Notwithstanding his extreme repugnance to receiving visits, his world-wide fame brought sometimes from sixty to eighty visitors, anxious to see and speak with him; many of these he would refer to his secretary, but others he could not avoid receiving. Circumspect with those who came on business, he was more so with artists who came to discover the secret of his talent; he listened to these patiently. His fatigue was so great after receiving these visits, that he would bolt his door, and not answer anyone who knocked. The invitations he received for dinners and suppers were very numerous in all the towns he visited, or remained in to give concerts; they annoyed him, and he refused most of them, aware of his habit of partaking of everything that was placed on the table. He could eat and drink largely without feeling any ill effects at the time, but in a day or two his intestinal pains would come on with redoubled force. He would invariably, if he could do so without being observed, retire to rest as soon as he left the table. He was infinitely gayer previous to dinner than after. One would be inclined to suppose he was desirous of impressing upon his host the sacrifice he made in accepting the invitation: it was so, in fact. At evening parties he was extremely cheerful, if no mention was made of music; but if, with the ill-judged view of affording him amusement, it was proposed or spoken of, his spirits immediately left him. If to gather his opinions upon other violinists, or to question him upon his talent, he only replied monosyllabically, and endeavoured to avoid the inquisition by stealing away to another part of the room, or to interrupt the conversation by observations on other subjects. In the large cities of Germany, vocal and instrumental societies deemed it a homage to his talent to perform before him some musical compositions; but, although he would appear to listen with attention, his mind was pre-occupied on other subjects, and he rarely knew what he listened to. He occasionally avowed, with great sincerity, that the obligation of identifying his public existence with music made him feel an imperious desire to forget the art when he entered into ordinary life. Nor can it be dissimulated that this idiosyncracy pertains to almost every artist who has obtained great celebrity, and who has acquired popular fame. With these, all their faculties are concentrated in the feeling of their personality. Art, separated from their own glorification, does not exist. Gluck and Grétry recognized no music but their own, nor believed any other to be worthy of being performed. How many composers have been imbued with the same feeling, differing with those great men only in dissimulation! With those whose executive talents bring them in contact with the public, it is worse still; without personal ovations, it is not only indifference for the art, it is hatred. Hence, when, having returned to the ordinary conditions of life, and