nothing loth to believe) that his talents were still
unabated. The habit of hearing no one but himself had extinguished
emulation, and deprived him of all means of comparison. Rode suddenly
determined to re-appear in the musical world, and on his arrival in
Paris sought for opportunities of playing in private parties, with as
much eagerness as though he had still been a young man with a reputation
to make. His old admirers were at first delighted to greet him; but they
soon saw with unfeigned regret that he was compromising a great and
well-earned name. His tone, once so pure and beautiful, had become
uncertain; his bow was as timid as his fingers, and he no longer dared
to indulge fearlessly the suggestions of his imagination; in short
it was too apparent that, in spite of his delusion, Rode's former
confidence in himself was gone; and we know the importance of that
feeling of self-reliance which men of talent derive from the innate
consciousness of their own superiority: once destroyed, everything else
vanishes with it. He was applauded; respect for the last efforts of what
had once been first-rate talent secured him that meed; but he was
applauded because his audience considered it a kind of duty, and without
any symptoms of enthusiasm. He felt the distinction; a dreadful light
broke in upon him, and for the first time he became conscious that he
was no longer himself. The blow was the more severe as it was unlooked
for: he left Paris overwhelmed with grief; the check h