My father took no notice of what merchant Krebbs had said, and when he joined us in the garden he entreated Bèze to play for him in the open air. The Man in Blue played for us a number of national and simple melodies in such a pathetic manner that several times I saw tears in my father’s eyes; at last he said, as the musician finished, “Friend, though your organ is a failure, your violin is truly heavenly. Stay with me yet a while.” “My organ is not a failure; it is the triumph of my life.” “But no one can play on it.” “One day some one will, and then——” “Well, we will say no more about it. Come, the supper is ready.” And he led the way in. The next morning the Man in Blue was gone. We were sorry for his disappearance; but soon forgot all about it in our anxiety over the festival which was near at hand. Glück had promised to come, and we were anxious to know with whom he would stay. Then Bach arrived, and soon came Graun—illustrious Graun—whose nobility of mind inspired his lovely melodies, and with him those inseparable geniuses, Fürch and Hass. And Hamburg sent us Gasman and Teliman. Those who have never even heard the name of these great composers are yet familiar with their melodies. Many of the popular tunes now so much admired I have heard in my youth fresh from the minds of their original composers, free from the twirls and shakes clumsily added to them to disguise their true origin. These illustrious persons were as simple and unostentatious in manners as it is possible to be. They assembled in the Hall of St. Cecilia, and I had the privilege of assisting at their rehearsals. I often passed hours listening to their long discourses on harmony, on keys, scales, and chords. One night Glück played, for the first time, a portion of his “Iphigenia;” and on another, Bach enchanted us by a performance of his delightful preludes. Bach, somehow or other, took a fancy to me. He had observed the marked attention with which I listened to the remarks of the different composers, and to their music. He asked me my name, and who my father was; and I in answer, growing bold, not only related all that concerned myself, but also the story of my Friend in Blue. “An organ that no one can play upon!” exclaimed this great composer; “well, that is singular.” “But I am sure you can.” “Why?” “Because I am certain that the man that made the organ is a great musician, although he cannot play upon it himself. He plays upon the violin.” “As well as I do?” asked Graun. I hesitated, and hung my head: I did not dare say “yes,” and yet I would not say “no”. “Speak up, my boy; say the truth always, and shame the devil.” “He plays better than you, sir, I think; but then he plays out in the woods, and music sounds better there than in a close room.” “True, it does.” “My masters,” said I at last, after some hesitation, “will any one of you, in your charity, try the organ—the village is not distant—and thus justify the poor man?”