Chapter VI (1)

But it was no voice that mocked at her grief. Hakem proceeded that very day to the palace, and sought an interview with the queen. The guard or sentinel to whom he addressed himself, laughed at his request. "Give her majesty this paper," said the slave, "and refuse to deliver it at your peril."

The paper was forwarded to the queen--Hakem was immediately ushered into her presence.

"You promise here," she said, pointing to the missive she had received, "to revenge the death of the Duke of Lithuania. I presume some private motive of revenge against the minister and your master, prompts your conduct, and you seek from me in additional recompense for an act which you have already resolved on, but which you think will be grateful to me. Is it not so?

"Your Majesty is penetrating."

"And this recompense, what is it?"

"That which will cost you nothing, though you alone can accomplish it--the release and pardon of Augustus Glinski. Obtain this from the king--which to you will be easy--and with my own hand I will assassinate the assassin (for such you will doubtless deem him) of the Duke of Lithuania."

"I will not ask what are your motives in all this, nor how you have divined my wishes, but revenge the death of the Duke of Lithuania, and far more than the liberation of the young Augustus shall be your reward."

"I ask, and will accept no other. But his rescue must _first_ be obtained."

The queen had no objection to urge against this condition; although she had hitherto, for reasons which may be easily surmised, avoided any appearance of interest in the fate of Augustus. She acquiesced, therefore, in Hakem's demand; surprised indeed that she should have obtained the gratification of her revenge at so slight a cost.

What the influence and the reasonings of the minister could not effect, was very speedily brought about by the blandishments of the queen. Augustus Glinski was pardoned, and restored to a portion of his father's wealth and dignities.

The warrant for the release of the prisoner was conveyed to the hand of Hakem, together with a message that he was now expected to perform his part of the engagement.

Hakem, bearing this warrant, and accompanied by one of the officers of justice, proceeded to the prison of Augustus, and having liberated him, carried him forthwith to the house of the chancellor; the young man, who as yet hardly apprehended that he was master of his own movements, permitting himself without remonstrance to be led by his new conductor.

The chancellor and his daughter sat together in the same apartment to which we have already twice introduced the reader. Had his daughter been happy, what a release for Laski had been his enfranchisement from public office! "Banishment from court!" he exclaimed to one who would have condoled with him--"make way there for a liberated prisoner!" But the grief of his daughter, who strove in vain to check her flowing tears, entirely pre-occupied his mind. These tears he never chid; her sadness he never rebuked; he shared it, and by renewed kindness strove to alleviate it. They sat in silence together, when Hakem, entering, made his obeisance, and presented Augustus to the astonished Maria.

"I have saved him!" was all he said.

The joy of Maria was extreme. It was soon, however, followed by a painful embarrassment. Amongst all parties there was a sad conflict of feeling. Augustus would have given worlds to have thrown himself at the feet of Maria; but if the memory of what had occurred had not been sufficient, there stood her father in person before him--the author of his own father's death.

Hakem broke the silence. "Beautiful being!" he said, kneeling on one knee before Maria, "whom I have in secret worshipped, whom alone to worship I have lingered here in the guise and office of a slave--you bade me save _him_--and I have! Is there any thing further for thy happiness which the Arab can accomplish?"

"No, Hakem, and I feel already overburdened with gratitude for this service you have rendered me--_how_ rendered I cannot as yet divine. There is no other service now I think that any one can render me." As she spoke, her eye had already turned to the spot where Augustus, hesitating to approach or to retreat, was still standing.

"No other service! But, by the living God, there is!" cried Hakem, starting to his feet. His countenance flushed with sudden excitement; his eye kindled with some generous sentiment. "Hear me, gentle sir," he said, addressing himself to Augustus. "Nature calls for vengeance--is it not so? Christian and Mahometan, we all resemble in this. Blood cries for blood. But the hand that slew your father--it was mine. I am the first and direct object of your resentment. Let now one victim suffice. Is the Arab too ignoble a victim? That Arab is the preserver of your life, at what cost you may one day learn. Let this enhance the value of the sacrifice. Over my blood let peace be made between you." Turning once more, and bowing with deep emotion before Maria, he then, with a movement quick as thought, plunged a poniard in his bosom, and fell to the ground. "Go, tell the queen," he said to the officer of justice, who had stood a mute spectator of this scene--"tell her what you have witnessed; and add, that my promise has been fulfilled. And you, Augustus Glinski--will not this suffice? The assassin of the duke lies here before you. Oh, take her by the hand!" Then, looking his last towards Maria, he murmured--"And I, too--loved!" and closed his eyes in death.

The prayer of Hakem was granted. It was impossible to demand another sacrifice--impossible not to accept this as full atonement to the spirit of revenge. Over the body of Hakem, whom all lamented and admired, peace was made.

The generous object of the slave was fully accomplished. His death procured the long happiness of Maria.

THE LAY OF STARKATHER.

[The following lines are founded on the account given by
Saxo-Grammaticus (Lib. VIII.) of the guilt, penitence, and death
of Starkather, a fabulous Scandinavian hero, famous throughout the
North for his bodily strength and warlike achievements, as well as
for his poetical genius, of which traces are still to be found in
the metrical traditions and phraseology of his country. According
to the old legend, the existence of Starkather was prolonged for
three lifetimes, in each of which he was doomed to commit some act
of infamy; but this fiction has not here been followed out.
Oehlenschlaeger's drama, bearing the name of this hero, has many
beauties; but deviates widely from Saxo's story of his death.]

It was an aged man went forth with slow and tottering tread,
The frosts of many a Northland Yule lay thick upon his head;
A staff was in his outstretched hand, to lead him on his way,
And vainly rolled his faded eyes to find the light of day.

Yet in that ancient form was seen the pride of other years,
In ruined majesty and night the HERO there appears.
The awful brow, the ample breast, a shelter from the foe,
And there the massive weight of arm that dealt the deadly blow.

He stopped a passing stranger's steps, and thus his purpose told,--
"See here the twin swords by my side, and see this purse of gold;
Thy weapon choose to cope with One who should no longer live,
And by an easy slaughter earn the guerdon I would give.

"A hundred winters o'er my soul have shed their gathering gloom,
And still I seek, but seek in vain, an honourable tomb;
With friendly enmity consent to quench this lingering breath,
And give, to crown a warrior's life, one boon--a warrior's death.

"Of matchless might and fearless soul, with powers of song sublime,
I spread afar my name and fame in every Gothic clime;
Those godlike gifts were treasured long from blot and blemish clear,
But one dark act of fraudful guilt bedimmed my bright career.

"When Olo sat, the people's choice, in Sealand's kingly seat,
And trampled liegemen and the laws beneath his tyrant feet,
His nobles placed this glittering hoard within my yielding hand,
And bade me rid them of a rule that wide enslaved the land.

"I watched my royal victim well, I tracked his every path,
And found him with a faithless guard within the secret bath;
Yet rather had I faced an host fast rushing to the fight,
Than the eye of that unarmed man, there gleaming bold and bright.

"The fear of my defenceless foe awhile unnerved my arm,
But thoughts of glory or of gain dispelled the better charm;
The water reddened with his blood, I left the lifeless corse,
To meet myself a living death,--a lifetime of remorse.

"In every feud, in every fray, on every field of strife,
I since have fondly sought release from such a loathed life;
The foremost, who suborned my crime, have perished at my feet,
But none had heart or hand to strike the blow I longed to meet.

"Even as I am, I seek the fight, and offer as the prize
The untasted bait that bribed my soul, nor thou the boon despise;
Else, like some worn-out beast of prey, Starkather soon must lie,
Nor gain the bliss that Odin gives to men who nobly die."

"I know thee now," the stranger said, "I hear thy hated name,
I take thy gold, I take thy life, a forfeit to my claim;
My father fell beneath thy hand, his image haunts me still--
But the hour of his revenge is come, and he shall drink his fill."

He seized a sword; its sweeping edge soon laid the Hero low,
But not before his sinking arm was felt upon his foe:
"Thanks, youthful friend!" the Hero said; "now Odin's hall is won,
Its rays already greet my soul, its raptures are begun."

MOZART.[6]

The true position of the creative musical power in the scale of human genius is difficult to determine; and will be differently estimated by different minds. That it is a heavenly gift of a high order, admits of no doubt; that it exercises over men's minds a mighty, and, under due safeguards, a beneficent influence, is equally indisputable; and that its existence implies, and is closely connected with, the possession of other superior faculties, moral and intellectual, must also, we think, be clear upon reflection, though this last proposition is not so likely to be readily conceded. Yet the place which the great COMPOSER is generally allowed to occupy, in relation to the PAINTER or the POET, does not correspond either to the qualities or to the effects displayed in his art. Many would think it a disparagement to connect the names of Milton or Virgil, Raphael or Michael Angelo, with those of the greatest musical masters; and it may seem not easy to say whether this feeling is the result of injustice or accident, on the one hand; or, on the other, is founded on some deep and solid truth in the laws and elements of our nature.

The mighty magic that lies in the highest manifestations of musical composition, must command the wonder and reverence of all who understand, or even observe, its operation. The power of giving birth to innumerable forms of exquisite melody, delighting the ear and stirring every emotion of the soul, agitating us with fear or horror, animating us with ardour and enthusiasm, filling us with joy, melting us with grief, now lulling us to repose amidst the luxurious calm of earthly contentment, now borrowing wings more ethereal than the lark's, and wafting us to the gate of heaven, where its notes seem to blend undistinguishably with the songs of superior beings--this is a faculty that bears no unequivocal mark of a divine descent, and that nothing but prejudice or pride can deem of trivial or inferior rank. But when to this is added a mastery over the mysterious combinations of harmony, a spirit that can make subservient to its one object immense masses of dissimilar and sometimes discordant, sounds; and, like the leader of a battle, can ride on the whirlwind and direct the storm, till it subdue the whole soul, taking captive all our feelings, corporeal and mental, and moulding them to its will--a power of this nature seems to equal in dignity the highest faculties of genius in any of its forms, as it undoubtedly surpasses all the others in the overwhelming and instantaneous efficacy of its agency while thus working its wonders. Tame is the triumph of the artist in the exhibition-room, dim and distant the echo which the poet receives of the public praise, compared with the unequivocal and irrepressible bursts of admiration which entrance the great composer in the crowded theatre, or even with that silent incense which is breathed in the stifled emotions of his audience in some more sacred place. The nearest approach to any such enthusiastic tribute, is that which sometimes awaits the successful tragic poet at the representation of his dramas; but, besides the lion's share of applause which the actor is apt to appropriate, what dramatic writer, in our own experience or history, has been greeted with such homage as that paid to Handel, when the king and people of England stood up in trembling awe to hear his _Hallelujah_ chorus?--that which hailed Mozart from the enraptured theatres of Prague when listening to his greatest operas?--that which fanned into new fire the dying embers of Haydn's spirit, when the _Creation_ was performed at Vienna, to delight his declining days, before an audience of 1500 of the Austrian nobility and gentry?

The ancient poets felt the force of those emotions which musical sound produces, and shadowed out under its name the great principles of human harmony and social order. Societies were founded, cities built, and countries cultivated by Orpheus and Amphion, and men of analogous fame, who wielded at will this mythic power, and made all the susceptibilities of nature "sequacious of the lyre."

In one respect the fame of the composer is less diffusible than that of the poet. He requires various mechanical means and appliances for his full success. His works must be performed in order to be felt. He cannot be read, like the poet, in the closet, or in the cottage, or on the street-stall, where the threadbare student steals from day to day, as he lingers at the spot, new draughts of delicious refreshment. Few can sit down and peruse a musical composition even for its melody; and very few, indeed, can gather from the silent notes the full effect of its splendid combinations. Yet even here the great master has analogous compensations. The idle amateur, the boarding-school girl, the street minstrel, and the barrel-organ, reflect his more palpable beauties; and, subjecting them to the severe test of incessant reiteration, make us wonder that "custom cannot stale" the infinite variety that is shut up even in his simplest creations.

But the creative musician has an immeasurable advantage over both the painter and the poet in the absence of all local limitation to his popularity. Here, indeed, the painter is the least favoured by the nature of his art. The immediate presence of the prophet could only be felt at Mecca; the perfection of painting can only be seen at Rome. The poet has a wider range, and can be prized and appreciated wherever the language is known in which he writes. But the musician is still more highly privileged. He speaks with a tongue intelligible alike to every nation and class; he expresses himself in a universal character, which Bishop Wilkins would have died to possess; he needs no translation; he can suffer nothing by change of place; his works are equally and at once capable of being enjoyed at London and Naples, Paris and Prague, Vienna and St Petersburg. If the enjoyment received from his powers is not every where equally great, it is not from the want of a medium to make them understood, but from a difference in the minds to which they are presented.

The creative art of the musician is not one of mere talent, or of a certain sensual refinement and dexterity. It involves deep systematic study, closely akin to that of the severer sciences. It has a sequence and logic of its own, and excellence in it is unattainable without good sense and strong intellect. It involves great moral and pathetic sensibility, and a ready sympathy with all the joys and sorrows of mankind. And finally, the lightest branch of it is beyond the reach of any but those who are lifted up by strong feelings of reverence and devotion. Handel was a man of sincere piety, who avowed it to be the object of his compositions not merely to please men, but "to make them better."

"The character of Handel," says Mr Hogarth, in his excellent
_Musical History_, "in all its great features, was exalted and
amiable. Throughout his life he had a deep sense of religion. He
used to express the great delight he felt in setting to music the
most sublime passages of Holy Writ; and the habitual study of the
Scriptures had constant influence on his sentiments and conduct.
For the last two or three years of his life, he regularly attended
divine service in his parish church of St George's, Hanover
Square, where his looks and gestures indicated the fervour of his
devotion. In his life he was pure and blameless."--(Vol. i. 209.)

"Haydn," in like manner, (we quote from the same biographer,) "was
a stranger to every evil and malignant passion; and, indeed, was
not much under the influence of passion of any sort. But his
disposition was cheerful and gentle, and his heart was brimful of
kindly affections. He was friendly and benevolent, open and candid
in the expression of his sentiments, always ready to acknowledge
and aid the claims of talent in his own art, and, in all his
actions, distinguished by the most spotless integrity. Such is the
account of him given by all those who knew him best; and they add,
as the most remarkable feature of his character, that strong and
deeply-rooted sense of religion, which is the only solid
foundation of moral excellence. Haydn's piety was not a mere
feeling, capable, as is often the case with worldly men, of being
excited for the moment by circumstances, and dying away when the
external influence is removed; it was an active principle, which
guided the whole tenor of his life and conduct. His sacred music
was exalted by the existence, in his mind, of those devout
sentiments which it is the object of sacred music to express.
'When I was engaged in composing _The Creation_,' he used to say,
'I felt myself so penetrated with religious feeling, that before I
sat down to write, I earnestly prayed to God that he would enable
me to praise him worthily.'"--(Vol. i. 304.)

Similar feelings of strong piety, as well as of generous benevolence, animated and inspired the great and amiable man whose character is more immediately the subject of this article. It would be difficult, indeed, to think of an oratorio or requiem written by a scoffer or a sceptic.

With such exalted requisites, so intense a power, and so extensive a range of influence, it is strange that the composer should not have taken the rank and relative dignity to which he seems entitled in the province of the arts. But honour and fame are chiefly dispensed by poets and literary men; and it is impossible not to feel that, generally speaking, the musician is treated by men of letters as an alien from their own lineage. Music may be praised in vague and evasive terms; but the individual composer is not deemed deserving of mention. All the great masters of the pencil have been cordially commended in immortal verse; but of the great composers' names scarce a notice is to be found. It is not wonderful that the poet should prize above all others his own form of art. Poetry, as the mouthpiece of practical wisdom, as the clearest interpreter of all instruction, must ever hold an undisputed pre-eminence. Painting, too, as nearest akin to poetry in the objects it presents and the effects it produces, may be allowed at least to contest the palm for the second rank. But that music in the person of her most inspired sons, should have been sternly excluded from a participation in the honours awarded to her sister arts, seems an injustice which can be defended on no pleadable grounds. The explanation of it seems to be, that most of our great poets--and this has certainly been the case in England--have had no love or knowledge, and no true appreciation, of high musical composition. Milton alone seems to have been an exception; and, we cannot doubt, that if he had lived in the same age with Handel, he would have given utterance to his admiration in strains worthy of them both. The rest of our _vates sacri_, on whom immortality is proverbially said to depend, seem, generally speaking, to have been ignorance itself in this department. Several of them, indeed, have written odes for St Cecilia's day, but this does not prove that they had a taste for more than rhythm. Pope had the tact to call Handel a giant, and speaks cleverly of his "hundred hands" as sure to be fatal to the reign of Dulness.

"Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands,
Like bold Briareus, with his hundred hands,
To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes,
And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums.
Arrest him, goddess! or you sleep no more."

But no reference is made to the exquisite beauty of his compositions. The loudness is all that seems to be praised, and we suspect, that in private Pope was inclined to laugh with Swift in his disparaging comparison between Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Wordsworth has written on the "Power of Sound;" but the small part of it that touches on the musical art, does not impress us with the idea of his knowing or caring much about it, though in this, as in other things, he has the sense and philosophy to sacrifice a cock to Esculapius, and to bow down to what others worship, even where he does not himself feel the influence of a warm devotion. Collins and Moore, and perhaps a few others whom we have overlooked, ought to be excluded from this condemnation; but they have not been led to speak of individual musicians, or have not had courage to leave the beaten track.

Thus neglected by those who would have been its most faithful depositaries and most effective champions, the fame of the musical composer has been left to the guardianship of the few sound and enlightened judges who thoroughly comprehend him, to the humble but honest admiration of professional performers, to the practice and imitation of effeminate amateurs, to the cant of criticism of the worthies on the free list, and to the instinctive applause of the popular voice. Even with these humbler hands to build up his monument, the great master of music has a perpetual possession within the hearts of men, that the poet and the painter may well envy. Every chord in the human frame that answers to his strains, every tear that rises at the bidding of his cadences, every sob that struggles for an outlet at his touches of despairing tenderness, or at the thunders of his massive harmony, is a tribute to his power and his memory, enough to console his spirit if it can still be conscious of them, or to have rewarded his living labours in their progress by a bright anticipation of their effects. If nobles, and even nations, do not contend for the possession of his works, or offer a ransom for their purchase, such as is daily given for the masterpieces of the painter's power; it is the pride of his genius that his compositions cannot be appropriated or possessed. An oratorio of Handel, or an opera of Mozart, cannot become property like a picture of Raphael or Guido. They belong to mankind at large, open to all, and enjoyable by all who have the faculty to perceive, and delight in, their beauties; and in every theatre and public place, in every church and in every chamber throughout Christendom, a portion of their divine and various influence, suited to the scene and occasion, is always within reach, to make men gentler and better, happier and holier, than they would otherwise be without such manifestations of their Maker's wondrous gifts.

Nowhere can the views we have above suggested be better illustrated, than in the fate and character of the singular man who, if not the first, was yet only second to one other, among those on whom music has shed her fullest inspiration.

It is not our intention to follow minutely the events of Mozart's life. They are generally well known; and to those who wish to have a clear, complete, and judicious view of them, we can safely recommend the book noticed at the outset of this article.

Mozart was born at Salzburg in 1756, and died at Vienna in 1791, in his thirty-sixth year. But into that short space were compressed as many proofs and compositions of genius, as much joy and sorrow, as much triumph and humiliation, as would have crowded a much longer lifetime. His early indications of genius are well known, and were indeed wonderful, even as compared with those of other great composers--for Handel, Haydn, and Beethoven, all gave proofs of their musical powers in boyhood--though none of them as children showed that full maturity of mind which distinguished Mozart, and which only a few of those who witnessed it could fully appreciate. Mozart's organization was obviously of the finest and tenderest texture; but he had also many advantages in his nurture, and, among others, the inestimable blessing of a happy home, where harmony reigned in the hearts, as well as upon the lips and fingers of the inmates. His father was a man of sense and education, as well as of musical talent, and in all respects did his duty to his son throughout life, amidst many difficulties and disappointments, resulting partly from his own dependent situation at Salzburg, and partly from an over-estimate of the worldly prosperity which his son's genius should have commanded. His mother seems also to have been an excellent person; and from the remarkable letters which Mozart wrote from Paris to prepare his father for her death, after the event had happened, she appears to have been the object of the tenderest affection to her family. Mozart uniformly discharged towards his parents all the offices of pious devotion; and he was always affectionately attached to his sister, who was a few years older than himself, and whose early and distinguished skill as a performer must have been useful in assisting her brother's tastes. In 1829 the Novello family saw this lady at Salzburg, a widow and in narrow circumstances.

"We found Madame Sonnenberg, lodged in a small but clean room,
bed-ridden and quite blind. Hers is a complete decay of nature;
suffering no pain, she lies like one awaiting the stroke of
death, and will probably expire in her sleep.... Her voice was
scarcely above a whisper, so that I was forced to lean my face
close to hers to catch the sound. In the sitting-room still
remained the old clavichord, on which the brother and sister had
frequently played duets together; and on its desk were some pieces
of his composition, which were the last things his sister had
played over previous to her illness."

With becoming delicacy, the fruits of an English subscription were presented to her on her name-day, as a remembrance from some friends of her brother.

The bane of Mozart's fortunes was the patronage on which he was dependent. His father had got into the trammels of the Archbishop of Salzburg--a sordid, arrogant, and ignorant man, who saw Mozart's value in the eyes of others, though he could not himself estimate it, and would neither pay him nor part with him. When in his twentieth year, and already a great composer and an efficient performer, Mozart was in the receipt, from this princely prelate, for the liberal use of his musical talents, of a salary equal in amount to about L1, 1s. English, per annum.

"Among a multitude of compositions that he wrote for the
archbishop's concerts, in 1775, are five concertos for the violin,
which he probably performed himself. His gentle disposition made
him easily comply with any proposal to augment pleasure, however
out of his usual course. During the following year, 1776, he seems
to have made his last great effort to awaken the archbishop to
some sense of his desert, and a due generosity of acknowledgment,
by producing masses, litanies, serenades, divertimentos for
instruments, clavier concertos, &c., too numerous for detail. But
in vain; and what aggravated the injury of this monstrous
appropriation of labour was, that the father, whose household
economy was now somewhat pinched, on applying for permission to
remedy these circumstances by a tour, was refused. From that hour
Wolfgang threw by his pen in disgust--at least as far as it
concerned voluntary labour."

It was now resolved that Mozart should leave Salzburg with his mother, and try his fortune in the world. He was every where admired; but the wonder of his childhood had passed away, and empty praise was all that he could, for the most part, earn. After lingering, in the sickness of hope deferred, at several of the German courts, his destination was at last fixed for Paris. His chance of success as a courtier was probably diminished by the blunt though kindly frankness of his opinions, and by his inability to stoop to unworthy means of rising. He had also many rivals to encounter, particularly those of the more slender school of Italian melody; and few of the public had knowledge or independence enough to forsake the inferior favourites that were in vogue.

In approaching Paris, Mozart became alarmed at the prospect of his being there compelled to resort to the drudgery of tuition for his support. "I am a composer," he said, "and the son of a kapell-meister, and I cannot consent to bury in teaching the talent for composition which God has so richly bestowed upon me." His father, more experienced in the world, and more prudential in his ideas, endeavoured to modify his alarm, and urge him to perseverance in any honourable course of employment. The father's letter at this time to his son, to apprize him of the true position of the family, and preserve him against the dangers in his path, is honourable to both, and worthy of perusal.

"This being in all probability the last letter that you will
receive from me at Mannheim, I address it to you alone. How deeply
the wider separation which is about to take place between us
affects me, you may partly conceive, though not feel it in the
same degree with which it oppresses my heart. If you reflect
seriously on what I have undergone with you two children in your
tender years, you will not accuse me of timidity, but, on the
contrary, do me the justice to own that I am, and ever have been,
a man with the heart to venture every thing, though indeed I
always employed the greatest circumspection and precaution.
Against accidents it is impossible to provide, for God only sees
into futurity. Up to this time we cannot be said to have been
either successful or unsuccessful; but, God be thanked, we have
steered between the two. Every thing has been attempted for your
success, and through you for our own. We have at least endeavoured
to settle you in some appointment on a secure footing; though fate
has hitherto decreed that we should fail in our object. This last
step of ours, however, makes my spirit sink within me. You may see
as clearly as the sun at noonday, that, through it, the future
condition of your aged parents, and of your affectionately
attached sister, entirely depends upon you. From the time of your
birth, and indeed earlier, ever since my marriage, I have found it
a hard task to support a wife, and, by degrees, a family of seven
children, two relatives by marriage, and the mother, on a certain
income of twenty-five florins a month, out of this to pay for
maintenance and the expenses of child-bed, deaths, and sicknesses;
which expenses, when you reflect upon them, will convince you that
I not only never devoted a kreutzer to my own private pleasure,
but that I could never, in spite of all my contrivances and care,
have managed to live free from debt without the especial favour of
God; and yet I never was in debt till now. I devoted all my time
to you two, in the hope and indeed reliance upon your care in
return; that you would procure for me a peaceful old age, in which
I might render account to God for the education of my children,
and, without any other concern than the salvation of my soul,
quietly await death. But Providence has so ordered, that I must
now afresh commence the ungrateful task of lesson-giving, and in a
place, too, where this dreary labour is so ill paid, that it will
not support one from one end of the year to the other; and yet it
is to be thought a matter of rejoicing if, after talking oneself
into a consumption, something or other is got by it.

"I am far, my dear Wolfgang, from having the least mistrust in
you--on the contrary, on your filial love I place all confidence
and every hope. Every thing now depends upon fortunate
circumstances, and the exercise of that sound understanding which
you certainly possess, if you will listen to it; the former are
uncontrollable--but that you will always take counsel of your
understanding I hope and pray....

"You are now a young man of twenty-two years of age; here is none
of that seriousness of years which may dissuade a youth, let his
condition be what it may--an adventurer, a libertine, a
deceiver--be he old or young, from courting your acquaintance, and
drawing you into his society and his plans. One may fall into this
danger unawares, and then not know how to recede. Of the other sex
I can hardly speak to you, for there the greatest reserve and
prudence are necessary, Nature herself being our enemy; but
whoever does not employ all his prudence and reserve in his
intercourse, will with difficulty extricate himself from the
labyrinth--_a misfortune that usually ends in death_. How blindly,
through inconsiderate jests, flattery, and play, one may fall into
errors at which the returning reason is ashamed, you may perhaps
have already a little experienced, and it is not my intention to
reproach you. 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
long life or speedy death is, under God, so to speak, in your
hands. If I know you aright, I have nothing but pleasure to expect
in you, which thought must console me in your absence for the
paternal pleasure of 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."

His reception at Paris was comparatively cold. The Parisians were scarcely done with the "faction fight" in which the rivalry of Gluck and Piccini had involved them; but none of the partisans were inclined to be enthusiastic about the new-comer. His only great admirer, and his best friend, seems to have been his acute and accomplished countryman Grimm, who prophesied that monarchs would dispute for the possession of Mozart. The prediction was fulfilled, but not in sufficient time to benefit the unhappy subject of their competition.

"Baron Grimm and myself often vent our indignation at the state of
music here, that is to say, between ourselves; but in public it is
always '_bravo! bravissimo!_' and clapping till the fingers burn.
What most displeases me is, that the French gentlemen have only
so far improved their taste as to be able to _endure_ good things;
but as for any perception that their music is bad--Heaven help
them!--and the singing--_oime!_"

Again he writes--

"You advise me to visit a great deal, in order to make new
acquaintances, or to revive the old ones. That is, however,
impossible. The distance is too great, and the ways too miry to go
on foot; the muddy state of Paris being indescribable; and to take
a coach, one may soon drive away four or five livres, and all in
vain, for the people merely pay you compliments, and then it is
over. They ask me to come on this or that day--I play, and then
they say, '_O c'est un prodige, c'est inconcevable, c'est
etonnant_;' and then '_a Dieu_.'"

"All this, however," Mr Holmes observes, "might have been endured,
so far as mere superciliousness and _hauteur_ to the professional
musician were involved, if these people had possessed any real
feeling or love for music; but it was their total want of all
taste, their utter viciousness, that rendered them hateful to
Mozart. He was ready to make any sacrifice for his family, but
longed to escape from the artificial and heartless Parisians.

"If I were in a place," he writes, "where people had ears to hear,
hearts to feel, and some small degree of perception and taste, I
should laugh heartily over all these things--but really, as it
regards music, I am living among mere brute beasts. How can it be
otherwise? It is the same in all their passions, and, indeed, in
every transaction of life; no place in the world is like Paris. Do
not think that I exaggerate when I speak thus of the state of
music here--ask any one except a native Frenchman, and if he be
fit to answer the question, he will tell you the same. I must
endure out of love to you--but I shall thank God Almighty if I
leave this place with my healthful natural taste. It is my
constant prayer that I may be enabled to establish myself, that I
may do honour to the German nation, and make fame and money, and
so be the means of helping you out of your present narrow
circumstances, and of our all living together once more,
cheerfully and happily."

Take the following vivid sketch of his task in teaching composition to a young lady:--

"Among these pupils one is daughter of the Duc de Guines, with
whom I am in high favour, and I give her two hours' instruction in
composition daily, for which I am very liberally paid. He plays
the flute incomparably, and she magnificently on the harp. She
possesses much talent and cleverness, and, in particular, a very
remarkable memory, which enables her to play all her pieces, of
which there are at least two hundred, without book. She is
doubtful whether she has genius for composition--particularly with
respect to thoughts or ideas; her father (who, between ourselves,
is a little too much in love with her) affirms that she certainly
has ideas, and that nothing but modesty and a want of confidence
in herself prevent their appearing. We shall now see. If she
really have no ideas, and I must say I have as yet seen no
indication of them, it will be all in vain, for God knows I can
give her none. It is not her father's intention to make any very
great composer of her. 'I do not wish her,' he says, 'to write any
operas, airs, concertos, or symphonies, but merely grand sonatas
for her instrument, as I do for mine.'

"I gave her the fourth lesson to-day, and, as far as the rules of
composition go, am tolerably satisfied with her; she put the bass
to the first minuet which I placed before her, very correctly. We
now commenced writing in three parts. She tried it, and fatigued
herself in attempts, but it was impossible to help her; nor can we
move on a step further, for it is too early, and in science one
must advance by the proper gradations. If she had genius--but
alas! there is none--she has no thoughts--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. I then wrote
four bars of a minuet, and said, 'What a stupid fellow I am, I
have begun a minuet, and cannot finish the first part of it. Have
the goodness to do it for me.' She distrusted her ability, but at
last, with much labour, something came to light. I rejoiced that
we got something at last. She had now to complete the entire
minuet, that is to say, the melody only. On going away, I
recommended her to alter my four bars for something of her own; to
make another beginning even if she retained the same harmony, and
only altered the melody. I shall see to-morrow how she has
succeeded."

In the midst of this irksome labour, Mozart's beloved mother expired at Paris in the summer of 1778, after a fortnight's illness. He then wrote to his father that she was "very ill," and to a family friend at Salzburg, desiring him to prepare his father and sister for the truth. The whole correspondence at this time is interesting. The letter to the Abbe Bullinger is in these words:--

"Sympathize 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 any thing--her life went out like a
taper. Three days ago she confessed, received the sacrament and
extreme unction; but since that time she has 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, a good friend of ours whom my father
knows, 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."

The letter to his father is curiously circumstantial; but if on such occasion it is allowable to deceive at all, it is allowable to make the deception complete.

"The cause of my having left your letter of the 11th of June so
long unanswered is, that I have very unpleasant and melancholy
intelligence to communicate. My dear mother is very ill. At the
beginning of her illness she was, as usual, bled, and this seemed
to relieve and do her good; but in a few days she began to
complain of sudden chills and heats, which were accompanied by
headach and diarrhoea. We began now to use the remedy that we
employ at home--the antispasmodic powder. We wished that we had
brought the black, but had it not, and could not get it here,
where even its name, _pulvis epilepticus_, is unknown. But as she
got worse continually, spoke with difficulty, and so far lost her
hearing, that it was necessary to call out in speaking to her,
Baron Grimm sent us his physician. She is still very weak, and is
also feverish and delirious. 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 every thing 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, though
these are the means which he mostly employs; but even these not
always. We see people constantly sinking and dying around us; but
I do not say, on that account, that my mother must and will die,
or that we have lost all hope. She may recover, if it be the will
of God. I, however, find consolation in these reflections, after
praying to God as earnestly as I am able for my dear mother's
health and life; they strengthen, encourage, and console me, and
you must needs think I require them. Let us now change the
subject, and quit these melancholy thoughts. Let us hope, if not
much, and put our trust in God, consoling ourselves with the
reflection, that every thing is well ordered which the Almighty
orders, and that he best knows what is essential to our temporal
happiness and our eternal salvation."

The elder Mozart had, in the mean time, without knowing of her illness, begun a letter to his wife, designed to reach her on her name-day; but, before its conclusion, he had received his son's letter, and seen the Abbe, and had thus learned not only her danger but its result.

"M. Bullinger found us, as every one else did, in deep affliction;
I handed him your letter without saying a word; he dissembled very
well; and having read it, enquired what I thought about it. I
said, that I firmly believed my dear wife was no more. He almost
feared the same thing, he told me--and then, like a true friend,
entered upon consolatory topics, and said to me every thing that I
had before said to myself. We finished our conversation, and our
friends gradually left us with much concern. M. Bullinger,
however, remained behind, and when we were alone, asked me whether
I believed that there was any ground for hope after such a
description of the illness as had been given. I replied, that I
not merely believed her dead by this time--but that she was
already so on the very day that the letter was written; that I had
resigned myself to the will of God, and must remember that I have
two children, who I hoped would love me, as I lived solely and
entirely for them; indeed, that I felt so certain, as to have
taken some pains to write to, and remind you of the consequences,
&c. Upon this he said, 'Yes, she is dead,' and in that instant the
scales fell from my eyes; for the suddenness of the accident had
prevented my perceiving, what I else should have suspected, as
soon as I had read your letter--namely, how probable it was that
you had privately communicated the real truth to M. Bullinger. In
fact, your letter stupified me--it at first was such a blow as to
render me incapable of reflection. I have now no more to say. Do
not be anxious on my account, I shall bear my sorrow like a man.
Remember what a tenderly loving mother you have had--now you will
be able to appreciate all her care--as in your mature years, after
my death, you will mine, with a constantly increasing affection.
If you love me, as I doubt not but you do, take care of your
health--on your life hangs mine, and the future support of your
affectionate sister. How incomprehensibly bitter a thing it is,
when death rends asunder a happy marriage--can only be known by
experience."

In a few days, Mozart wrote to his father again:--

"I hope that you are now prepared to receive with firmness some
intelligence of a very melancholy and distressing character;
indeed, my last letter, of the 3d, will not have encouraged you to
expect any thing very favourable. On the evening of the same day
(the 3d,) at twenty-one minutes after ten at night, my mother fell
happily asleep in God, and was already experiencing the joys of
heaven at the very moment that I wrote to you. All was over--I
wrote to you in the night, and I trust that you and my sister will
pardon this slight but very necessary artifice;--for when, after
all the distress that I had suffered, I turned my thoughts towards
you, I could not possibly persuade myself to surprise you all at
once with the dreadful and fatal news. Now, however, I hope that
you have both prepared yourselves to hear the worst; and after
giving way to the reasonable and natural impulses of your grief,
to submit yourselves at last to the will of God, and to adore his
inscrutable, unfathomable, and all-wise providence.

* * * * *

"I write this in the house of Madame d'Epinay and M. Baron de
Grimm, with whom I am now staying, and where I have a pretty
little room with a pleasant prospect, and am, as far as
circumstances will permit, happy. It would be a great additional
comfort were I to hear that my dear father and sister had resigned
themselves with fortitude and submission to the will of God;
trusting him entirely, in the full conviction that every thing is
ordered for our good. Dear father--be comforted! Dearest
sister--be comforted!--you know not the kind intentions of your
brother towards you; because hitherto they have not been in his
power to fulfil.

"I hope that you will both be careful of your health. Remember
that you have still a son--a brother--who will exert himself to
the utmost for your happiness, well knowing what sacrifices you
are both ready to make for him, and that when the time shall come,
neither of you will oppose the fulfilment of his honourable
wishes. Oh! then we will lead a life as peaceful and happy as is
attainable in this world; and at length, in God's time, meet all
together again in the enjoyment of that object for which we were
created."

We have given these letters at some length, as we think they show the worth, affection, and right feeling of the whole family.