“On the following evening, I was walking by the side of the Arno, the moonlight flickering as it rose. The nightingale’s note, and the warbling of birds of every kind preparing to roost, were saluting the departing rays of day. Sounds of a totally different nature suddenly intermingled with these harmonized melodies of nature. Attracted by this exquisite and unknown music, I followed the direction from whence they seemed to proceed, and I again found myself near the singular being who had occupied all my thoughts for the last three days. Carelessly lying beneath a tree, his features were now as calm as they had appeared troubled the day previous, and as he listened with impassioned expression to the fury of the tempest in the old castle, so did he now seem to enjoy the concert of the feathered tribe, whose notes he was whistling with most astounding imitation. I could not explain the strange destiny that led me constantly into his presence. “My astonishment had not yet ceased, for, on returning the following evening from a long walk, just as the stars began their first scintillations, I sat down to repose myself under the Loggie degli Uffizi. A joyous party passed me, and sat down on a marble seat some distance from me; soon after, celestial sounds struck upon my ear, by turns joyful and plaintive, evidently produced by the hand of a superior artist. Silence succeeded to the hilarious shouts of the merry party, all of whom seemed as transfixed by the divine music as I was myself. They all rose, silently, to follow the artist, who continued walking while he played. I also followed, to discover what instrument it was I heard, and who the artist might be that discoursed so enchantingly upon it. Arrived at the square of the Palazzo Vecchio, the party entered a restaurant. I followed them. Here they regained their former merriment, and the leader, more than his companions, displayed extraordinary animation. To my great surprise, the instrument was a guitar (which seemed to have become magical), and the performer, I discovered to be the stranger I had so continuously met. He was no longer the suffering being he had seemed: his eyes beamed, his veins swelled with exultation, his coat and waistcoat were both unbuttoned, his cravat loosened, and his gesticulations those of a madman. I inquired his name. ‘None of us knows it,’ replied the individual, one of the party, to whom I addressed myself; ‘I was in company with my friends, who were singing and dancing to my guitar, when this singular man pushed in among us, and snatching the guitar from my hands, commenced playing without saying a word. Annoyed at the intrusion, we were about to lay hands upon him, but without noticing us in the least, he continued playing, subjugating us by his exquisite performance. Each time we inquired his name, he resumed his playing without making any reply. He occasionally ceased for a while, to relate to us some extraordinary anecdote.