The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1899-10-25

stars, and these stars were black
black, like shinging Goals. But the
tones Of the violin became ever more
stormy and daring. In the eyes Of the
dreadful player man cleaned such q
mOcking lust for destruction, and his
thin lips moved so frightfully fast that
it seemed as If he were muttering ac-
cursed words Of enchantment Of long
dead time, with which one calls the
storm and looses the wicked spirits
that lie fettered in the chasms Of the
sea.
Sometimes, when he, thrusting his
naked arm, gaunt, far out Of the flow
Ing lIlonk's sleeve, swept the air madly
with his bow, then he seemed indeed q
magician who rules the elements with
his wand, and then it howled like mad
in the sea depth, and the fear stricken
blood waves then sprang so nightly
into the air that they almost fecked
the pale canopy Of heaven and the
black stars with their red foam. 1t
howled, it shrieked, it cracked, as If
the world were about to break into
ruins and ever more stubbornly did
the monk scrape his violin. He meant,
! with the might Of his raying will. to
break the seven seals with which Solo
mon had closed the iron pots after he
had imprisoned the conquered demons
in them. Those pots had been sunk
in the sea by the wise king, and they
were the voices Of the pent spirits that
l heard while Paganini's violin growl-
ed it's angriest bass tones But at last
I thought to hear exultations of liberia
I ton, and from the red blood waves
there rose the heads of the unfettered
demons-monsters Of tabled ugliness,
crocodiles with bats wings, snakes
with antlers, sea dogs with patriarchal
long boards, green camel heads, all star
ing with cold. sagacious eyes and
reaching with long fms at the fiddling
monk. In his madness his hood had
fallen from his face, and the curling
hair, blown wildly by the wind, twined
around his head like black serpents.
I The appearance ,,'as so Grazing that
I closed my eyes. Then the whole en-
chantment vanished, and when l look
ed up again saw the poor Genoan in
his customary shape, making his Gus
tomary bows, while the public applaud
ed without end.
Quietly Paganini brought his violin
to his chin again, and with the first
motion Of the bow. the wonderful trans
f1guration Of the tones began once
more. But they were not so glaring in
! color or so decided in outline. The
tones unfolded themselves calmly, ma
jestically, surging and swelling, like
those of an organ in q cathedral, and
all the surroundings had expanded
wide and high to space colossal, such
as not the bodily eye, but only the eye
Of the spirit. can grasp. In the middle
! Of the space foated q flaming sphere,
where there Stood gigantic and proud,
! man who played the violin. This
sphere-was it the sun? l do not know.
But in the features of the man l recog-
nized Paganini. ideally beautified, ce-
lestially purified, lovingly smiling: His
! body bloomed in strongest manliness,
q light blue garment inclosed the emo
bled limbs. around his shoulder billow-
ed in shining curls the black hair,
and as he stood there, firm and sure,
an uplifted image Of God and played
the violiH. it was as though the whole
creation Larkened to his tones.
| TT ~, IL
whom the universe moved with meas
ured solemnity and sounded in celcs-
tial rhythm. Those large lights, which
hoated around him in such peaceful
splendor, were they the stars Of heav-
en-? And that sounding harmony that
rose from their motions, was it the
song Of the spheres. Of which poets
and seers have told such delightful
things? Sometimes. wien l strained
my sight into the dawning distance, l
thought to see all flowing white gar
ments, wherein were hidden colossal
pilgrims, with white slaves In their
hands, and, curious, the golden buttons
Of the slaves were the great lights
.yhich had thought were stars. These
pilgrims moved in wide circles around
the player, ever more shining did the
golden buttons Of the slaves become
from the tones Of his violin, and the
choral songs that came from their lips
and those had thought were the
songs Of the spheres were really only
the dying echoes Of that violin. An un-
namable holy fervor dwelled in these
strains. which sometimes trenbled,
hardly audible. like secret whispering
on the water, again swelled, sweet
thrilling, like the hunting horn in the
moonlight, and then at last roared on
with unbridled delight, as If q thou
sand bards were striking the strings Of
their harps and raising their voices to
q song Of triumph. These were strains
such as the ear never hears, but only
the heart can dream when it lies at
night on the bosom Of the beloved
New York Press.