NILSSON sings again. As her delicious notes die out in the thunder of
applause, I make my way out of the Hall, into the clear and silent
night. For not even the witchery of VIEUXTEMPS'S violin is fit to mate
in memory with the peerless tones of NILSSON.
Here I meant to do some fine writing, but as this is PUNCHINELLO, and
not the "Easy Chair" of Harper's Magazine, I conquer the temptation.
Wherefore I accept the gratitude of my readers, and sign myself