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

ana threatening there came OUT the
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 80 Yrightfully 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, gnunt. far out Of the flow
ing monks sleeve. swept the air madly
with his bow then he seemed indeed a
magician who rules the elements with
his wand. and then 1t howled like mad
In the sea depth. and the fear stricken
blood waves then sprang SO nightly
into the air that they almost fiecked
the pale canopy OF heaven and the
black stars. with their red foam. 1t
howlcd. it shrieked, it cracked, as If
the world were about to break into
ruins. and ever more stubDornly did
the monk scrnpe his violin. He meant,
! with the might Of his rnving will. to
break the seven seals with which Solo
mon had closed the iron pots Ifter 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
heard while Paganinis violin growl-
ed its argriest bass tones. But at last
thought to hcar exultations Of liberia
ton, and from the red blood waves
there rose the heads Of the unfcttered
demons-monsters Of fabled ugliness.
crocodiles with bats wings. snakes
with antlers, sen dogs with patriarchal
long boards. green camel heads. all star
Ing with cold. sagacious eyes and
reaching with long fins ut the Gddlin .
monk. In his madness his hood had
fallen from his face, and the curling
hair, blown wildly by the wind. twined
! around his head :.kc black scrpcnss
The appearance .as so Grazing that
; closed my eyes. Then the whole en-
! chantment vanished, and when 1 look
ed up again 1 saw the poor Genoan in
his customary shape, making his Gus
toniury 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
figuration 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 n cathedral, and
nll the surroundings had expanded
wide and high to n space colossal, such
us not the bodily eye, but only the eye
Of the spirit. can grasp. In the middle
Of the space floated n flaming sphere,
where there stood, gigantic and proud,
q man who played the violin. This
spherc-wns it the sun? do not know.
But In the features Of the man l recog-
nized Paganini, ideally beautiGed. &C.
lestially purified, lovingly smiling> Ills
body bloomed in strongest man!incss.
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 violin. 1t was as though the whole
creation Lnrkcneti to his tones.
He was the man planet, around
whom the universe moved with meas
ured solemnity and sounded in coles
tial rhythm. Those large lights, which
hoated around him in such peaceful
splendor, were they the stars OF bcav-
en-? And that sounding harmony that
rose from their motions. was 1t the
song Of the spheres. OF which poets
and seers have told such delightful
things? Sometimes. wien I strained
my sight into the dawning distance, 1
thought to see oil flowing white gar
ments.. wherein We're hidden colossal
pilgrims, with white slaves In their
hands, and, curious, the golden buttons
of the slaves were the great lights
Ihich 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 I had thought were the
songs Of the spheres were really only
the dying echoes Of that violin. An un-
namnble holy fervor dwelled in these
strains. which sometimes trembled,
hardly audible. like secret whispering
on the water. again swelled. sweet
thrilling, like the hunting horn in the
moonlight, and then Mt last ronred on
with unbridled delight, as if 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 cnly
~ =
night on the bosom Of the beloved
New York Press.