in hand. Having illustrated by parallels, I may
say that what Moscheles is as composer for the
pianoforte, Molique is for the Violin—not always
spontaneous, but always interesting by ingenuity
and distinct individuality. The concert pieces
of Molique will not grow antiquated. They
are quainter and less cloying than Spohr's;
perhaps less advantageous in displaying the
executant, but demanding, in their final
movements especially, a certain humour, clear of
eccentricity, which gives them a great relish,
and is totally unborrowed. In Herr Molique's
chamber-music there is more labour and less
freedom, but everywhere traces of a sincere and
thoughtful musician, which must interest those
who value the thorough workmanship of an
intelligent head and hand. If it be added that
many a charlatan without a tithe of Herr
Molique's ideas, or a fiftieth part of his skill
in treating the same, has amassed a fortune,
whereas his long life, now drawing towards
eventide, of honourable toil, extended usefulness,
and the respect due to one without a taint,
jealousy, littleness, or intrigue, has been ill
recompensed, the purpose of such a revelation will be
easily divined—not to sadden those who love
Art, but to cheer them, by giving them a chance
of cheering the latter days of one to whom every
sincere student of the Violin and violin-music
owes a debt.

THE COUNTESS'S LOVER.

"MY dear sir, you know nothing about it,"
said the countess.

I know it is very improper to begin a story
in this fashion; but if I were to tell you, reader,
how I knew the countess, and especially how
the argument which she closed in this peremptory
manner began, it would take us both too
much time, and leave my story just as it is now;
still waiting to be told.

"My dear madam," I replied, mildly.

"No, and ten times no," she interrupted,
with her brightest smile; and though she was not
young, oh! how bright those smiles of the French
countess could be, and how they took one back
to the days when those soft dark eyes of hers
had made the sunshine of many a foolish heart!

"No," she said, with a little sigh; "love, a
sort of love, is common enough, but adoration is
rare. To my knowledge, I have been adored
but once". You fancy, perhaps, it was when I
was presented to Marie Antoinette and was
pronounced the beauty of the day; you imagine it
was later, when I appeared at the imperial court,
in the full maturity of my charms, to use
imperial phraseology. My dear sir, nothing of
the kind. Look at that picture up there; it is
my portrait by Greuze, when I was nine years of
age. Well then, about the time that picture
was painted I was adored."

"By whom?" I asked, point blank.

She was silent awhile; then she put a
question in her turn.

"How do you like that face?" she said.
She looked at a portrait by Velasquez. I saw
the fair-haired semblance of a Spaniard in black
velvet, with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
A pale, mild face this was, yet manly and
serene, with great nobleness of expression.

"You do not mean to say that you were
adored by that gentleman?" I remarked, rather
sceptically.

"Of course not. We were not contemporaries;
but I was adored by one singularly like
him, and I bought the portrait for his sake. I
am fond of pictures."

She need not have told me that. The boudoir
in which we sat was full of them. Some she
had inherited, some she had purchased; they
were all first rate. It was a pleasure to sit with
this bright old lady who had been so lovely,
and to look at a glorious Claude, taking you to
fairyland with a hazy mysterious sunset, or to
wander with Watteau's shepherds and
shepherdesses in the fairest and coolest of
Arcadian landscapes. These two masters were her
favourites. I know she was all wrong. I know,
too, that if she liked the one she ought to have
detested the other; but I am not bound to
justify or explain her taste. I simply state it.
The countess had a ready tongue, and could
find plenty to say for herself on this, and indeed
on any subject.

"I like Claude," she told me once, " because
I never saw any landscapes like his; and I like
Watteau, because he gives me the men and
women of my youth in an allegory. I do not
care about nature in pictures or in books. It
wearies me there, and delights me out of either."

"And you do not much care for figures," I
replied. '"You have no sacred or historical
pictures."

"No; they crowd a room so. I hate to have
faces staring at me from the walls."

"And yet you have two, my dear countess
—that divine little Greuze and that noble
Velasquez."

"That divine little Greuze is your humble
servant," she said, with a smile; "and the
Velasquez is a very fine one—A Don Juan
something or other."

The Greuze was indeed divine. It showed a
child's face resting on its pillow, and looking at
you with beautiful dark eyes. It showed that,
and no more. But what a face! How sweet,
how calm, how fair! It was scarcely childish,
so strange was its beauty. It was somewhat
pale, for it had been taken in sickness; but, I
repeat it, it was divine.

"And so you were like that when you were
adored by that fine Velasquez?" I now said,
wishing to lead her on.

"Yes; a pretty child, as you see," she
carelessly replied.

"But, my dear madam, how did you know
Velasquez, and how did Velasquez know you?"

"In the first place, his name was not
Velasquez, but Pierre; in the second, you will not
understand why he adored me, and how I knew
it, if I do not tell you a long story."

"My dear countess," I said, confidentially,
"you know you want to tell me that story, and
you know I am longing to hear it."