It was in the middle of the fifties—if we are not mistaken, in the summer of 1856—that we first met in Bonn a young musician whose whole demeanour at once distinguished him from the rest of his youthful companions. Not that he was remarkable for that external freedom of manner common among artists, which, however, seldom arouses our sympathy. He seemed, on the contrary, unconcerned by the world around him, filled with an artistic ideal, absorbed in striving after some conscious aim, yet ready to share freely and amiably with others the treasures of his artistic convictions. A common interest had guided us both to the spot where the great master, so heartily honoured by all the young school—Robert Schumann—was then living, overshadowed by his heavy affliction. The young artist was eager to see the master whom he, too, so highly revered. If his natural enthusiastic manner pleased at first sight, much more did one learn to like him on hearing him speak with sincere veneration of the great master's ideas, and of their relations towards each other. This young artist was Johannes Brahms. Although at that time he was little known to the general public, those who were truly interested in the history of music had shortly before had their attention drawn to him by the glowing prophetic words with which Schumann himself had introduced him into the ranks of creative artists.