Here our young artist was promptly received in the extraordinary world of musicians, artists, authors, wits, and social celebrities which then, as now, made Paris so delightful for those possessing the countersign of admission.  Baillot, the violinist, gave a private concert in his honor, in which he in company with Spohr played before an audience made up of such artists and celebrities as Cherubini, Auber, Herold, Adam, Lesueur, Pacini, Paer, Habeneck, Plantade, Blangini, La-font, Pleyel, Ivan Muller, Viotti, Pellegrini, Boieldieu, Schlesinger, Manuel Garcia, and others.  These areopagites of music set the mighty seal of their approval on Moscheles’s genius.  He was invited everywhere, to dinners, balls, and fetes, and there was no salon in Paris so high and exclusive which did not feel itself honored by his presence.  His public concerts were thronged with the best and most critical audiences, and he by no means shone the less that he appeared in conjunction with other distinguished artists.  He often entertained parties of jovial artists at his lodgings, and music, punch, and supper enlivened the night till 3 A.M.  Whoever could play or sing was present, and good music alternated with amusing tricks played on the respective instruments.  “Altogether,” he writes, “it is a happy, merry time!  Certainly, at the last state dinner of the Rothschilds, in the presence of such notabilities as Canning or Narischkin, I was obliged to keep rather in the background.  The invitation to a large, brilliant, but ceremonious ball appears a very questionable way of showing me attention.  The drive up, the endless queue of carriages, wearied me, and at last I got out and walked.  There, too, I found little pleasure.”  On the other hand, he praises the performance of Gluck’s opera at the house of the Erards.  The “concerts spirituels” delight him.  “Who would not,” he says, “envy me this enjoyment?  These concerts justly enjoy a world-wide celebrity.  There I listen with the most solemn earnestness.”  On the other hand, there are cheerful episodes, and jovial dinners with Carl Blum and Schlesinger, at the Restaurant Lemelle.  “Yesterday,” he writes, “Schlesinger quizzed me about my slowness in eating, and went so far as to make the stupid bet with me, that he would demolish three dozen oysters while I ate one dozen, and he was quite right.  On perceiving, however, that he was on the point of winning, I took to making faces, made him laugh so heartily that he couldn’t go on eating; thus I won my bet.”  We find the following notice on the 20th of March:  “I spent the evening at Ciceri’s, son-in-law of Isabey, the famous painter, where I was introduced to one of the most interesting circles of artists.  In the first room were assembled the most famous painters, engaged in drawing several things for their own amusement.  In the midst of these was Cherubini, also drawing.  I had the honor, like every one newly introduced, of having my portrait taken in caricature.  Begasse