Julius Epstein, when I first made his acquaintance, was thirty-four years of age, tall, slight, and of a sallow complexion, with raven black hair, moustache, and whiskers, as carefully attended to as those of the most dandified "plunger" in the Vienna garrison...When he was seated at the piano his body never swayed or swerved in the least, even whilst his long white fingers were achieving marvels of agility, but preserved the rigidity and severe tenue of a model drill-sergeant under inspection. That such a type of deportment should be frugal in his dealings with the pedals was a natural consequence of the imperturbable sobriety characterising his every action... In one respect his playing was always a treat; in another, a disappointment. It was as nearly faultless as anything done by human hands could be ; but it never made the least apparent effort to awaken the sympathies of the audience for the composer, or to place the performer en rapport with those around him. That Epstein would play every note of the music assigned to him, exactly in conformity with all the author's indications touching time, accent, and emphasis, was a foregone conclusion to all habitues of Vienna concert-rooms ; but it was no less certain that his faithful rendering of what he saw, and nothing more, would be absolutely devoid of enthusiasm, warmth, or sensibility.