From the balls, and mirth, and popularity of Prague, Mozart returned to Vienna, to hear of his father's illness and death. In educating the genius of his son, the old man had deemed that in Wolfgang's fortune and fame, his labour and assiduity would be abundantly repaid. Alas! he was doomed to disappointment; the precious plant he had reared was already bruised and beaten by the world's rude wind. He lived long enough to see his vision of brightness fade away, and to die worn out and disappointed, in loneliness and almost absolute want. His much loved son already exhibited symptoms of decay. The wear and tear of life had weakened a frame fragile at its best.

In April, 1789, Mozart left Vienna on a tour, in company with his pupil; the Prince Von Lichnowsky accommodated him with a seat in his carriage as far as Berlin. His reception by Frederick William II, of Prussia, was highly favourable. Pecuniarily, however, he was not much benefitted by his journey. He went from Berlin to Dresden; on his return "it was evening, as he reached the door of his hotel. He had scarcely alighted before he inquired, 'Is there any music going forward here to night?'

" "Oh yes,' said the master, 'the German opera has just begun.' "Indeed! and what do they give to-day?"

"Die Eutführung aus dem Serail.'

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Charming!' cried Mozart, laughing with delight.

'Yes,' said the man, 'it is a very pretty piece indeed; let me see, who composed it?""

In the meantime, Mozart was gone. Entering the theatre in his travelling dress, he first established himself at the entrance of the pit, that he might listen unobserved; now pleased with the execution of certain passages, now dissatisfied with the tune of the pieces, or with the fioriture of the singers; advancing insensibly as the interest gained upon him, towards the bar of the orchestra, humming this or that phrase, sometimes in a subdued, sometimes in a louder tone, and unconsciously exciting the general wonder at the eccentric behaviour of the little man in the old great coat, he was close behind the musicians, when they came to Pedrillo's air, "Frisch zum Kampfe, frisch zum streit." The manager had either employed an incorrect score, or some one had been making attempts to improve the harmony, for at the frequently repeated passage "Nun ein feiger Tropf verzagt," the second violins always played a D sharp, instead of a D natural. This was too much for the patience of Mozart, who now called out aloud, "Confound it, play D natural." Everybody stared, and particularly the musicians in the orchestra, some of whom recognized him, and now "Mozart is in the house," ran like wildfire from the orchestra to the stage. The singers were in great agitation at the intelligence, and one of them who played the part of Blondine, could not be prevailed on to re-appear. The music director, aware of the embarrassment,

informed Mozart of it, who was in an instant behind the scenes. "What are you alarmed at, madame," said he to the singer, "you have sung capitally-capitally: and if you wish to give the part still more effect, I will study it with you myself."

The King of Prussia would have detained Mozart, and given him a pension of three thousand dollars a year; but a kind word from the Emperor Joseph, brought him back to Vienna and starvation. But it mattered little. Already the clouds were lowering round his early grave. Two worthless boon companions -Shicander, the director of a theatre, for whom Mozart wrote the Zauberflöte, and Stadler, a clarionet player,-abused his confidence in every possible way, and led him into yet deeper embarrass

ments.

His last year was one of untiring, heroic, activity. Day and night he would keep at the composition of the Zauberflöte, till from weariness and excitement he would fall into a swoon. In the August of the year in which he died, a stranger brought him a letter without any signature, the purport of which was to inquire whether he would undertake the composition of a requiem, by what time he would be ready with it, and his price. His wife advised him to undertake it. In a few days the mysterious stranger returned and paid in advance twenty-five ducats,-half the required price. He immediately commenced the requiem, which would have been finished at the required time, had he not been called to Prague, to compose an opera for the coronation of the Emperor Leopold. The subject proposed by the council of the Bohemian nobility, was "La Clemenza."

Upon his return he again worked at the requiem, though with the strange presentiment that it was for himself. He believed that he was poisoned, and that the hour of his death drew nigh. Gradually his health became so much worse that his physicians ordered him to relinquish his work. He did so for a time, but when he became convalescent he again returned to it, and with the requiem his illness returned. Day by day he grew worse. At length it became apparent that he was hastening from a world he had found rugged, toilsome, and false: that the splendid mockery of his life was about to be dissolved by the cold hand of death.

"It was late in the evening of December, 1791, that his sisterin-law returned, but only to witness his dissolution. She had left him so much better that she did not hasten to him. Her own account may now be given.

"How shocked was I when my sister, usually so calm and selfpossessed, met me at my door, and in a half-distracted manner said, 'God be thanked that you are here. Since you left he has been so ill that I never expected him to outlive this day. Should he be so again, he will die to-night. Go to him and see how he is.' As I approached his bed, he called to me, 'It is well that you are

here. You must stay to-night and see me die.' I tried as far as I was able, to banish this impression, but he replied, The taste of death is already on my tongue; I taste death, and who will be near to support my Constance if you go away?" I returned to my mother for a few minutes, to give her intelligence, for she was anxiously waiting, as she might have supposed the fatal scene already over, and then hurried back to my disconsolate sister. Süssmayer was standing by the bedside, and on the counterpane lay the requiem, concerning which Mozart was still speaking and giving directions. He now called his wife, and made her promise to keep his death secret for a time from every one but Albrechtsleger, that he might thus have an advantage over the other candidates for the vacant office of Rapell Meister to St. Stephen's. His desire in this respect was gratified, for Albrechtsleger received the appointment. As he looked over the pages of the requiem for the last time, he said, with tears in his eyes, 'Did I not tell you was writing this for myself?'

I

"At the arrival of the physician, Dr. Closser, cold applications were ordered to his burning head, -a process which was endured by the patient with extreme shuddering, and which brought on the delirium from which he never recovered. He remained in this state for two hours, and at midnight expired."

Thus died Mozart, at the age of thirty-five years and ten months. Had he lived more like a hero,-had he been truer to his mission and his genius, had he had the manhood to trample on the silken cords by which he was chained to earth,-had he turned away from the voluptuous snares by which men are degraded and undone, he would have avoided the clouds by which his short life was clouded in untimely gloom. As it was, we know no life more melancholy than his none with a moral truer or more sad. From his brilliant genius he reaped in the main little more than disappointment and premature decay. It is true, fame taught the world his name; it is true that high-born beauty smiled on him in the brilliant ball-room or the fashionable salon; it is true that men of imperial descent, with coronets and crowns, condescended to admire the magic powers that had filled Europe with delight; it is true that diamond snuff-boxes were showered upon the man: but he might have learnt-and it is time that all men learn the lesson-that when God gives man life and genius, it is that the man thus richly dowered may work out much more glorious results than those Mozart achieved in the pomps and pageants of a court. Not in such places can heroism be done, or the heroic inspiration caught. Far from us be the language of censure: we write this more in sorrow than in anger. We mourn the failings of the gifted of our race, and we point them out, that the rocks on which they shipwrecked may be shewn. There is no necessity that the life of genius should be the heart saddening tale it has ever been. To no

class of men has a good God denied the happiness resulting from the discharge of duty. Unhappily for Mozart, he had been nursed from his cradle for the life he led. Self-denial he never had the opportunity to acquire. Had he lived longer, he might possibly have grown in wisdom and in strength. As it was, just as the prospects of life were brightening, he went down worn and weary to his grave. Notwithstanding his faults, he was a generous, loving man, and worthy of a path less rugged that that he trod. His works remain, the starry-pointing pyramid of one who excelled in every species of composition, from the impassioned elevation of the tragic opera to the familiar melody of the birthday song; nor will they cease to command universal admiration while music retains its power as the exponent of sentiment and passion.

J. E. R.

RHYMES FOR THE FREE.

BY J. EWING RITCHIE.

A VOICE has gone across the sea,
A shout from off the land :
England's freeborn peasantry

In manliness they stand.

The wretchedness, the scorn, the poverty, the pain,
Of age succeeding age hath not been felt in vain,

WALKS ABOUT VIENNA, AND

SKETCHES BY THE WAY.

WHAT! never yet been to Vienna, gentle reader! Then have you indeed omitted to peruse one of the most interesting and important chapters in the whole book of German life. It is, however, one wherein abound the greatest and most striking contradictions that ever were found jumbled together in the same volume: contradictions which, albeit they roll along in apparently happy companionship, nevertheless are not without producing manifold and seriously antagonistic effects upon every honest human heart; and although an attentive observer may find therein many features which cannot but deeply interest and please him, there are many, many more, which, to every mind that is rightly thinking and free, cannot fail to be as deeply painful.

Life in Vienna! three small words, but of significant import! How unlike life in Paris, London, or Rome, or indeed any other description of life in the whole world! How unlike what we have been taught to expect or believe in a country where education boasts of being fifty years in advance of all others! Yes, life in Vienna stands alone-per se-and you will say so too, if ever you find time enough to visit and explore it.

True it is that the surface appears clear and calm, but it is equally true that the under current is ever turbid and restless. It is made up of contrarieties, and we will venture to say that so much light combined with so thick a darkness: so much education and outward morality, and so much known and tolerated secret vice: so much to attract, and so much to repel: so much politeness, and so much that is rude: so much openness and seeming sincerity, and so much that is calculated to deceive: so much refinement, and so much coarseness: so much apparent freedom and enjoyment, and so much wretched thraldom both of body and soul:-do not, and we think could not, exist under any other government, or in any other country, on the face of this beautiful, but much abused creation.

The mere traveller, who visits Vienna for the acknowledged everyday purpose of "seeing all that is to be seen," must, however voracious his appetite, inevitably come away again without having seen any thing of this, for to him life in Vienna is a sealed book.