The morning hours have always been of peculiar value to me. It is as though I felt the need of occupying myself with something ennobling, something worth while, in the first hours of the day, thus consecrating the remainder of it, as it were. It is, therefore, only with difficulty that I can make up my mind to leave my room early in the morning, and if ever I force myself to do so without sufficient cause, nothing remains to me for the rest of the day but the choice between idle distraction and morbid introspection. Thus it happened that I put off for several days my visit to the old man, which I had agreed to pay in the morning. At last I could not master my impatience any longer, and went. I had no difficulty in finding Gardener's Lane, nor the house. This time also I heard the tones of the violin, but owing to the closed window they were muffled and scarcely recognizable. I entered the house. A gardener's wife, half speechless with amazement, showed me the steps leading up to the attic. I stood before a low, badly fitting door, knocked, received no answer, finally raised the latch and entered. I found myself in a quite large, but otherwise extremely wretched chamber, the wall of which on all sides followed the outlines of the pointed roof. Close by the door was a dirty bed in loathsome disorder, surrounded by all signs of neglect; opposite me, close beside the narrow window, was a second bed, shabby but clean and most carefully made and covered. Before the window stood a small table with music-paper and writing material, on the windowsill a few flower-pots. The middle of the room from wall to wall was designated along the floor by a heavy chalk line, and it is almost impossible to imagine a more violent contrast between dirt and cleanliness than existed on the two sides of the line, the equator of this little world. The old man had placed his music-stand close to the boundary line and was standing before it practising, completely and carefully dressed. I have already said so much that is jarring about the discords of my favorite--and I almost fear he is mine alone--that I shall spare the reader a description of this infernal concert. As the practice consisted chiefly of passage-work, there was no possibility of recognizing the pieces he was playing, but this might not have been an easy matter even under ordinary circumstances. After listening a while, I finally discovered the thread leading out of this labyrinth--the method in his madness, as it were. The old man enjoyed the music while he was playing. His conception, however, distinguished between only two kinds of effect, euphony and cacophony. Of these the former delighted, even enraptured him, while he avoided the latter, even when harmonically justified, as much as possible. Instead of accenting a composition in accordance with sense and rhythm, he exaggerated and prolonged the notes and intervals that were pleasing to his ear; he did not even hesitate to