had to go yesterday with Cannabich to Count Savioli to fetch my present, which was, as I imagined it would be, nothing in money, but a handsome gold watch. I would rather have had ten carolins than the watch-although with its chain and devices it is worth twenty carolins-for on a journey money is necessary. I have now, with your permission, five watches, and I have a great mind to have another watch-pocket made in all my clothes in order that when I visit noblemen I may wear two watches, and at least prevent any of them from presenting me with another watch."

was

This genius, burdened with gold watches, deficient in gold coins, was at church one day in Mannheim, and when the priest gave out the "Gloria" he made a cadence. A universal stare spread over the congregation, and some actually exclaimed audibly, it Mozart there. so different from anything ever heard took a phrase from the "Sanctus" and fugued upon it. Before service concluded he played another fugue on another phrase which had been used that morning. The people in the orchestra laughed with surprised delight, and made all kinds of grimaces with their faces while Mozart played. Behold that light, slim stripling, so delicate, so like a child even yet! He cannot get an honourable situation. He flings off fugues and other offsprings of genius and learning as if they were mere trifles, lost to the world now, but which would have made the fame and fortune of many another man.

Here we have Mozart staying long months at Mannheim, dancing attendance on the vacillating Elector, longing for an appointment there, now and then performing prodigies on the organs in various churches, because "it came from my heart," he says. What keeps him, pray? Well, among other things, a certain M. Weber has a daughter who possesses a pure and beautiful voice, sings admirably, and is just fifteen years of age. She has nothing to study but the action to be a prima donna on any stage. She sings my air from 'De Amicis admirably." This quotation is from a letter to his father, in which Mozart mentions for the first time this clever daughter of M. Weber. Evidently she has produced a deep impression on Mozart's mind and feelings. It is not a safe business at all for this poor genius, inspired by youth and sentiment, afflicted with empty pockets, to be listening to M. Weber's daughter.

About this time Mozart paid a visit to the Princess of Weilburg's, at Kirchhiem-Poland, in company with M. Weber and his daughter. This was a lovely excursion in several senses. The princess was a wonderful amateur in music. Mozart played for her, composed for her, and was in capital spirits. He was well paid by her Royal Highness, and thus spent eight dreamy, happy days, basking in the sunshine of Royalty, displaying his wondrous gifts, and drinking in nectar from the looks and voice of M. Weber's daughter.

"As a dream when one awaketh," so was the terrible reality when Mozart returned to Mannheim. He had composed his wondrous Twelfth Mass in vain. The naked truth forced itself upon him-he had nothing to hope for in Mannheim. Hope deferred made his heart sick, and he set out for Paris. Before his departure he received a letter from his father, too long for quotation, full of wise counsel and paternal solicitude. Leopold Mozart had ventured much

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for his gifted children; he had incurred heavy expenses; he felt himself getting old and near his end. He put his whole heart into this long letter-sad, pious, affectionate, and disappointed as that heart was. The letter thus concludes: "I am persuaded that you do not only consider me as your father, but as your truest and most faithful friend, and that you know and see that our happiness or unhappiness-nay, more, my longer life or speedy death-is, under God, in your hands. If I know you aright I have nothing but pleasure to expect from you, which thought must console me in your absence for the paternal loss in not seeing, hearing, and embracing you. Lead the life of a good Catholic Christian, love and fear God, pray to Him with devotion and sincerity, and let your conduct be such that should I never see you more, the hour of my death may be free from apprehension. From my heart I bless you, and remain till death, your faithful father, and most sincere friend, LEOPOLD MOZART."

Mozart and his mother arrived in Paris on March 23, 1778. The great commotion occasioned by the rivalries of Gluck and Piccini had just terminated in the triumph of the former. From Gluck the French vocalists had learned to scream and shout in an ear-piercing manner, under the impression that that was impressive singing, which sorely afflicted the delicate nerves and ears of Mozart. Marie Antoinnette was at Paris, and French society was displaying that lurid glare which preceded the first French Revolution.

Those unfortunate beings called the "common people" often cast longing looks towards the fashionable circles and higher classes of society, and think what heaven and bliss it must be to penetrate those charmed enclosures. This felicity was often afforded Mozart at Paris. Here is his own description of a visit to the Duchesse de Bourbon :

On my arrival I was ushered into a great room without any fire, and as cold as ice, and there I had to wait for half an hour till the duchess came. At length she appeared, and very politely requested me to excuse the clavier, as not one in the house was in order, but said she would be very glad to hear me play. I replied that I should be most happy to play something, but that at present it was impossible, as I could not feel my fingers from cold, and I requested that she would have the goodness to let me go into a room where there was a fire."

After politely allowing this, the interview thus proceeded :

"She then sat down and began to draw in company with several gentlemen, who all made a circle round a large table. This lasted for an hour, during which time I had the honour to be in attendance. The windows and doors were open, and my hands were not merely as cold as ice, but my feet and body too, and my head began to ache. There was total silence, and I could not tell what was to come of the cold, and headache, and tediousness. I at last played on the wretched, miserable piano. What most annoyed me was that madame and all the gentlemen continued their drawing without a moment's cessation, and consequently I was obliged to play to the walls, chairs, and tables. Such a combination of vexatious circumstances quite overcame my patience, and after going through one half of the Fischer' variations I rose up. Put me down to the best

clavier in Europe, but with people for hearers who either do not or will not understand, and I should lose all pleasure in playing."

While Mozart was waiting in Paris for an appointment he had abundant opportunities of studying the French character at that time. He describes in letters to his father the want of thought and the want of heart in the upper classes, which were the outgrowth of centuries of misrule, outside religion, and frivolous manners. He looked at the world from the musician's point of view, but he saw many symptoms of that social and political eruption which so terribly convulsed Europe. We may not wander so far afield as to write about the French Revolution, and may therefore ask how did Mozart support himself during those long, auxious months? Chiefly by teaching music. Teaching is not the poetic side of this divine art, as many teachers can testify.

One of Mozart's pupils was a daughter of the Duke de Guines. The duke was an admirable flute player, the daughter could play well on the harp. She had such a memory that she could play 200 pieces without looking at the book, but she had no genius. The father wished her to learn composition, and paid Mozart handsomely to give her two hours' instruction daily. The following is an account of the fourth lesson :

"We now commenced writing in three parts. She tried it, and fatigued herself in attempts, but in vain; it was impossible to help her, and we cannot move on. In science one must advance by the proper gradations. She has no genius, and nothing comes. I have tried her in every imaginable way. Among others it occurred to me to place a very simple minuet before her, to see whether she could make a variation upon it. That was all to no purpose. Now, thought I, she does not know how to begin, so I varied the first bar for her, and told her to continue the variation pursuing that idea; and at length she got through tolerably well. I next requested her to begin something herself-the first part only-a melody; but after a quarter of an hour's cogitation nothing came." In this way the genius of Mozart was chained to dullness and drudgery in order to obtain a livelihood. This work paid better than the creations of his genius.

The letters of Leopold Mozart have been greatly admired for their prudence, fulness, and minuteness. Such letters have seldom passed between father and son. The plan on which he worked is thus described by himself in one of his letters to Mozart when in Paris :"I should forget a hundred things that I wished to write to you about, if I were not to make brief memoranda on a sheet of paper, which I especially reserve for that purpose. When anything strikes me which it is desirable I should communicate to you, I note it down in a few words, and when I write to you I take this sheet of paper, and first extract the novelties, then read your last letter through, and reply to it." So it appears in these letters there were not only affection and solicitude, but business, thoroughness, and systematic industry.

While Mozart was waiting at Paris, writing operas which were never performed, instructing persons of distinction in the mysteries of composition, waiting for an appointment or an opportunity, an event occurred, the saddest and most melancholy which had crossed

his path--his mother died after a fortnight's illness. That tender, loving, nervous mother, who had ventured forth so devotedly into the wide, wide world, to share the vicissitudes of her gifted son! The tremor of the father, which would not allow him to look on his wife and son when they were leaving home for Paris, was a premonition. Well might that husband and father weep! The son he did receive back again; but the wife he never saw more. What were Mozart's emotions in that wild, gay city of Paris, during the awful fortnight of his mother's illness terminating in death? These may be best ascertained from a letter which he wrote to a friend, whom he requested to break the sad intelligence to his father :"PARIS, July 3, 1778.

"My dear Friend,-Sympathise with me on this the most wretched and melancholy day of my life. I write at two o'clock in the morning to inform you that my mother-my dearest mother-is no more! God has called her to Himself. I saw clearly that nothing could save her, and resigned myself entirely to the will of God: He gave and He can take away. Picture to yourself the state of alarm, care, and anxiety in which I have been kept for the last fortnight. She died without being conscious of anything; her life went out like a taper. Three days ago she confessed, received the sacrament and extreme unction; but since that time she had been constantly delirious and rambling, until this afternoon at twenty-one minutes after five, when she was seized with convulsions, and immediately lost all perception and feeling. I pressed her hand and spoke to her, but she neither saw me, heard me, nor seemed in the least sensible; and in this state she lay for five hours-namely, till twenty-one minutes past ten, when she departed, no one being present but myself, M. Haine, and the nurse.

"I cannot at present write you the whole particulars of the illness, but my belief is that she was to die-that it was the will of God. Let me now beg the friendly service of you to prepare my poor father by gentle degrees for the melancholy tidings. I wrote to him by the same post, but told him no more than that she was very ill, and I now await his answer, by which I shall be guided. May God support and strengthen him! Oh! my friend, through the especial grace of God I have been enabled to endure the whole with fortitude and resignation, and have long since been consoled under this great loss. In her extremity I prayed for two things-a blessed dying hour for my mother, and courage and strength for myself; and the gracious God heard my prayer and richly bestowed those blessings upon me. Pray, therefore, dear friend, support my father. Say what you can to him, in order that when he knows the worst he may not feel it too bitterly. I commend my sister also to you from the bottom of my heart. Call on both of them soon, but say no word of the death-only prepare them. You can do and say what you will; but let me be so far at ease as to have no new misfortune to expect. Comfort my dear father and my dear sister, and pray send me a speedy answer. Adieu."

It is delightful to see the exceeding goodness of Mozart's heart as displayed on this trying occasion. By the same post he wrote a letter 10 his father, for he could not trust his friend absolutely; and by his

own hand endeavoured to prepare his father for what was sure to be an overwhelming shock. He says:-"My dear mother is very ill... They want to give me hope; but I have not much. I have been long already-for days and nights together-between hope and fear; but I have now entirely resigned myself to the will of God, and I hope that you and my dear sister will do the like. What are the means, then, to give us calm and peace, in a degree, if not absolutely? I am resigned, let the end be what it may, because I know that God, who, however mysteriously He may proceed to human eyes, ordains everything for the best, so wills it; and I am not easily persuaded out of the belief that neither physician nor any other man, neither misfortune nor accident, can either take or give life, but God alone." See that brave youth, out of his own deep sorrow, trying to comfort and calm his aged father and trusting sister!

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And what of that father, when he received this preparatory epistle? Ah! the correspondence between father and son shows what great-souled men those are who rise to eminence in music. With them music is no idle pastime or frivolous amusement; it is the language of the heart embellished and enriched by genius and culture. Leopold Mozart wrote, "My dear wife and son.' Poor fellow! He thought that wife was still living. He says, "I wish you all manner of happiness, and pray Almighty God to preserve you many years." He adds, "This is what lies most on my heart-to be separated from you, to be at such a distance." Poor man! chained to his place by an arduous and exacting profession, his wife and son yonder in Paris. Addressing his son, Leopold says, "We have so wept together as scarcely to be able to read your letter." "Great and merciful God! Thy will be done; but what am I to conclude from your letter? Why, she may be dead even now. . . .” "I place confidence in your filial affection, that you have taken every earthly care of your excellent mother, and will do so, if she be spared to us. She was so proud of you—I know better than you— she lived so wholly for you. "Your sister intended writing in this letter, but tears gush into her eyes so fast that she cannot.. "She is gone," adds the father passionately; "you take too much pains to comfort me." Before the letter was finished the friend came in, and after some preliminaries the inevitable truth came out. And this affectionate husband could not even attend the funeral of his loved wife!

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Here let us leave the sorrowing family for awhile. The death of bis mother closed another chapter in the eventful life of Mozart. After this great change in the family he entered on a new era in his H. MARSDEN.

career.

Hurst, December 1, 1875.