Evelyn and myself, with Ella, who was now growing up, used occasionally to spend our evenings in the _salon_ of Rossini, to whom we had been presented in Florence, and who was now settled in a magnificent apartment in the Chausseé d’Antin. Here we met, from time to time, all the celebrities of the artistic world, whether of music, painting or the dance; also the leading journalists and musical critics of the day, with an occasional sprinkling of the _beau monde_. Rossini, at first sight, does not impose upon the mind as the greatest musical genius of his age, and one of the first of any era. You behold a simple old man, somewhat portly, with a face remarkable for its _bonhomie_. The features fine, forehead high and intellectual, surmounted by, I regret to say, a very ugly wig of reddish brown; withall, a fresh, but not red complexion, of which any much younger man might be proud. He looks a dear, benevolent old man, who would greatly enjoy a good dinner, and this, in fact, is the case. Such would be a first sight judgment, but a better acquaintance would show that the benign countenance could light up with the _sourire fin_ and the _malice_ we should expect to find in the author of the first and best of musical comedies—the ever fresh, the peerless, the immortal “Barbiere di Seviglia.” Rossini has acquired the reputation of being very satirical—ill-naturedly so. Yet it is not the case, for true modesty, combined with real talent, could never meet with a kinder, more generous, or more indulgent critic than in him. Unhappily, however, the _salon_ of Rossini is besieged by a crowd of know-nothings who imagine that to display their médiocre acquirements before this great man, is to partake in some measure of his genius. Poor fools! if they had only seen, as I have, the persecuted composer rubbing his head, (a habit with him when annoyed), till his very wig was actually turned hind before, from sheer nervous excitement, I think, I say, had they beheld this, even shrill sopranos and roaring baritones, would have ceased in pity from the remorseless murders they were perpetrating upon the dear children of his brain. Once I remember, when a cruel lady had worried him past bearing, and adding insult to injury, had changed almost every note in his aria, and worse than all expected a compliment from her victim, the _maestro_ advanced to the piano, and said in his mild, soft voice, “Pray, madame, who is the composer of that music?” On another occasion he observed to a prima donna, whose singing was more remarkable for execution than expression, “Madame, you sing with wonderful _agilité_; you are rapid as a railway train, but you know I am afraid of railways.” Here let me remark that Rossini’s cowardice is great as his genius. He fears everything—railways, the sea, illness; more than all, death. The idea of the latter appears to embitter all his life; it is the