Mᶜ Rae, sc.

HANDEL.

NOUVELLETTES
OF THE
MUSICIANS.

By MRS. E. F. ELLET,
AUTHOR OF “THE WOMEN OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.”

NEW YORK:
CORNISH, LAMPORT & Co., PUBLISHERS.
ST. LOUIS:—Mc CARTNEY & LAMPORT.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851,
By CORNISH, LAMPORT & Co.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Southern District of New York.

Stereotyped by Vincent Dill, Jr.,
Nos. 21 & 23 Ann Street, N. Y.

PREFACE.

In the following series of Nouvellettes, something higher has been attempted than merely the production of amusing fictions. Each is founded on incidents that really occurred in the artist’s life, and presents an illustration of his character and the style of his works. The conversations introduced embody critical remarks on the musical compositions of great masters; the object being to convey valuable information on this subject—so little studied or known except among the few devoted to the art—in an attractive form. The view given of the scope and tendency of the works of different artists, and their relation to personal character, may also enforce a striking moral; showing the elevating influence of virtue, and the power of vice to distort even the loveliest gift of Heaven into a curse and reproach. Of the tales—“Tartini,” “Two Periods in the Life of Haydn,” “Mozart’s First Visit to Paris,” “The Artist’s Lesson,” “The Mission of Genius,” “The Young Tragedian,” and “Tamburini,” only are original; the others are adapted from the “Kunstnovellen” of Lyser and Rellstab. The sketch of the great pianist, Liszt, is translated from a memoir by Christern, a distinguished professor of music in Hamburg.

CONTENTS.

Nouvellettes of the Musicians.

HANDEL.

In the parlor of the famous London tavern, “The Good Woman,” Fleet street, No. 77, sat Master John Farren, the host, in his arm-chair, his arms folded over his ample breast, ready to welcome his guests.

It was seven in the evening; the hour at which the members of the club were used to assemble, according to the good old custom in London, in 1741. Directly before John Farren, stood Mistress Bett, his wife, her withered arms akimbo, and an angry flush on her usually pale and sallow cheeks.

“Is it true, Master John,” she asked, in a shrill tone; “is it possible! do you really mean to throw our Ellen, our only child, into the arms of that vagabond German beggar?”

“Not exactly to throw her into his arms, Mistress Bett,” replied John, quietly; “but Ellen loves the lad, and he is a brave fellow—handsome, honest, gifted, industrious——”

“And poor as a church mouse!” interrupted Bett; “and nobody knows who or what he may be!”

“Yes! his countryman, Master Händel, says there is something great in him.”

“Pah! get away with your Master Händel! he is always your authority! What is he to us, now that it is all over with him in the favor of His Majesty! While he could go in and out of Carlton House daily, I would have cared for his good word; but now that he is banished thence for his highflown insolent conduct, what is he, but an ordinary vagabond musician?”

“Hold your tongue!” cried John Farren, now really moved; “and hold Master Händel in honor! If he gives Joseph his good word, by my troth I have ground whereon I can build. Do you understand, Mistress Bett?”

The “good woman” seemed as though she would have replied at length; but before she could speak, the door opened, and two men of respectable appearance entered. Tom, the waiter, snatched up a porter-mug, filled and placed it on the round table in the middle of the room, and stood ready for further service; while Mistress Bett, flinging a scowl at both the visitors, silently left the apartment.

“Well,” cried the eldest of the two—a colossal figure, with a handsome and expressive countenance, and large flashing eyes—“well, Master John, how goes it?”

“So, so, Master Händel,” was the reply, “the better that you are just come in time to silence my good woman.”

Händel gave his hat and stick to the boy, and turned to his companion, a man about the middle height, simple and plain in his exterior; only in the corner of his laughing eye could the observer detect a world of shrewdness and waggery. His name was William Hogarth; and he was well esteemed as a portrait painter.

“You think, then,” asked Händel, keenly regarding his companion—“you think, then, Bedford would do something for my Messiah, if I got the right side of him?”

“You shall not trouble yourself to get the right side of him,” exclaimed Hogarth eagerly; “that I ask not of you; no honorable man would ask it. Speak to the point at once with him; and be sure, he will use all his influence to have your work suitably represented.”

“But is it not too bad,” cried Händel, “that I must flatter such a shallow-pate as his Grace the Duke of Bedford, to get my best (Heaven knows, William, my best) work brought before the public? If his Grace but comprehended a note of it! but he knows no more of music than that lout of a linen-weaver in Yorkshire, who spoiled my Saul in such a manner, that I corrected him with my fist.”

Hogarth replied with vivacity—“You have been eight-and-twenty years in England; have you not yet found out that the patronage of a stupid great man does no harm to a work of art? You know me, Händel; and know that I abhor nothing so much as servility, be it to whom it may. Yet, I assure you, should I deal only with those who understand my labors, and have no good word from others, I should be glad if I obtained employment enough to keep wife and child from starving. As to luxuries, and my punch clubs, that have pleased you so well, I could not even think of them. You know as well as I, that talent, a true taste for art, and wealth to support both, are seldom or never found together. Let us thank God, if the unendowed are good-natured enough not to grudge us our glorious inheritance, while they deny us not a portion of the crumbs from their luxurious tables.”

Händel was leaning with both arms on the table, his head buried in his hands. Without looking up or changing his position, he murmured, “Must it ever be so; must the time never come, when the artist may taste the pure joy he prepares through his works for others! Hogarth,” he continued, with sudden energy, while he withdrew his hands from his face, and looked earnestly at his friend, “Hogarth, would you consent to leave your country, and exercise your art in other lands?”

“What a question! Not for the world,” replied the painter.

“There it is!” cried Händel, hastily: “you have held out, and begin now to reap the reward of your constancy; but I left my dear fatherland, just as new life in art began to be stirring. Oh, how nobly, how magnificently, is it now developed there! What could I not have done with the gifts bestowed upon me? Have my countrymen achieved any thing great—they have done it without me, while I was here, tormenting myself in vain with your asses of singers and musicians, to drive a notion of what music is, into their heads. I have scarce yet numbered fifty years. I will return to my own country; better a cowherd there, than here again Director of the Haymarket Theatre, or Chapel-master to His Majesty, who, with all his court rabble, takes such delight in the sweet warblings of that Italian! Hogarth, you should paint the lambling, as the London women worship him as their idol, and bring him offerings?”

“I have already,” answered Hogarth, laughing; “but hush, our friends!”

Here the door opened, and there entered Master Tyers, then lessee of Vauxhall, the Abbe Dubos, and Doctor Benjamin Hualdy; they were followed by Joseph Wach, a young German, who had devoted himself to the study of music under Händel’s instruction, and Miss Ellen Farren, the young lady of the house. Master John arose; and Tom filled the empty porter mugs, and produced fresh ones.

Händel gave his pupil a friendly nod, and asked: “How come you on with your part? Can I hear you soon?”

“I am very industrious, Master Händel,” replied Joseph, “and will do my best, I assure you, to be perfect. You must only have a little patience with me.”

“Hem,” muttered Händel; “I have had it so long with the stupid asses in this country, it shall not so soon fail with you. Enough till to-morrow; to your prating with your little girl yonder.”

“Ah! Master Händel,” cried Ellen, pouting prettily, “you think, then, Joseph should only be my sweet-heart when he has nothing better to do?”

“That were, indeed, most prudent, little witch,” said Händel, laughing: “but ’tis ill preaching to lovers; that knows your father by experience, eh! old John?”

“Master Händel,” said the Abbe, taking the word, “do you know I was not able to sleep last night, because your chorus—‘For the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,’—ran continually in my head, and sounded in my ears? I think, good Master Händel, your glory shall be revealed through your Messiah, when you can once get it brought out suitably. But the Lord Archbishop, it seems, is against it.”

Händel reddened violently, as he always did when anger stirred him: “A just Christian is the Lord Archbishop! He asked me if he should compose me a text for the Messiah; and when I asked him quietly if he thought me a heathen who knew nothing of the Bible, or if he thought to make it better than it stood in the Holy Scriptures, he turned his back on me, and represented me to the court as a rude, thankless boor.”

“It is not good to eat cherries with the great,” observed wise John Farren.

“I thought,” muttered Händel, “this proverb was only current on the continent; but I see, alas! that it is equally applicable in the land of freedom!”

“Good and bad are mingled all over the earth,” said Benjamin Hualdy, smiling: “and their proportion is everywhere the same. We must take the world, dear Händel, as it is, if we would not renounce all pleasure. Confess then: never felt you more joy—never were you more conscious of your own merit—never thanked you God more devoutly for his gifts to you, than when at last, after long struggle with ignorance and intrigue, you produced a work before the world, that charmed even enmity and envy to admiration!”

“And what care I for the admiration of fools and knaves?” interrupted Händel. Benjamin continued, in a conciliating tone—“Friend, he who can admire the beautiful and the good, is not so wholly depraved, as oft appears. There lives a something in the breast of every man, which, so long as it is not quite crushed and extinguished, lets not the worst fall utterly. I cannot name, nor describe it; but art, and music before all arts, is the surest test whereby you may know if that something yet exists.”

“Most surely,” cried Master Tyers. “I myself love music from my heart, and think with your great countryman, Doctor Luther, ‘He must be a brute who feels not pleasure in so lovely and wondrous an art.’ But, Master Händel, judge not my dear countrymen too harshly, if they have not accomplished so much as yours in that glorious art. Gifts are diverse; we have many that you have not.”

“You have been long in England,” observed the Abbe, “and have experienced many vexations and difficulties, particularly among those necessary to you in the production of your works. But tell me, Master Händel, supposing it true, that the court and nobles often do you injustice; that our musicians and singers are inferior to those in your own country; that we cannot grasp all the high spirit that dwells in your works; are you not, nevertheless, the darling of the people of Britain? Lives not the name of Händel in the mouth of honest John Bull, honored as the names of his most renowned statesmen? Well, sir, if that is true, give honest John Bull (he means well and truly, at least) a little indulgence. Let us hear your Messiah soon; your honor suffers nought, and you remain, after all, the free German you were before.”

“Aye!” cried Hogarth, “that is just what I have told him.” “And I,”—“And I,” exclaimed Tyers and Hualdy; while John added, coaxingly, “Only think, Master Händel, how often I have to give up to my good wife, without detriment to my authority as master of the house.”

Händel sat a few moments in silence, looking gloomily from one to another, around the circle. Suddenly he burst into a loud laugh, and cried in cheerful tone—“By my halidome, old fellow, you are right. Give us your hand; to-morrow early I go to the Duke of Bedford; and you shall hear the Messiah, were all the rascals in the three kingdoms and the continent against it. Tom, another mug!”

Loud and long applause followed his words: John Farren essayed a leap in his joy, which, ’spite of his corpulence, succeeded beyond expectation, and moved the guests to renewed peals of laughter. Joseph whispered to the maiden at his side—“Oh, Ellen! if it prospers with him, our fortune is made; I have his word for it.”

The next morning Händel went, as he had promised his friends, to the Duke of Bedford. His Grace had given a grand breakfast, and half the court was assembled in his saloon. As soon as the servants saw Händel ascending the steps, they hastened to announce his arrival to their lord.

The Duke was not much of a connoisseur, but he loved the reputation of a patron of the arts, and took great pleasure in exhibiting himself in that light to the court and the king. It was his dearest wish to win the illustrious master to himself; particularly as he knew well that the absence of Händel from Carlton House was in no way owing to want of favor with the sovereign. The king, on the contrary, appreciated and highly valued his genius. But Händel’s energetic nature could not bend to the observance of the forms and ceremonies held indispensable, not only at Carlton House, but among all the London aristocracy; and it was natural that this peculiarity should gradually remove him from the circles of the nobility. His fame on this account, however, only rose the higher. His Oratorio of Saul, which the preceding year had been produced, first in London, then in the other large cities of England, had stamped him a composer whom none hitherto had surpassed. The king was delighted; the court and nobles professed, at least, to be no less so. Among the people, his name stood, as his friend had truly observed, with the proudest names of the age! When informed of his arrival, the Duke hastened out, shook the master cordially by the hand, and was about leading him, without ceremony, into the hall. But Händel, thanking him for the honor, informed him he was come to ask a favor of his Grace.

“Well, Master Händel,” said the Duke, smiling—“then come with me into my cabinet.” The master followed his noble host, and unfolded his petition in few words, to wit: that his Grace would be pleased to set right the heads of the Lord Mayor and the Archbishop of London, so that they should cease laying hindrances in the way of the representation of his Messiah.

The Duke heard him out, and promised to use all his means and all his influence to prevent any further obstacle being interposed, and to remove those already in the way. Händel was pleased, more, perhaps, with the manner in which the polite but haughty Duke gave the promise, than with the promise itself.

“Now come in with me, Master Händel,” said the Duke; “you will see many faces that are not strangers to you; and moreover, a brave countryman of yours, whom I have taken into my service. His name is Kellermann, and he is an excellent flute player, as the connoisseurs say.”

“Alle tausend!” cried Händel, with joyful surprise; “is the brave fellow in London, and indeed in your Grace’s service? That is news indeed! I will go with you, were your hall filled besides with baboons.”

“Oh! no lack of them,” laughed the Duke, while he led his guest into the saloon; “and you will find a fat capon into the bargain.”

Great was the sensation among the assembled guests, when Bedford entered, introducing the celebrated composer. When he had presented Händel to the company, the Duke beckoned Kellermann to him; and Händel, without regarding the rest, greeted his old friend with all the warmth of his nature, and with childlike expressions of joy. Bedford seemed to enjoy his satisfaction, and let the two friends remain undisturbed; though the idol of the London world of fashion, Signor Farinelli, hemmed and cleared his throat many times over the piano, in token that he was about to sing, and wanted Kellermann to come back and accompany him. At length, Kellermann noticed his uneasiness; he pressed his friend’s hand with a smile, returned to his place, took up his flute, and Signor Farinelli, having once more cleared his throat, began a melting air with his sweet, clear voice.

Händel, a powerful man, austere in his life, vigorous in his works, abhorred nothing so much as the singing of these effeminate creatures; and all the luxurious cultivation of Signor Farinelli seemed to him only a miserable mockery of nature, as of heaven-born art. But, however much displeased at the soft trilling of the Italian,—whom Kellermann dexterously accompanied and imitated on his flute,—he could not refrain from laughing inwardly at the effect produced on the whole company. The men rolled up their eyes, and sighed and moaned with delight; the ladies seemed to float in rapture, like Farinelli’s tones. “Sweet, sweet!” sighed one to another. “Yes, indeed!” lisped the fair in reply, drooping her eyelids, and inclining her head. Signor Farinelli ceased, and eager applause rewarded his exertions.

The Duke now introduced Händel to the Italian.

Farinelli, after some complimentary phrases, addressed the master in broken English.

“I have inteso,” he said, with a complacent smile, “that il Signor Aendel has composed una opera—il Messia. Is there in that opera a part to sing for il famous musico Farinelli—I mean, for me?”

Händel looked at the ornamented little figure from head to foot, and answered in his deepest bass tone, “No, Signora.”

The company burst out a laughing; the ladies covered their faces. Soon after, the German composer, with his friend Hogarth, took his leave. In the vestibule the artist showed Händel a sketch he had made of Farinelli singing, and his admirers lost in ecstasy. “By the Duke’s order,” whispered he.

“That is false of him!” exclaimed Händel, indignantly.

The satirical painter shrugged his shoulders.

Händel sat in his chamber, deep in composition. Once more he tried every note; now he would smile over a passage that pleased him; now pause earnestly upon something that did not satisfy him so well; pondering, striking out and altering to suit his judgment. At length his eyes rested on the last “Amen:” long—long—till a tear fell on the leaf.

“This note,” said he, solemnly, and looking upwards—“this note is perhaps my best! Receive, Oh benevolent Father, my best thanks for this work! Thou, Lord! hast given it me; and what comes forth from Thee—that endureth, though all things earthly perish:—Amen.”

He laid aside the notes, and walked a few times up and down the room. Then seating himself in his easy chair, and folding his arms, he indulged in happy dreams of his youth and his home. Thus he was found by Kellermann, who came at dusk to accompany him to the tavern. They discoursed long of their native land, of their art, and the excellent masters then living in Germany. At length they broke off from the theme, fearful of keeping their assembled friends waiting too long.

“Well, friend,” cried Hogarth gaily to the master as he entered; “was not my advice good? Has not Bedford helped you? and is your self-respect a whit injured?”

Händel nodded good-humoredly, and smiling, seated himself in his wonted place. “You remember, some time ago,” the painter continued, “when the Leda of the Italian painter Correggio was sold here at auction for ten thousand guineas, I said—‘If anybody will give me ten thousand guineas, I will paint something quite as good.’ Lord Grosvenor took me at my word; I went to work, and laid aside everything else. At last my picture is ready; I take it to his lordship; he calls his friends together, and, as I said, they all laugh at me; I have to take back my picture, and go home to quarrel with my wife!”

All laughed except Händel, who, after a few moments’ silence, said; “Hogarth, you are an honest fellow, but often wondrous dull! You cannot judge of the Italian painters. In the first place, their manner is entirely different from yours, and then you know nothing of their best works. Had you been, as I have, in Italy, and particularly in Rome, where live the glorious creations of Raphael and Michael Angelo, you would have respect for the old Italian painters; you would love and honor them, as I do the old Italian church composers. As to the modern painters, they are like, more or less, in their way, to Signor Farinelli.”

“Well!” cried Hogarth; “we will not dispute thereupon. Tell us rather how you are pleased with your singers and performers, and if you think they will acquit themselves well to-morrow.”

“They cannot do very badly,” answered Händel; “I have drilled them diligently, and Joseph has helped me with assiduous study. Only the first soprano singer is dreadfully mediocre; I am sorry for it—for the sake of a few good notes—”

Here Joseph put his head in at the door, and said, “Master Händel, a word if you please.”

“Well, what do you want?” asked Händel: and rising, he came out of the room; his companions looked smiling at one another; and John Farren sent forth from his leathern chair a prolonged “ha! ha! ha!” Joseph took his master’s hand, and led him hastily across the passage and upstairs into his chamber, where Händel, to his no small astonishment, found the pretty Ellen.

“Ha! what may all this mean?” he asked, while his brow darkened; “what do you here, Miss Ellen, in the chamber of this young man—and so late too?”

“He may tell you that himself, Master Händel,” answered the damsel pettishly, and blushing while she turned away her face. But Joseph replied quickly and earnestly: “Think not ill of me and the good Ellen, my dear master; for what we do here, I am ready to answer before you.”

“Open your mouth, then, and speak,” said Händel.

Joseph went on: “For what I am, and what I can do, I thank you, my dear master. You befriended me when I came hither a stranger, without means of earning a support. To make me a good singer, you spent many an hour, in which you could have done something great.”

“Ho! ho! the fool!” cried Händel; “and do you think to make a good singer was not doing something great—eh?”

“You see, master, it has often grieved me to see you forced to vex yourself beyond reason with indifferent singers, because their education is far behind your works.”

“That is a pity, indeed,” sighed Händel.

“And I have tried,” continued Joseph, “to instruct a singer for you: I think I have so far succeeded, that she may venture before you. There she is!” and he pointed to Ellen.

Händel opened his eyes wide, looked astonished on the damsel, and asked, incredulously, “Ellen! what, Ellen there?”

“Yes, I!” cried Ellen, coming to him, and looking innocently in his face with her clear hazel eyes. “I, myself,” she repeated, smiling; “and now you know, Master Händel, what Joseph and I were about together.”

“Shall she sing before you, Master Händel?” asked Joseph.

“I am curious to see how your teaching has succeeded,” said Händel, while he seated himself: “Come, then, let her sing.” Joseph sprang joyfully to the harpsichord; Ellen went and stood beside him, and began.

How it was with the composer,—how he listened, when he heard the most splendid part in his forthcoming Messiah—the noble air, “I know that my Redeemer liveth;”—and how Ellen sang it, the reader may conjecture, when, after she had ceased, Händel still sat motionless, a happy smile on his lips, his large flashing eyes full of the tears of deep religious emotion. At length he drew a deep breath, arose, kissed the forehead of the maiden, kissed her eyes—in which likewise pure drops were glancing,—and asked in his mildest tone: “Ellen, my good—good child, you will sing this part to-morrow, at the representation, will you not?”

“Master Händel—Father Händel!” cried the maiden; and overcome with emotion, she threw herself sobbing on his neck. But Joseph sang—

“Erwach’—erwach’—zu Liedern der Wonne;

Frohlocke!—frohlocke du!”

“Amen!” resounded through the vast arches of the church, and died away in whispered melody in its remotest aisles. “Amen!” responded Händel, while he let fall slowly the staff with which he kept time. Successful beyond expectation was the first performance of his immortal master-piece. Immense was the impression it produced, as well on the performers as upon the audience. The fame of Händel stood now immovable.

When the composer left the church, he found a royal equipage in waiting for him, which, by the King’s command, conveyed him to Carlton House.

George the Second, surrounded by his whole household and many nobles of the court, received the illustrious German. “Well, Master Händel,” he cried, after a gracious welcome, “it must be owned, you have made us a noble present in your Messiah; it is a brave piece of work.”

“Is it?” asked Händel, and looked the monarch in the face, well pleased.

“It is, indeed,” replied George. “And now tell me what I can do, to express my thanks to you for it?”

“If your Majesty,” answered Händel, “will give a place to the young man who sang the tenor solo part so well, I shall be ever grateful to your Majesty. He is my pupil, Joseph Wach, and he would fain marry his pupil, the fair Ellen, daughter to old John Farren; the old man gives consent, but his dame is opposed, because Joseph has no place as yet. And your Majesty knows full well, that it is hard to carry a cause against the women.”

“You are mistaken, Master Händel,” said the King, with a forced smile; “I know nothing to that effect; but Joseph has from this day a place in our chapel as first tenor.”

“Indeed!” cried Händel, rubbing his hands with joy, “I thank your Majesty from the bottom of my heart!”

George was silent a few moments, expecting the master to ask some other favor. “But, Master Händel,” he said at length, “have you nothing to ask for yourself? I would willingly show my gratitude to you in your own person, for the fair entertainment you have provided us all in your Messiah.”

The flush of anger suddenly mantled on Händel’s cheek, and he answered, in a disappointed tone—“Sire, I have endeavored not to entertain you—but to make you better.”

The whole court was astonished. King George stepped back a pace or two, and looked on the bold master with surprise. Then bursting into a hearty fit of laughter, and walking up to him—“Händel!” he cried—“you are, and will ever be, a rough old fellow, but”—and he slapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder—“a good fellow withal. Go—do what you will, we remain ever the best friends in the world.” He signed in token of dismission; Händel retired respectfully, and thanked Heaven as he turned his back on Carlton House, to hasten to his favorite haunt, the tavern.

We shall not attempt to describe the joy his news brought to the lovers, Joseph and Ellen, nor their unnumbered caresses and protestations of gratitude. John Farren took his good wife in his arms and hugged her, ’spite of her resistance and scolding, crying, “Nonsense, Bett! we must be friends to-day, though all the bells in old England ring a peal for it.”

For ten years more Händel travelled throughout England, and composed new and admirable works. When his sight failed him in the last years of his life, it was Ellen who nursed him as if she had been his child, while her husband Joseph wrote down his last compositions, as he dictated them.

Proud and magnificent is the marble monument erected in Westminster to the memory of Händel. Time may destroy it; but the monument he himself, in his high and holy inspiration, has left us—his Messiah—will last forever.

TARTINI.

It was late one evening in the summer of 171-, that a party of wild young students at law in the University of Padua were at supper in the saloon of a restaurateur of that city. The revelry had been prolonged even beyond the usual time; much wine had been drunk; and the harmony and good feeling that generally prevailed during their convivial meetings had been interrupted by furious altercation between two of their number. As is almost always the case, the rest took sides with one or other of the disputants; all rose from table; high words were exchanged, and a scene of confusion and tumult was likely to ensue, when the offenders were imperiously called to order by one of their number. He was evidently young; but his slender limbs were firmly knit, and his form, though slight, so well proportioned as to give promise both of activity and strength beyond his years.

“For shame!” he cried, angrily, after producing a momentary silence by a vigorous thump on the table; “are you but a set of bullies, that you stand here pitching hard words at each other, and calling all the neighborhood to see how valiant we can be with our tongues? Fetch me him that can swear loudest, and give us space for our swords!”

Here the clamor was redoubled by all at once explaining, and contradicting each other.

The first speaker struck the table again till all the glasses rang.

“Have done,” he cried, “with this disgraceful uproar, or San Marco! I will fight you all myself—one by one!”

This threat was received with cries of “Not me—Giuseppe!” and after a few moments, the two disputants stood forth, separated from their companions. A space was speedily cleared for the combat.

The combatants needed no urging; but scarcely was the clashing of their swords heard, when Pedrillo, the restaurateur, ran in, followed by his servants, and with a face pale with terror protested against his house being made the scene of riot and bloodshed. It would be his ruin, he averred; he should be indicted by the civil authorities; he should be banished the country; he could never again show his face in Padua! If young gentlemen would kill one another there were places enough for such a purpose besides a reputable establishment like his; and with ludicrous rapidity enumerating the localities resorted to by duellists of the city, he besought them with piteous entreaties to transfer themselves elsewhere, offering even to remain minus the expenses of their supper. But Pedrillo’s solicitations had little effect on the wilful young men, till backed by threats that he would call the guard. Most of them had known what it was to fall into the hands of the police for midnight disturbances, and duels were favorite pastimes among the students of the University; so that immediately on the disappearance of Pedrillo’s servant, the whole party precipitately left the house. First, however, Giuseppe, the one who had recommended a resort to the duel, laid the amount of the reckoning on the table.

As the party turned the corner of a narrow street, they came close upon a carriage, attended by several servants. At this sudden encounter with so many half intoxicated and noisy students, recognised by their dress and well known to be always ready for any deed of mischief, the attendants fled in every direction. The horses caught the alarm, and, wild with fright, plunged, reared, and set off at full speed down the street. A shout of laughter from the revellers, who thought it capital sport to see the dismay created at sight of them, greeted the ears of the terrified inmates of the carriage. But Giuseppe sprang forward, and at the peril of his life, threw himself upon the horses’ necks, pulling the bits with such violence as to check them at once. The animals, quivering with fear, stood still; the coachman recovered his control over them; and Giuseppe, opening the door, assisted an elderly gentleman, very richly dressed, to alight, and inquired kindly if he had suffered injury.

“I have only been alarmed;” replied the gentleman, carefully adjusting his dress, and drawing his cloak about him. “But my daughter”—

Giuseppe had already lifted from the carriage the nearly lifeless form of a young girl. As the lamp-light fell upon her face, he could see it was one of matchless beauty.

“My Leonora!” exclaimed the father, in a tone of anxious apprehension. The young girl opened languidly a pair of beautiful dark eyes, started up, gazed with an expression of surprise upon the young student who had been supporting her, then threw herself into her father’s arms. With an expression of joy that she had recovered from her fright, the gentleman ordered his servants, who had returned when the danger was over, to procure another conveyance. This was immediately done; and turning to Giuseppe, he thanked him with lofty courtesy for the service he had rendered, and invited him to call next day at the house of the Count di Cornaro, in the Prado della Valle.

All night wild thoughts were busy in the brain of the young student. Never had such a vision of loveliness dawned upon him. And who was she? One elevated by fortune and rank so far above him that she would regard him but as the dust beneath her feet. As he had seen her in her delicate white drapery, like floating silver, her hair bound with pearls, she had moved, in some princely palace, among the nobles of the land. Many had worshipped; many had doubtless poured forth vows at her feet. How would she look upon one so poor and lowly? Giuseppe heaved a bitter sigh, but he resolved nevertheless to love her, and only her, for the rest of his life. A new sensation was born within him. He had hitherto cared only for frolic and revel and fighting; had been known only as Giuseppe, the mad student; the mover and leader in all mischief; a perfect master of his weapon, and the most skilful fencer in Padua. So great was his passion for fencing, and so astonishing the skill he had acquired in the art, that the most finished adepts in that noble science were frequently known to resort to him for lessons. So fond was he, moreover, of exhibiting this accomplishment, that he shunned no opportunity of exercising it at the expense of his acquaintances. Many were the duels in which he had been engaged; whether on his own account or for the sake of his friends, it mattered little. His love of fighting was as well known as the fact that few could hope to come off victorious in a strife with him; and this may account for the ascendancy he evidently had over his companions, their unwillingness to chafe his humor, and submission to the imperious tone in which he was wont to address them.

Of late, disgusted with the study of law, to which he had been consigned by his parents as a last resort—their first wish having been that he should embrace a monastic life—he had adopted the resolution of leaving Padua, of taking up his abode in one of the great capitals, and pursuing the profession of a fencing-master. Thus he would have opportunity for the cultivation of his favorite science, and at the same time would be unfettered by the control of others, a yoke galling beyond measure to his impatient spirit. Already he had announced this determination to his fellow students, and waited only a favorable opportunity to effect his escape from the University.

How often are the plans of a human mind changed by the slightest accident! How many fortunes have been made or marred by occurrences so trivial that they would have passed unnoticed by ordinary observation! How many events of importance have depended on causes at the first view scarce worth the estimation of a hair! In the present instance, the Count di Cornaro’s horses taken fright cost a capital fencing-master, and gave the world—a Tartini!

In due time next day, Giuseppe appeared in the Prado della Valle. As he was about to ascend the steps of the noble mansion belonging to the Count di Cornaro, a window above was hastily thrown open, and a rose fell at his feet. Glancing upward, he caught a glimpse of the bright face of Leonora; she smiled, and vanished from the window. The youth raised the flower, pressed it to his lips, and hid it in his bosom.

At the door, the porter received him as one who had been expected, and ushered him into a splendidly furnished apartment. The marble tables were covered with flowers; a lute lay on one of them; the visitor took it up, not doubting that it belonged to the beautiful Leonora, and while waiting for the Count, played several airs with exquisite skill.

“By my faith! you have some taste in music!” cried Cornaro, who had entered unperceived, as he finished one of the airs. The young man laid down the instrument, embarrassed, and blushing deeply, stammered an apology for the liberty he had taken.

“Nay, I excuse you readily, my young friend,” said the Count, cordially—extending his hand. Then motioning him to a seat, he asked his name.

“Giuseppe Tartini.”

“A native of Padua?”

“No; I was born at Pisano, in Istria.”

“Your business here?”

“I am a student at law, in the University.”

The speaker colored again; for he had suddenly become anxious to obtain the Count’s good opinion.

“And where,” asked Cornaro, after a pause, “did you acquire your knowledge in music?”

“You are pleased, Signor,” replied the youth, modestly, and bending his eyes to the ground, “to commend what is indeed not worthy—”

“Allow me judgment, if you please,” interrupted the Count, sharply. “I am myself skilled in the art. I ask, where did you receive instruction?”

“I took some lessons at Capo d’ Istria,” answered Giuseppe, “when very young; my parents had placed me there to be educated for the church; and I found music a great solace in my seclusion.”

“The church! and why have you changed your pursuits?”

“I could not, Signor, conscientiously devote myself to a religious life—when I knew myself in no way fitted for it.”

“I understand; you wished to act a part in the world; you were right. Your parents were wrong to decide for you prematurely. I like your frankness and simplicity, Giuseppe. You may look upon me as a friend.”

This was said in the lofty tone of a patron. The young man bowed in apparent humility and gratitude.

“You rendered me a service last night, at great risk to yourself—ay, and some injury, too!” Here he noticed, for the first time, a slight wound on the cheek of his young visitor.

“Oh, it is nothing, Signor!” cried Giuseppe, really embarrassed that so slight a hurt should be alluded to.

“You may esteem it such, but I do not forget that I owe you thanks for your timely aid; nor do I fail to observe that you are modest as brave. I perceive, also, that you have talents, and lack, perhaps, the means of cultivating them. In such a case, you will not find me an ungenerous patron. In what way can I assist you now?”

Tartini made no reply, for his head was full of confused ideas. His former purposes and plans were wholly forgotten. The Count remarked his embarrassment, and graciously gave him permission to go home for the present and consider what he had said.

The young man lingered a moment before the door, and stole a glance upward, hoping to see once more the angelic face that had smiled upon him; but the window was closed and all was silent. He departed with a feeling of sadness and disappointment at his heart. He knew not how powerful an advocate he had in the bosom of the maiden herself. Under the sun of Italy love is a plant that springs up spontaneously; and the handsome face and form of the youth who had perilled his life to save her from harm had already impressed deeply the fancy of the susceptible girl. Unseen herself, she watched his departure from her father’s house; and, impelled by something more than mere feminine curiosity, immediately descended to know the particulars of his visit. It was to be supposed that her woman’s wit could point out some way in which the haughty Count could discharge his obligation to the humble student. And she failed not to suggest such a way.

Two days after, Giuseppe was surprised by a message from the Count di Cornaro, proposing that he should become his daughter’s tutor in music, and offering a liberal salary. With what eagerness, with what trembling delight he accepted the offer! How did his heart beat, as he strove in the Count’s presence to conceal the wild rapture he felt, under a semblance of respect and downcast humility! How resolutely did he turn his eyes from the face of his beautiful pupil, lest he should become quite frantic with his new joy, and lest the passion that filled his breast should betray itself in his looks! As if it were possible long to conceal it from the bewitching object!

It was a day in spring. The soft air, laden with the fragrance of flowers, stole in at the draperied windows of Cornaro’s princely mansion, and rustled in the leaves of the choice plants ranged within. In the apartment to which we before introduced the reader, sat a fair girl, holding a book in her hand, but evidently too much absorbed in melancholy thought to notice its contents. She was reclining upon a couch in an attitude of the deepest dejection. Her face was very pale, and bore the traces of recent tears. As the bell rang, and the door was opened by the domestic, she started up and clasped her hands with an expression of the most lively alarm. But when a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, entered the room, she ran towards him, and throwing herself into his arms, wept and sobbed on his bosom.

“Leonora! my beloved!” cried the youth; “For heaven’s sake, tell me what has happened!”

“Oh, Giuseppe!” she answered, as soon as she could speak for weeping, “We are lost! My father has discovered all!”

“Alas! and his anger has not spared thee!”

“No—Giuseppe! He has pardoned me; thou art the destined victim! Stay—let me tell thee all—and quickly; for the moments are precious! The Marchese di Rossi, thou knowest, has sought my hand. He saw thee descend last night from my window.”

“He knows, then, of our secret marriage?”

“No—he knows nothing; but seeing thee leave my chamber at night, he gave information this morning to my uncle, the Bishop.”

“The villain! he shall rue this!” muttered Tartini, grasping the hilt of his weapon.

“Oh, think not of punishing him! it will but ruin all! Fly—fly—before my uncle——”

“Tell me all that has happened.”

“This only—the Bishop revealed what he knew to my father; I was summoned to his presence scarce an hour since. He reproached me with what he called the infamy I had brought upon his house. I could not bear his agony—Giuseppe! I confessed myself thy wedded wife!”

“Thou wast right—my Leonora! and then?”

“He refused to believe me! I called Beatrice, who witnessed our marriage, with her husband. My father softened; I knelt at his feet, and implored forgiveness.”

“And he?” asked Tartini, breathlessly.

“He pardoned me—he embraced me as his daughter; but required me to renounce thee forever.”

The young man dropped the hand he had held clasped in his.

“Wilt thou—Leonora?” he asked.

“Never—Giuseppe!”

“Beloved! let us go forth; I will claim thee in the face of the world.”

“Nay, my husband—listen to me! I have seen our friend, the good Father Antonio—and appealed to him in my distress. He counsels wisely. Thou must leave Padua, and that instantly! My father’s anger is not to be dreaded so much as that of my haughty uncle, who would urge him to all that is fearful. They would sacrifice thee—Giuseppe! Oh, thou knowest not the pride of our house! They would shrink from no deed—”

Here the speaker shuddered—and her fair cheek grew pale as death.

“I have no fears for myself—Leonora. They cannot sever the bonds of the church that united us; my own life I can defend.”

“Ah, thou knowest them not! the dungeon—the rack—the assassin’s knife—all will be prepared for thee. As thou lovest me, fly!” And gliding from his embrace, she sank down at his feet.

“Forsake thee—my wife! Abandon thee to the Cardinal’s vengeance—”

“I have naught to fear from him. Oh, hear Antonio’s advice! When thou art gone, the Bishop’s anger will abate. A few months may restore thee to me. Go—Giuseppe: there is safety in flight—to stay is certain death! Must Leonora entreat in vain?”

Their interview was interrupted by Beatrice, the nurse, who came in haste to warn Tartini that her master, with his brother the Bishop of Padua, was approaching the house, and that they were accompanied by several armed servants. There could now be no doubt of their intentions towards the offender. He comprehended at once, that even the forbearance the Count had shown his daughter had been dictated by a wish to secure his person. To stay would be utter madness; and yielding to the passionate entreaties of his young wife, he clasped her for the last time to his heart, pressed a farewell kiss on her forehead, and was gone before his pursuers entered the house.

That night, while the emissaries of the Bishop of Padua were searching the city, with orders to arrest the fugitive, and to cut him down without mercy should he resist, Tartini, disguised in a pilgrim’s dress, was many miles on the way towards Rome.

More than two years after the occurrence of this scene, one evening in the winter of 1713, the Guardian of the Minors’ Convent at Assisi was conversing with the organist, Father Boëmo, on the subject of one of the inmates, whom Boëmo had taken under his peculiar care.

“The youth is a relative of mine,” continued the Guardian; “but considerations of humanity alone moved me to grant him an asylum, when, poor, persecuted and homeless, he threw himself on my compassion. Since then his conduct has been such as to secure my favor, and the respect of all the brethren.”

“In truth it has,” said Boëmo, warmly. “And believe me, brother, you will have as good reason to be proud of him as a kinsman, as I of my pupil. It is my knowledge of his worth that causes me such pain at his loss of health.”

“The wearing of grief, think you?”

“Not wholly. His anxiety for the safety of his wife was set at rest long ago by intelligence of her welfare. He knows well that the only daughter of so proud a house must be dear to her kinsmen—even by their unwearied efforts to discover his retreat. And I have taught him to solace the pains of absence.”

“Fears he still the Bishop’s resentment?”

“Oh, no; these convent walls are secure, and his secret well guarded, since only in your keeping and mine. His enemies may ransack Italy; they will never dream of finding him here.”

“What is the source, then, of his depression?”

“It is a mystery to me. I have marked it growing for weeks. And sure I am, it is not weariness of the solitude of this abode. Since his spirits rose from the sadness of his first misfortunes—since he breathed the air of comparative freedom, and joined in the exercises of our pious brethren, Giuseppe has been a changed man. Sorely hath he been tried in the furnace of affliction, and he hath come forth pure gold. The religious calm of this retreat has taught him reflection and moderation. His past sorrow has chastened his spirit; the holy example of the brethren has nourished in his breast humility and resignation and piety. The ardent aspirations of his nature are now directed to the accomplishment of those great things for which Heaven has destined him. Never have I known so unwearied, so devoted a student.”

“With your training and good counsel, brother, he might well love study,” said the Guardian, with a smile.

“Nay, brother,” replied Boëmo, modestly, “I have but directed him in the cultivation of his surprising genius for music. And you know he excels on the violin. It is for that he seems to have a passion—a passion that I fear is consuming his very life.”

They were interrupted by one of the brethren, who had some business with the Guardian; and Father Boëmo proceeded to the cell of his pupil, whom he was to accompany to vespers.

He found the object of his care seated by his table, on which he leaned in a melancholy reverie. His form was emaciated; his face so pale that the good monk, who had seen him but a few hours before, was even startled at the increased evidence of indisposition. His violin was thrown aside neglected—strongest possible proof of the malady of one who had worshipped music with an idolatry bordering on madness.

Boëmo laid his hand kindly on his pupil’s shoulder, and said, in a tone of mild reproof—“Giuseppe!”

The young man made no reply.

“This is not well, my brother!” continued the worthy organist. “The gifts of God are not to be thus slighted; we offend Him by our despondency, which, save abuse of power, is the worst ingratitude.”

“It is your fault!” said the youth, bitterly, and looking up.

“Mine—and how?”

Giuseppe hesitated.

“How am I to blame for this sinful melancholy you indulge?”

“Your lessons have given me knowledge.”

“And does knowledge bring sorrow?”

“Saith not your creed thus? Since Adam tasted the fruit—”

“Of a knowledge forbidden.”

“So is all knowledge—of things higher than we can attain to. To aspire—and never reach—that is the misery of humanity.” And the speaker again buried his face in his hands.

“I understand you, my brother;” said Boëmo, after a pause. “I have been to blame in suffering you to pursue your studies in solitude. Knowing nothing of the outer world, you have wrought but in view of that ideal which, to every true artist, becomes more glorious and inaccessible as he gazes—as he advances. You despond, because you have labored in vain after perfection. Is it not so?”

“I have mistaken myself;” answered Tartini; “you have mistaken me. It was cruel in you to persuade me I was an artist.”

“And who tells you you are not?”

“My own judgment—my own heart.”

“It deceives you, then.”

“It does not,” cried Tartini, with sudden energy, and starting up with such violence that the worthy monk was alarmed. “It is you who have deceived me. You have taught me to flatter myself; to imagine I could accomplish something; to thirst for what was never to be mine. You have pointed me to a goal toward which I have toiled and panted—in vain—while it receded in mockery. You have given me wishes which are to prove my everlasting curse. Yes,”—he continued, striking his forehead, “my curse. What doom can be more horrible than mine?”

“You have but passed,” answered Boëmo, mildly, “though the trial of every soul gifted by Heaven with a true perception of the great and the beautiful.”

“It is not so,” exclaimed his pupil, passionately. “I have striven to soar—and fallen to the earth, never more to rise. I have dreamed myself the favorite of art—and awaked to find myself outcast and scorned. My soul is dead within me. You must have foreseen this. Why prepare such anguish for one already the victim of misfortune?”

“Young man,” said the organist, impressively, “this feeling is morbid. I will not reason with you now; come with me, and let us see what change of subject——”

“Ay,” muttered Tartini, his face distorted, “to show the brethren what you have done; that they, too, may mock at me! I see them now—”

“Holy Mother! what ails you, my son?” cried Boëmo, much alarmed at the wild looks of his pupil.

“You will deem me mad, good father;” said Giuseppe in an altered voice, and grasping the monk’s arm; “but I swear to you—’tis the truth. I see them every night!”

“See whom?”

“The spirits—the demons, who come to mock at me! They range themselves around my cell—and grin and hiss at me in devilish scorn. As soon as it is dark they throng hither. See—they are coming now! stealing through the window——”

“My brother! my brother! is it come to this?” cried Boëmo in a tone of anguish.

“Sometimes,” said his pupil, “I have thought it but an evil dream. I strove against it till I knew too well it was no delusion of fancy.”

“Why—why did I not know of this before?”

“It was needless. I would not grieve you, father. Besides—I would not have the demons think I sought aid against them. That would have been cowardly! No—they do not even know how much their malice has made me suffer.”

“This must be looked to!” muttered the monk to himself; and drawing Giuseppe’s arm within his, he led him out of the cell and down to the chapel, intending after the evening service to confer with the Guardian respecting this new malady of his unfortunate friend.

They decided that it was best to leave Giuseppe no more alone at night. The melancholy he had suffered to prey so long on his mind had impaired his reason; repose and cheerful conversation would restore him. Father Boëmo resolved to pass the first part of the night in his cell; but as he had to go before the hour of matins to pray with a poor invalid, he engaged a brother of the convent to take his place at midnight.

When the organist the next day saw his pupil, he was surprised at the change in his whole demeanor. Giuseppe received him in his cell with a face beaming with joy, but at the same time with an air of mystery, as if he almost feared to communicate some gratifying piece of intelligence.

“You passed a better night, my son,” said the benevolent monk. “I am truly rejoiced. I have prayed for you.”

“Listen, father!” said Giuseppe, eagerly. “I have conquered them. I have put them all to flight.”

“The evil one fleeth from those who resist him,” said Father Boëmo, solemnly.

“But I have done better; I have made a compact with him.”

“Giuseppe!” The monk crossed himself, in holy fear.

“Nay, father Boëmo! I have yielded nothing. The devil is my servant—the slave of my will. Last night the demons came again so soon as you were gone, and while brother Piero slept, to torment me. They mocked me more fiercely than ever. I was in despair. I cried to the saints for succor.”

“You did right.”

“The evil spirits vanished; but the mightiest of all, Satan himself, stood before me. I made a league with him. Do not grow pale, father! Satan has promised to serve me. All will go now according to my will.”[1]

Boëmo shook his head, mournfully.

“As a test of his obedience, I gave him my violin and commanded him to play something. What was my astonishment when he executed a sonata, so exquisite, so wonderful, that I had never in my life imagined anything approaching it! I was bewildered—enchanted. I could hardly breathe from excess of rapture. Then the devil handed the violin back to me. “Take it, master,” said he, “you can do the same.” I took it, and succeeded. Never had I heard such music. You were right, father! I have done wrong to despair.”

The monk sighed, for he saw that his poor friend still labored under the excitement of a diseased imagination. He made, however, no effort to reason with him, but sought to divert his mind by speaking of other matters.

“You shall hear for yourself,” cried Tartini; and seizing his violin, he walked several times across the room, humming a tune, and at last began to play. The music was broken and irregular, though in the wild tones he drew from the instrument, the ear of an artist caught notes that were strangely beautiful. It seemed, in truth, the music of a half-remembered dream.

Again and again did Giuseppe strive to catch the melody; at length throwing down the instrument, he struck his forehead and wrung his hands in bitterness of disappointment.

“It is gone from me!” he cried, in a voice of agony. Father Boëmo sought in vain to lead his mind from this harrowing thought. Now he would snatch up the violin and play as if determined to conquer the difficulty; then fling it aside in despair, vowing that he would break it in pieces and renounce music forever.

After a consultation with the Guardian, Father Boëmo summoned medical assistance, and that night himself administered a composing draught to his young friend. He had the satisfaction of seeing him soon in a profound slumber; and having given him in charge once more to Piero, withdrew to spend an hour or two in prayer for his relief.

Just before matins the organist was aroused by a cry without. Being already dressed, he hastily descended to the court where the brother who had given the alarm stood gazing upward in speechless terror. Well might he shake with fear! Upon the edge of the roof stood a figure, clearly visible in the moonlight, and easily recognized as that of the unhappy Giuseppe.

“Hush! not a word—or you are his murderer!” whispered Boëmo, grasping the arm of the affrighted monk. Both gazed on the strange figure; the one in superstitious fear—the other in breathless anxiety. Boëmo now perceived that Giuseppe held his violin. After a short prelude he played a sonata so admirable, so magnificent, that both listeners forgot their apprehensions and stood entranced, as if the melody floating on the night wind had indeed been wafted downward from the celestial spheres.[2]

A dead silence—a silence of awful suspense, followed this strange interruption. Neither dared to speak; for Boëmo well knew that a single false step would cost his friend’s life. And he was well aware that the sleep-walker often passes in safety over places where no waking man could tread. The great danger was that his slumber might be suddenly broken.

The sonata was not repeated. The figure turned and slowly retraced his steps along the roof, taking the way to Tartini’s cell. Father Boëmo breathed not till his pupil was in safety; then with a faint murmur of thanksgiving he sank on his knees, while the liberated monk hastened to communicate to the superior what he had seen. The worthy organist watched by the bed of his friend, after blaming severely the negligence of the brother who had been left to guard him. Giuseppe awoke feverish and disturbed—the workings of an unquiet imagination had worn out his strength and an illness of many weeks followed. During all this his faithful friend scarcely left him, but sought to minister to the diseased mind as well as the feeble frame. His care was rewarded. With returning health, reason and cheerfulness returned.

It was a holiday in Assisi. The inhabitants came in crowds to the church to join in the services; in fact so goodly an assemblage had never been seen in that old place of worship. The fame of the admirable music to be heard there formed a powerful attraction. It is almost needless to say that the execution was that of the brothers of the Minors’ Convent.

Much curiosity had been excited among the people by the circumstance that a curtain was drawn across a part of the choir occupied by the musicians, during all parts of the service. As usual, general attention was fixed by the least appearance of mystery. The precaution had, in fact, been adopted for the sake of Tartini, who played the violin. He still stood in fear of the vengeance of the Cornaro family, who had spared no pains to discover his abode.

The service was nearly ended. While the music still sounded, the wind suddenly lifted the curtain and blew it aside for a moment. A suppressed cry was heard in the choir, and the violin-player ceased. He had recognized in the assembly a Paduan who knew him well.

The Guardian and Father Boëmo, when informed of this discovery, opposed Giuseppe’s resolution of quitting the convent. Both pledged themselves to protect him against the anger of the Bishop of Padua; besides, who knew that the same accident had discovered him? Even among the brethren he passed by an assumed name; it was probable that all was yet safe.

“Come, Giuseppe, you must play to-day in the chapel; the Guardian has guests, who have heard of our music, and we must do our best.”

The grateful pupil and the pleased instructor did their best. When the service was over, Father Boëmo took his young friend by the arm and led him into the parlor of the convent.

A lady of stately and graceful form, her face concealed by a veil, stood between two distinguished looking men, one in the robes of a cardinal. Tartini gave but one glance; the next instant—“Leonora!—my wife!” burst from his lips, and he clasped her, fainting, in his arms.

“Receive our blessing, children,” said the cardinal Cornaro. “Years of religious seclusion, Giuseppe, have rendered thee more worthy of the happiness thou art now to possess. Not to the wild disobedient youth, but to the man of tried worth, do I give my niece. Give him thy hand, Leonora.”

The young couple joined hands, and the cardinal pronounced over them a solemn benediction.

“In one thing, my son, thou art to blame,” he resumed—“in hiding thyself from us, instead of trusting our clemency. We have sought thee, not for the purpose of vengeance, but to restore thee to thy wife and country. But for a happy chance, we should still have been ignorant of the place of thy retreat. Yet Heaven orders all for the best. Sorrow has done a noble work with thee.”

“And it has made thee only more beautiful—my beloved!” whispered the happy artist, “my own Leonora—mine—mine forever!”

We do not question the sincerity of Tartini’s joy at his reunion with his lovely wife. But we must have our own opinion of his constancy, when, not long after, we find him leaving her side and flying from Venice for fear of the rivalship of Veracini, a celebrated violin-player from Florence. Perhaps this want of confidence was necessary to the development of his qualities as an artist. But we leave his after life with his biographer. One thing, however, is certain; of all his compositions, the most admirable and the most celebrated is “The Devil’s Sonata.”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Lalande, to whom Tartini himself communicated this curious anecdote, relates it in his Travels in Italy.

[2] It may be seen by a reference to any detailed biography of Tartini, that nearly all the incidents recorded in this little tale are real facts.

Mᶜ Rae, sc.

HAYDN.

HAYDN.

THE APPRENTICESHIP.

I.

In a small and insignificant dwelling in the village of Rohrau, on the borders of Hungary and Austria, lived, at the beginning of the last century, a young pair, faithful and industrious, plain and simple in their manners, yet esteemed by all their neighbors. The man, an honest wheelwright, was commonly called “merry Jobst,” on account of the jokes and gay stories with which he was always ready to entertain his friends and visitors, who, he well knew, relished such things. His wife was named Elizabeth, but no one in the village, and indeed many miles round it, ever called her any thing but “pretty Elschen.” Jobst and Elschen were indeed, to say truth, the handsomest couple in the country.

The Hungarians, like the Austrians and Bohemians, have great love for music. “Three fiddles and a dulcimer for two houses,” says the proverb; and it is a true one. It is not unusual, therefore, for some out of the poorer classes, when their regular business fails to bring them in sufficient for their wants, to take to the fiddle, the dulcimer, or the harp; playing on holidays on the highway or in the taverns. This employment is generally lucrative enough, if they are not spendthrifts, to enable them, not only to live, but to lay by something for future necessities.

“Merry Jobst” was already revolving in his own mind some means to be adopted for the bettering of his very humble fortunes, when Elschen one day said to him, “Jobst! it is time to think of making something more for our increasing family!” Jobst gave a leap of joy, embraced pretty Elschen, and answered, “Come then! I will string anew my fiddle and your harp; every holiday we will take our place on the road side before the tavern, and play and sing merrily: we will give good wishes to those that listen to and reward us, and let the surly traveller, who stops not to hear us, go on his way!”

The next Sunday afternoon merry Jobst and pretty Elschen sat by the highway before the village inn; Jobst fiddled, and Elschen played the harp and sang to it with her sweet clear voice. Not one passed by without noticing them; every traveller stopped to listen, well pleased, and on resuming his journey threw at least a silver twopence into the lap of the pretty young woman. Jobst and his wife, on returning home in the evening, found their day’s work a good one.—They practised it regularly with the like success.

After the lapse of a few years, as the old cantor of the neighboring town of Haimburg passed along the road one afternoon, he could not help stopping, admiring and amused at what he saw. In the same arbor, opposite the tavern, sat merry Jobst fiddling as before, and beside him pretty Elschen, playing the harp and singing; and between them, on the ground, sat a little chubby-faced boy about three years old, who had a small board, shaped like a violin, hung about his neck, on which he played with a willow twig as with a genuine fiddle-bow. The most comical and surprising thing of all was, that the little man kept perfect time, pausing when his father paused and his mother had solo, then falling in with him again, and demeaning himself exactly like his father. Often too, he would lift up his clear voice, and join distinctly in the refrain of the song. The song pretty Elschen sang, ran somewhat in this way:

“The Spring it is come—and the blithe earth is green,

Birds and flowers are abroad, and how glistening the sheen!

O’er the broken stones sparkling, the stream murmurs nigh,

And how fresh from the mountains the breezes sweep by.

“The bees hum around us, the lambs frolic too,

And golden clouds sport in the heavens’ deep blue!

The young mountain shepherd, his shawm he hath wound,

And the maiden steps softly, and follows the sound.

“The bell in yon valley breaks faint on the air,

Stranger! haste not away! pause and breathe first a prayer,

And give thanks to our Maker, on whom good men call—

Who created in love, and sustaineth us all.”

“Is that your boy—fiddler?” asked the teacher, when the song was at an end. Jobst answered,

“Yes, sir, that is my little Seperl.”[3]

“The little fellow seems to have a taste for music.”

“Why not? if it depends on me, I will take him, as soon as I can do so, to one who understands it well, and can teach him. But it will be some time yet, as with all his taste and love for it, he is very little and awkward.”

“We will speak further of it,” said the teacher, and went his way. Jobst and Elschen began their song anew, and the little Joseph imitated his father on his fiddle, and joined his infant voice with theirs when they sounded the ‘Hallelujah!’

The cantor came from this time twice a week to the house of merry Jobst to talk with him about his little son, and the youngster himself was soon the best of friends with the good-natured old man. So matters went on for two years, at the end of which, the cantor said to Jobst, “It is now the right time, and if you will trust your boy with me, I will take him, and teach him what he must learn, to become a brave lad and a skilful musician.”

Jobst did not hesitate long, for he saw clearly how great an advantage the instruction of Master Wolferl would be to his son. And though it went harder with pretty Elschen to part with Seperl, who was her favorite and only child, yet she gave up at last, when her husband observed—“The boy is still our own, and if he is our only child, we are—Heaven be praised!—both young, and love each other!”

So he said to Wolferl, the next time he came—“Agreed! here is the boy! treat him well—and remember that he is the apple of our eye.”

“I will treat him as my own!” replied the teacher. Elschen accordingly packed up the boy’s scanty wardrobe in a bundle, gave him a slice of bread and salt, and a cup of milk—embraced and blessed him, and accompanied him to the door of the cottage, where she signed him with the cross three times, and then returned to her chamber. Jobst went with them half the way to Haimburg, and then also returned, while Wolferl and Joseph pursued their way till they reached Wolferl’s house, the end of their journey.

Wolferl was an old bachelor, but one of the good sort, whose heart, despite his grey hairs, was still youthful and warm. He loved all good men, and was patient and forbearing even with those who had faults, for he knew how weak and fickle too often is the heart of man. But the wholly depraved and wicked he hated, as he esteemed the good, and shunned all companionship with them; for it was his opinion “that he who is thoroughly corrupt, remains so in this world at least; and his conversation with the good tends not to his improvement, but on the contrary, to the destruction of both.”

Such lessons he repeated daily to the little Joseph, and taught him good principles, as well as how to sing, and play on the horn and kettledrum; and Joseph profited thereby, as well as by the instruction he received in music, and cherished and cultivated them as long as he lived.

In the following year, 1737, a second son was bestowed on the happy parents, whom they christened Michael.

Years passed, and Joseph was a well instructed boy; he had a voice as clear and fine as his mother’s, and played the violin as well as his father; besides that, he blew the horn, and beat the kettledrum, in the sacred music prepared by Wolferl for church festivals. Better than all, Joseph had a true and honest heart, had the fear of God continually before his eyes, and was ever contented, and wished well to all; for which everybody loved him in return, and Wolferl often said with tears of joy—“Mark what I tell you, God will show the world, by this boy Joseph, that not only the kingdom of heaven, but the kingdom of the science of music shall be given to those who are pure in heart!” The more Wolferl perceived the lad’s wonderful talent for art, the more earnestly he sought to find a patron, who might better forward the youthful aspirant towards the desired goal; for he felt that his own strength could reach little further, when he saw the zeal and ability with which his pupil devoted himself to his studies. Providence ordered it at length that Master von Reuter, chapel-master and music director in St. Stephen’s Church, Vienna, came to visit the Deacon at Haimburg. The Deacon told Master von Reuter of the extraordinary boy, the son of the wheelwright Jobst Haydn, the pupil of old Wolferl, and created in the chapel-master much desire to become acquainted with him.—The Deacon would have sent for him and his protector, but von Reuter prevented him with “No—no—most reverend Sir! I will not have the lad brought to me; I will seek him myself, and if possible, hear him when he is not conscious of my presence or my intentions; for if I find the boy what your reverence thinks him, I will do something, of course, to advance his interests.” The next morning, accordingly, von Reuter went to Wolferl’s house, which he entered quietly and unannounced. Joseph was sitting alone at the organ, playing a simple but sublime piece of sacred music from an old German master. Reuter, visibly moved, stood at the door and listened attentively. The boy was so deep in his music that he did not perceive the intruder till the piece was concluded, when accidentally turning round, he fixed upon the stranger his large dark eyes, expressive of astonishment indeed, but sparkling a friendly welcome.

“Very well, my son!” said von Reuter at last; “where is your foster-father?”

“In the garden,” said the boy; “shall I call him?”

“Call him, and say to him that the chapel-master, von Reuter, wishes to speak with him. Stop a moment! you are Joseph Haydn; are you not?”

“Yes, I am Seperl.”

“Well then, go.”

Joseph went and brought his old master, Wolferl, who with uncovered head and low obeisance welcomed the chapel-master and music director at Saint Stephen’s, to his humble abode. Von Reuter, on his part, praised the musical skill of his protegé, enquired particularly into the lad’s attainments, and examined him formally himself. Joseph passed the examination in such a manner that Reuter’s satisfaction increased with every answer. After this he spent some time in close conference with old Wolferl; and it was near noon before he took his departure. Joseph was invited to accompany him and spend the rest of the day at the Deacon’s.

Eight days after, old Wolferl, Jobst and pretty Elschen, the little Michael on her lap, sat very dejectedly together, and talked of the good Joseph, who had gone that morning with Master von Reuter to Vienna, to take his place as chorister in St. Stephen’s church.

II.

The clock struck eight, and all were awake in the Leopoldstadt. A busy multitude crowded the bridge—market women and mechanics’ boys, hucksters, pedlars, hackney coachmen and genteel horsemen, passing in and out of the city; and through the thickest of the throng might be seen winding his way quietly and inoffensively, the noted Wenzel Puderlein, hairdresser, burgher and house-proprietor in Leopoldstadt. Soon he passed over the space that divides Leopoldstadt from the city, and with rapid steps approached through streets and alleys, the place where resided his most distinguished customers, whom he came every morning to serve.

He stopped before one of the best looking houses; ascended the steps, rang the bell, and when the house-maid opened the door, stepped boldly, and with apparent consciousness of dignity through the hall to a side door. Here he paused, placed his feet in due position, took off his hat modestly, and knocked gently three times.

“Come in!” said a powerful voice. Wenzel, however, started, and hung back a moment, then taking courage, he lifted the latch, opened the door and entered the apartment. An elderly man, of stately figure, wrapped in a flowered dressing-gown, sat at a writing table; he arose as the door opened, and said,

“’Tis well you are come, Puderlein! Do what you have to do, but quickly, I counsel you! for the Empress has sent for me, and I must be with her in half an hour.” He then seated himself, and Wenzel began his hairdressing without uttering a word, (how contrary to his nature!) well knowing that a strict silence was enjoined on him in the presence of the first physician to Her Imperial Majesty.

Yet he was not doomed long to suffer this greatest of all torments to him, the necessity of silence. The door of the chamber opened, and a youth of about sixteen or seventeen years of age came in, approached the elderly man, kissed his hand reverently, and bade him good morning.

The old gentleman thanked him briefly, and said, “What was it you were going to ask me yesterday evening, when it struck eleven and I sent you off to bed?”

The youth, with a modest smile, replied, “I was going to beg leave, my father, if your time permitted, to present to you the young man I would like to have for my teacher on the piano.”

“Very well; after noon I shall be at liberty; but who has recommended him to you?”

“An admirable piece which I was yesterday so fortunate as to hear him play at the house of Mlle. de Martinez.”

“Ah! your honor means young Haydn,” cried Puderlein, unwittingly, and then became suddenly silent, expecting nothing less than that his temerity would draw down a thunderbolt on his head. But contrary to his expectation, the old gentleman merely looked at him a moment, as if in surprise, from head to foot, then said mildly, “You are acquainted with the young man then: what do you know of him?”

“I know him!” answered Puderlein; “Oh, very well, your honor; I know him well. What I know of him? Oh, much; for observe, your honor, I have had the honor to be hairdresser for many years to the chapel-master, von Reuter, in whose house Haydn has long been an inmate—it must now be ten or eleven years. I have known him, so to speak, from childhood. Besides I have heard him sing a hundred times at St. Stephen’s, where he was chorister, though it is now a couple of years since he was turned off.”

“Turned off? and wherefore?”

“Aye; observe, your honor, he had a fine clear voice, such as no female singer in the Opera; but getting a fright, and being seized with a fever—when he recovered, his fine soprano was gone! And because they had no more use for him at St. Stephen’s, they turned him off.”

“And what does young Haydn now?” asked the Baron.

“Ah, your honor, the poor fellow must find it hard to live by giving lessons, playing about, and picking up what he can; he also composes sometimes, or what do they call it? Well, what helps it him, that he torments himself? he lives in the house with Metastasio, not in the first story, like the court poet, but in the fifth; and when it is winter, he has to lie in bed and work, to keep himself from freezing; for, observe, he has indeed a fire-place in his chamber, but no money to buy wood to burn therein.”

“This must not be! this shall not be!” cried the Baron von Swieten, as he rose from his seat. “Am I ready?”

“A moment, your honor,—only the string around the hair-bag.”

“It is very good so; now begone about your business!” Puderlein vanished. “And you, help me on with my coat; give me my stick and hat, and bring me your young teacher this afternoon.” Therewith he departed, and young von Swieten, full of joy, went to the writing-table to indite an invitation to Haydn to come to his father’s house.

Meanwhile, Joseph Haydn sat, sorrowful, and almost despairing, in his chamber. He had passed the morning, contrary to his usual custom, in idle brooding over his condition; now it appeared quite hopeless, and his cheerfulness seemed about to take leave of him forever, like his only friend and protectress, Mlle. de Martinez. That amiable young lady had left the city a few hours before. Haydn had instructed her in singing, and in playing the harpsichord, and by way of recompense, he enjoyed the privilege of board and lodging in the fifth story, in the house of Metastasio. Both now ceased with the lady’s departure; and Joseph was poorer than before, for all that he had earned besides, he had sent conscientiously to his parents, only keeping so much as sufficed to furnish him with decent, though plain clothing.

Other patrons and friends he had none! Metastasio, who was nearest him, knew him only by his unassuming exterior, and was too indolent to enquire particularly into his circumstances, or to interest himself in his behalf. He had briefly observed to the poor youth, that since the Lady Martinez had left Vienna and his lessons were over, he could look about till the end of the month for other lodgings; and Joseph was too retiring, if not too proud, to answer anything else than that “he thanked the Signor for the privilege hitherto enjoyed, and would look out for another home.” But where? thought he now, and asked himself, sobbing aloud. “Where—without money?” Just then, without any previous knocking, the door of his chamber was opened, and with bold carriage, and sparkling eyes, entered Master Wenzel Puderlein.

“With me!” cried the friseur, while he stretched his curling irons like a sceptre towards Joseph, and pressed his powder-bag with an air of feeling to his heart, “With me, young orphan! I will be your father,—I will foster and protect you! for I have feeling for the grand and the sublime, and have discerned your genius—and what you can, with assistance, accomplish; I know, too, your inability to cope yet with the world,—for you have not my experience of men. I will lead you to Art—I myself; and if before long you be not in full chase, and have not captured her, why you must be a fool, and I will give you up!”

“Ah, worthy Master von Puderlein!” cried Haydn surprised; “You would receive me now, when I know not where to go, or what to do? Oh! I acknowledge your goodness! but how have I, poor knave! deserved it? and how shall I thank you?”

“That is nothing to you!” said Puderlein shortly; “all that will appear in due time! Now sit you down on the stool, and do not stir till I give you leave. I will show the world what a man of genius can make of an indifferent head!”

“Are you determined, then, to do me the honor of dressing my hair, Master von Puderlein?”

“Ask no questions, but sit still.”

Joseph obediently seated himself, and Wenzel began to dress his hair according to the latest mode. When he had done, he said with much self-congratulation, “Really, Haydn, when I look at you, and think what you were, before I set your head right, and what you are now, I may, without presumption, call you a being of my own creation. But I am not so conceited; and only remark to you, that so long as you have walked like a man on two legs, you have first been enabled through me to present the visage of a man! Now pay attention; you are to dress yourself as quickly as possible, or to express myself in better German, you are to put yourself prestissimo into your best trim—and collect your moveables together, that I can send to fetch them this evening. Then betake yourself to the Leopoldstadt, to my house on the Danube, No. 7; go up the steps, knock at the door, make my compliments to the young lady my daughter, and tell her you are so and so, and that Master von Puderlein sent you, and if you are hungry and thirsty call for something to eat and a glass of Ofener or Klosterneuburger; after which you may remain quiet till I come home, and tell you further what I design for you. Adieu!”

Therewith Master Wenzel Puderlein rolled himself out of the door, and Joseph stood awhile with his hair admirably well dressed, but a little disconcerted, in the middle of his chamber. When he collected his thoughts at length, he gave thanks with tears to God, who had inclined the heart of his generous protector towards him, and put an end to his bitter necessity; then he gathered, as Puderlein had told him, his few clothes and many notes together, dressed himself carefully in his best, shut up his chamber, and after he had taken leave, not without emotion, of the rich Metastasio, walked away cheerfully and confidently, his heart full of joy, and his head full of new melodies, towards the Leopoldstadt and the house of his patron.

III.

When young von Swieten came half an hour later to ask for the young composer, Signor Metastasio could not inform him where “Giuseppo” might have gone. How many hours of despondency did this forgetfulness of the wise man and renowned poet prepare for the poor, unknown, yet incomparably greater artist,—Haydn!

When Joseph after a long walk stood at length before Puderlein’s house, he experienced some novel sensations, which may have been naturally consequent upon the thought that he was to introduce himself to a young lady, and converse with her; an idea which, from his constitutional bashfulness, and his ignorance of the world, was rather formidable to him. But the step must nevertheless be taken. He summoned all his courage, and went and knocked at the door. It was opened, and a handsome damsel of eighteen or nineteen presented herself before the trembling Joseph.

The youth, in great embarrassment, faltered forth his compliments and his message from Master Wenzel. The pretty Nanny listened to him with an expression both of pleasure and sympathy—the last for the forlorn condition of her visitor. When he had ended, she took him, to his no small terror, by the hand, without the least embarrassment, and leading him into the parlor, said in insinuating tones, “Come in, then, Master Haydn, it is all right; I am sure my papa means well with you, for he concerns himself for every dunce he meets, and would take a poor wretch in, for having only good hair on his head! He has often spoken to me of you, and you may rely upon it, he will assist you; for he has very distinguished acquaintances. But you must give in to his humors a little, for he is sometimes a trifle peculiar.”

Joseph promised he would do his best, and Nanny went on, “you must also accommodate yourself to my whims, for, look you, I lead the regiment alone here in the house, and even papa must do as I will. Now, tell me, what will you have? Do not be bashful; it is a good while since noon, and you must be hungry from your long walk.”

Joseph could not deny that such was the case, and modestly asked for a piece of bread and a glass of water.

Pshaw! cried Nanny, laughing; and tripped out of the room. Ere long she returned, followed by an apprentice boy, whom she had loaded with cold meats, a flask of wine, and a pair of tumblers, till his arms were ready to sink under the burden, while yet he dared not make a face,—for he had been in the family long enough to be sufficiently convinced of Mademoiselle Nanny’s absolute dominion. Nanny busily arranged the table, filled Joseph’s glass, and invited him to help himself to the cold pastry or whatever else stood awaiting his choice. The youth fell to, at first timidly, then with more courage; till, after he had at Nanny’s persuasion emptied a couple of glasses, he took heart to attack the cold meats more vigorously than he had done in a long time before; making at the same time the observation mentally, that if Mademoiselle Nanny Puderlein was not quite so distingué and accomplished as his departed patroness, the honored Mlle. de Martinez, still, as far as youth, beauty, and polite manners were concerned, she would not suffer by a comparison with the most distinguished dames in Vienna.—In short, when Master Wenzel Puderlein came home an hour or so after, he found Joseph in high spirits, with sparkling eyes, and cheeks like the rose—already more than half in love with the pretty Nanny.

Joseph Haydn lived thus many months in the house of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher, house proprietor, and renowned friseur in the Leopoldstadt of Vienna, and not a man in the Imperial city knew where the poor, but talented and well educated artist and composer was gone. In vain he was sought for by his few friends; in vain by young von Swieten; in vain at last, by Metastasio himself; Joseph had disappeared from Vienna without leaving a trace. Wenzel Puderlein kept his abode carefully concealed, and wondered and lamented like the rest over his loss, when his aristocratic customers asked him, whom they believed to know everything, if he could give them no information as to what had become of Joseph. He thought he had good reasons, and undoubted right, to exercise now the hitherto unpractised virtue of silence; because, as he said to himself, he only aimed at making Joseph the happiest man in the world! But in this he would labor alone; he wanted none to help him; and even his protegé was not fully to know his designs, till he was actually in possession of his good fortune.

Joseph cheerfully resigned himself to the purposes of his friend, and was only too happy to be able undisturbed to study Sebastian Bach’s works, to try his skill in quartettos—to eat as much as he wished, and day after day to see and chat with the fair Nanny. It never occurred to him, under such circumstances, to notice that he lived in a manner as a prisoner in Puderlein’s house; that all day he was banished to the garden behind the house, or to his snug chamber, and only permitted to go out in the evening with Wenzel and his daughter. It never occurred to him to wish for other acquaintance than the domestics and their nearest neighbors, among whom he was known only as “Master Joseph;” and he cheerfully delivered every Saturday to Master Wenzel the stipulated number of minuets, waltzes, &c., which he was ordered to compose. Puderlein carried the pieces regularly to a dealer in such things in Leopoldstadt, who paid him two convention guilders for every full toned minuet—and for the others in proportion. This money the hairdresser conscientiously locked up in a chest, to use it, when the time should come, for Joseph’s advantage. With this view, he enquired earnestly about Joseph’s greater works, and whether he would not soon be prepared to produce something which would do him credit in the eyes of the more distinguished part of the public.

“Ah—yes—indeed!” replied Joseph; “this quartetto, when I shall have finished it, might be ventured before the public; for I hope to make something good of it! Yet what shall I do? No publisher will take it; it is returned on my hands, because I am no great lord, and because I have no patron to whom I could dedicate it!”

“That will all come in time,” said Puderlein, smiling; “do you get the thing ready, yet without neglecting the dances; I tell you a prudent man begins with little, and ends with great; so to work!”

And Joseph went to work; but he was every day deeper and deeper in love with the fair Nanny; and the damsel herself looked with very evident favor on the dark, though handsome youth.—Wenzel saw the progress of things with satisfaction; the lovers behaved with great propriety, and he suffered matters to go on in their own way, only interfering with a little assumed surliness, if Joseph at any time forgot his tasks in idle talk, or Nanny her housekeeping.

But not with such eyes saw Mosjo Ignatz, Puderlein’s journeyman and factotum hitherto; for he thought himself possessed of a prior claim to the love of Nanny. No one knows how much or how little reason he had to think so, for it might be reckoned among impossibilities for a young girl of Vienna, who has reached the age of fourteen, to determine the number of her lovers. The Viennese damsels are remarkable for their prudence in what concerns a love affair. However that may have been, it is certain that it was gall and wormwood to Ignatz to see Joseph and the fair Nanny together. He would often fain have interposed his powder-bag and curling irons between them, when he heard them singing tender duets; for it must be owned that Nanny had a charming voice, was very fond of music, and was Joseph’s zealous pupil in singing.

At length he could endure no longer the torments of jealousy; and one morning he sought out the master of the house, to discover to him the secret of the lovers. How great was his astonishment, when Master Wenzel, instead of falling into a violent passion, and turning Joseph out of doors without further ado, replied with a smile,

“What you tell me, Mosjo ’Natz, look you, I have long known, and am well pleased that it is so.”

“Nein!” cried Ignatz, after a long pause of speechless astonishment; “Nein, Master von Puderlein! you should not be pleased. You seem as if you knew not that I—I, for several years have been the suitor of your daughter.”

It was Wenzel’s turn to be astonished, and he angrily replied, “I knew no such thing; I know not, nor will I know any such thing. What—Natz! is he mad? the suitor of my daughter! What has come into the man? Go to! Mind your powder-bag and your curling irons, and serve your customers, and set aside thoughts too high for you; for neither my daughter nor myself will wink at such folly.”

“Oho, and have you not both promised? There was a time, Master von Puderlein, when you and mademoiselle your daughter—”

“Hold your tongue and pack yourself off.”

“Master von Puderlein, you are a man of honor; are you doing me justice for my long years of faithful service? I have always taken your part. When people said ‘von Puderlein is an old miser and a blockhead,’ I have always said, ‘that is not true;’ even if it has been often the truth that people said.”

“Have done, sir, will you?”

“Master von Puderlein, be generous; I humbly entreat you, give me your daughter to wife.”

“I will give you a box on the ear presently, if you do not come to reason.”

“What!” cried Ignatz, starting up in boiling indignation, “a box on the ear, to me—to me, a free spoken member of the society of periwig makers?”

“And if you were a king, and if you were an emperor, with a golden crown on your head, and a sceptre in your hand, here in my own house I am lord and sovereign, and I will give you a box most certainly, if you provoke me much further.”

“Good,” answered Ignatz, haughtily; “very good, Master von Puderlein; we are two, henceforth; this hour I quit this treacherous roof—and you and your periwig stock. But I will be revenged; of that you may be sure; and when the punishment comes upon you and your faithless daughter, and your callow bird of a harpsicord player, then you may think upon Natz Schuppenpelz.”

The journeyman then hastened to pack up his goods, demanded and received his wages, and left the house vowing revenge against its inmates. Von Puderlein was very much incensed; Nanny laughed, and Joseph sat in the garden, troubling himself about nothing but his quartetto, at which he was working.

Wenzel Puderlein saw the hour approaching, when the attention of the Imperial city, and of the world, should be directed to him, as the protector and benefactor of a great musical genius. The dances Joseph had composed for the music seller in the Leopoldstadt, were played again and again in the halls of the nobility; all praised the lightness, the sprightliness and grace that distinguished them; but all enquiries were vain at the music dealer’s, respecting the name of the composer. None knew him; and Joseph himself had no idea what a sensation the pieces he had thrown off so easily, created in the world. But Master Wenzel was well aware of it, and waited with impatience the completion of the first quartetto. At length the manuscript was ready; Puderlein took it, carried it to a music publisher, and had it sent to press immediately, which the sums he had from time to time laid by for Joseph, enabled him to do. Haydn, who was confident his protector would do everything for his advantage, committed all to his hands; he commenced a new quartetto, and the old one was soon nearly forgotten.

They were not forgotten, however, by Mosjo Ignatz Schuppenpelz, who was continually on the watch to play Master Puderlein some ill trick. The opportunity soon offered; his new principal sent him one morning to dress the hair of the Baron von Fürnberg. Young von Swieten chanced to be at the Baron’s house, and in the course of conversation mentioned the balls recently given by Prince Easterhazy, and the delightful new dances by the unknown composer. In the warmth of his description, the youth stepped up to the piano and began a piece, which caused Ignatz to prick up his ears, for he recognized it too well; it was Nanny’s favorite waltz, which Joseph had executed expressly for her.

“I would give fifty ducats,” cried the Baron, when von Swieten had ended, “to know the name of that composer.”

“Fifty ducats,” repeated Ignatz, “your honor, hold a moment; your honor—but I believe I can tell your honor the name of the musician.”

“If you can, and with certainty, the fifty ducats are yours;” answered Fürnberg and von Swieten.

“I can, your honor. It is Pepi Haydn.”

“How? Joseph Haydn? How do you know? Speak!” cried both gentlemen to the friseur, who proceeded to inform them of Haydn’s abode and seclusion in the house of Wenzel Puderlein; nor did the exjourneyman lose the opportunity of bepowdering his ancient master plentifully with abuse, as an old miser, a surly fool, and an arch tyrant.

“Horrible!” cried his auditors, when Ignatz had concluded his story. “Horrible! This old friseur makes the poor young man, hidden from all the world, labor to gratify his avarice, and keeps him prisoner! We must set him at liberty.”

Ignatz assured the gentlemen they would do a good deed by doing so: and informed them when it was likely Puderlein would be from home; so that they could find opportunity of speaking alone with young Haydn. Young von Swieten resolved to go that very morning, during the absence of Puderlein, to seek his favorite; and took Ignatz along with him. The hairdresser was not a little elated, to be sitting opposite the Baron, in a handsome coach, which drove rapidly towards Leopoldstadt. When they stopped before Puderlein’s house, Ignatz remained in the coach, while the Baron alighted, entered the house, and ran up stairs to the chamber before pointed out to him, where Joseph Haydn sat deep in the composition of a new quartetto.

Great was the youth’s astonishment, when he perceived his distinguished visitor. He did not utter a word, but kept bowing to the ground; von Swieten, however, hesitated not to accost him with all the ardor of youth, and described the affliction of his friends (who they were Joseph knew not) at his mysterious disappearance. Then he spoke of the applause his compositions had received, and of the public curiosity to know who the admirable composer was, and where he lived. “Your fortune is now made,” concluded he. “The Baron von Fürnberg, a connoisseur, my father, I myself—we all will receive you; we will present you to Prince Esterhazy; so make ready to quit this house, and to escape, the sooner the better, from the illegal and unworthy tyranny of an avaricious periwig maker.”

Joseph knew not what to reply, for with every word of von Swieten his astonishment increased. At length he faltered, blushing, “Your honor is much mistaken, if you think I am tyrannized over in this house; on the contrary, Master von Puderlein treats me as his own son, and his daughter loves me as a brother. He took me in when I was helpless and destitute, without the means of earning my bread.”

“Be that as it may,” interrupted young von Swieten, impatiently, “enough, this house is no longer your home; you must go into the great world, under very different auspices, worthy of your talents. Speak well or ill of your host, as you please, and as is most fitting; to-morrow the Baron and I come to fetch you away.”—Therewith he embraced young Haydn with cordiality, quitted the house and drove back to the city, while Joseph stood and rubbed his forehead, and hardly knew whether all was a dream or reality.

But the pretty Nanny, who listening in the kitchen had heard all, ran in grief and affright to meet her father when he came home, and told him everything. Puderlein was dismayed; but he soon collected himself, and commanded his daughter to follow him, and to put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Thus prepared, he went up to Haydn’s chamber; Joseph, as soon as he heard him coming, opened the door, and went to meet him, to inform him of the strange visit he had received.

But Puderlein pushed him back into the chamber, entered himself, followed by the weeping Nanny, and cried in a pathetic tone, “Hold, barbarian, whither are you going?”

“To you,” answered Joseph. “I was going to tell you—”

“It is not necessary,” interrupted Puderlein; “I know all; you have betrayed me, and are now going to leave me like a vagabond.”

“Ha, surely not, Master von Puderlein. But listen to me.”

“I will not listen; your treachery is clear; your falsehood to me and to my daughter. Oh, ingratitude, see here thine own image! I loved this boy as my own son; I received him when he was destitute, under my hospitable roof, clothed and fed him. I have dressed his hair with my own hands, and labored for his renown, and for my thanks, he has betrayed me and my innocent daughter. There, sir, does not your conscience reproach you for the tears you cause that girl to shed?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Master von Puderlein, listen to me. I will not leave you; I will not be ungrateful; on the contrary, I will thank you all the days of my life for what you have done for me, so far as it is in my power.”

“And marry that girl?”

“Marry her?” repeated Joseph, astonished, “marry her? I—your daughter?”

“Who else? have you not told her she was handsome? that you liked her? have you not behaved as though you wished her well, whenever you have spoken with her?”

“I have indeed, but—”

“No buts; you must marry her, or you are a shameless traitor! Think you, a virtuous damsel of Vienna lets every callowbird tell her she is handsome and agreeable? No! the golden age yet flourishes among our girls! Innocence and virtue are paramount with them! they glance not from one to another, throwing their net over this one and that one; they wait quiet and collected, till the one comes who suits them, who will marry them, and him they love faithfully to the end of their days; and therefore are the Viennese maidens famed throughout the world.—You told my innocent Nanny that she was handsome, and that you liked her; she thought you wished to marry her, and made up her mind honestly to have you. She loves you, and now will you desert and leave her to shame?”

Joseph stood in dejected silence. Puderlein continued, “And I, have I deserved such black ingratitude from you, eh? have I?” With these words, Master Wenzel drew forth a roll of paper, unfolded and held it up before the disconcerted Joseph, who uttered an exclamation of surprise as he read these words engraved on it, “Quartetto for two violins, bass viol, and violoncello, composed by Master Joseph Haydn, performer and composer in Vienna.—Vienna, 1751.” “Yes!” cried Puderlein, triumphantly, when he saw Haydn’s joyful surprise; “Yes! cry out and make your eyes as large as bullets; I did that; with the money I received in payment for your dances, I paid for paper and press work, that you might present the public with a great work. Still more! I have labored to such purpose among my customers of rank, that you have the appointment of organist to the Carmelites. Here is your appointment! and now, go, ingrate, and bring my daughter and me with sorrow to the grave.”

Joseph went not; with tears in his eyes he threw himself into Puderlein’s arms, who struggled and resisted vigorously, as if he would have repelled him. But Joseph held him fast, crying, “Master von Puderlein! listen to me! there is no treachery in me! Let me call you father; give me Nanny for my wife! I will marry her; the sooner the better. I will honor and love her all my days. Ah! I am indeed not base nor ungrateful.”

Master Wenzel was at last quiet; he sank exhausted on an arm chair, and cried to the young couple, “Come hither, my children, kneel before me, that I may give you my blessing. This evening shall be the betrothal, and a month hence we will have the wedding.”

Joseph and Nanny knelt down, and received the paternal benediction. All wept and exhibited much emotion. But all was festivity in No. 7, on the Danube, that evening, when the organist, Joseph Haydn, was solemnly betrothed to the fair Nanny, the daughter of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher and proprietor in the Leopoldstadt in Vienna.

The Baron of Fürnberg and young von Swieten were not a little astonished when they came the next morning to take Haydn from Puderlein’s house, to find him affianced to the pretty Nanny. They remonstrated with him earnestly in private, but Joseph remained immoveable, and kept his word pledged to Puderlein and his bride, like an honorable young man.

At a later period he had reason to acknowledge that the step he had taken was somewhat precipitate; but he never repented it; and consoled himself, when his earthly muse mingled a little discord with his tones, with the companionship of the immortal partner, ever lovely, ever young, who attends the skilful artist through life, and who proved herself so true to him, that the name of Joseph Haydn shall, after the lapse of centuries, be pronounced with joyful and sacred emotion, by our latest posterity.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] The diminutive for “Joseph” in the dialect of the country.

TWO PERIODS IN AFTER LIFE.

I.

It was about noon of a day in the spring of 175-, that a man of low stature and pale and sallow complexion might have been seen entering a meanlooking house in one of the narrow streets of Vienna. Before he closed the door, the sound of a sharp female voice, speaking in shrill accents, was quite audible to the passers-by. As the person who entered ascended the stairs to his lodgings, he was greeted by a continuance of the same melody from the lips of a pretty but slovenly dressed young woman, who stood at the door of the only apartment that seemed furnished.

“A pretty mess is all this!” she exclaimed. “Here the printers have been running after you all the morning for the piece you promised to have ready for them, and I nothing to do but hear their complaints and send them away one after the other!”

“My good Nanny——”

“But, my good Joseph, is not my time as precious as yours, pray? What have you from this morning’s work?”

“Seventeen kreutzers,” sighed he.

“Ay, it is always so—and you spend all your time in such profitless doings. At eight, the singing desk of the brothers de la Merci; at ten, the Count de Haugwitz’s chapel; grand mass at eleven—and all this toil for a few kreutzers.”

“What can I do?”

“Do? What would I do in your place? Give up this foolish business of music, and take to something that will enable you to live as well as a peasant, at least. There is my father, a hairdresser, did not he give you shelter when you had nothing but your garret and skylight?—when you had to lie in bed and write for want of coals to warm you? Yes, in spite of your boasted genius and the praises you received, you were forced to come to him for bread!”

“He gave me more, Nanny,” said her husband, meaningly.

“Yes—his daughter, who had refused half the gallants in Vienna—for whom half-a-dozen peruke-maker’s apprentices went mad. Yes—and had he not a right to expect you would dress her as well as she had been used at home, and that she should have servants to wait upon her as in her father’s house? A fine realizing of his hopes and schemes for his favorite child—this miserable lodging, with but a few sous a day to keep us from starving!”

“You should not reproach me, Nanny. Have I not worked incessantly till my health has given way? And if fortune is still inexorable——”

“Ah, there it is, fortune!—as if fortune did not always wait, like a handmaid, upon industry in a proper calling! Your patrons may admire and applaud, but they will not pay; and yet you will drudge away your life in this ungrateful occupation. I tell you, Joseph, music is not the thing.”

“Alas!” sighed Haydn, “I once dreamed of fame.”

“Fame—pshaw! And what were that worth if you had it? Would fame clothe you or change these wretched walls to a palace? Believe me for once, and give up these idle fancies.”

Here a knock was heard at the door, and the wife, with exclamations of impatience, flounced away. The unfortunate artist threw himself on a seat, and leaned his head on a table covered with notes of music—works of his own, begun at various times, which want of health, energy or spirits, had prevented him from completing. So entirely had he yielded himself to despondency, that he did not move, even when the door opened, till the sound of a well known voice close at his side startled him from his melancholy reverie.

“How now, Haydn, what is the matter, my boy?”

The speaker was an old man, shabbily dressed, but with something striking and even commanding in his noble features. His large, dark, flashing eyes, his olive complexion and the contour of his face, bespoke him a native of a sunnier clime than that of Germany.

Haydn sprang up and welcomed him with a cordial embrace. “And when, my dear Porpora, did you return to Vienna?” he asked.

“This morning only; and my first care was to find you out. But how is this? I find you thin and pale, and gloomy. Where are your spirits?”

“Gone,” murmured the composer, and dropped his eyes on the floor. His visitor regarded him with a look of affectionate interest.

“There is something more in this than there ought to be,” said he, at length. “You are not rich, as I see; but that you were not when we last parted, nor when I first found—in the youthful, disinterested friend, the kind companion of a feeble old man—a genius such as Germany might be well proud of. Then you were buoyant, full of enthusiasm for art, and of hope for the future.”

“Alas!” replied Haydn, “I was too sanguine. I judged more favorably of myself——”

“Did I not say you were destined to something great?”

“Your friendship might deceive you.”

“And think you I had lost my judgment because I am old?—or am a fool, to be blinded by partiality?”

“Nay, dear Porpora——”

“Or that, because you were fain to serve me like a lacquey from pure love, I rewarded you with flattering lies, eh?”

“Caro, you mistake me. I know you clearsighted and candid—yet I feel that I shall never justify your kind encouragement. I have toiled till youth is passing away in vain. I have no heart to bear up against the crushing hand of poverty—I succumb.”

“You have lost, then, your love of our art?”

“Not so. What your valuable lessons, dear master, have opened to me, forms the only bright spot in my life. Oh that I could pursue—could grasp it!”

“Why can you not?”

“I am chained!” cried Haydn, bitterly—and giving way to the anguish of his heart, he burst into tears.

Porpora shook his head, and was silent for a few moments. At length he resumed—“I must, I see, give you a little of my experience; and you shall see what has been the life of a prosperous artist. I was, you know, the pupil of Scarlatti; and from the time I felt myself capable of profiting by the lessons of that great master, devoted myself to travel. I was more fortunate than you, for my works procured me, almost at once, a wide-spread fame. I was called for not only in Venice, but in Vienna and London.”

“Ah, yours was a brilliant lot!” cried the young composer, looking up with kindling eyes.

“The Saxon court,” continued Porpora, “which has always granted the most liberal protection to musical art, offered me the direction of the chapel and of the theatre at Dresden. Even the princesses received my lessons—in short, my success was so great, that I awakened the jealousy of Hasse himself.”

“That was a greater triumph still,” observed Haydn, smiling.

“So I thought; and still greater when I caused a pupil of mine, the young Italian Mengotti, to dispute the palm of song with the enchantress Faustina[4]—aye, to bear it away upon more than one occasion. All this you know, and how I returned to London upon the invitation of amateurs in Italian music.”

“Where you rivaled Händel!” said Haydn, enthusiastically.

“Ah, that was the turning point in my destiny. Farinelli, the famous singer, gloried in being my scholar. He turned all his splendid powers to the effort of assuring the triumph of my compositions. I could have borne that these should fail in commanding popularity; I could have borne the defeat by which Händel was elevated at my expense to an idol shrine among the English—but it grieved me to see that Farinelli’s style, so really perfect in its way, was unappreciated by the most distinguished connoisseurs. I did justice to the strength and grandeur of my rival; should he not have acknowledged the grace, finish and sweetness of Italian song? But he despised Farinelli, and his friends made caricatures of him.”

“Händel, with all his greatness, had no versatility,” observed Haydn.

“I wished to attempt another style, for this repulse had somewhat cooled my zeal for the theatre. I set myself to cultivate what was new—what was not born with me. I published my sonatas for the violin—the connoisseurs applauded, and I was encouraged to hope I could face my rival on his own ground. I composed sacred music——”

“And that,” interrupted his auditor, “will live—pardon me for saying so—when your theatrical compositions have ceased to enjoy unrivaled popularity.”

“When they are forgotten, say rather—for such, I feel, will be their fate. My sacred compositions may survive and carry my name to posterity—for taste in such things is less mutable than in the opera. After all, the monks may claim me,” and he smiled pensively.[5] “You see now, dear Haydn,” he resumed, after a pause, “for what I have lived and labored. I was once renowned and wealthy—what did prosperity bring me? Envy, discontent, rivalship, disappointment! And did art flourish more luxuriantly on such a soil? With me the heavenly plant languished, and would have died but that I had some energy within me to save it. I repine when I look back on those years.”

“You?” repeated Haydn, surprised.

“Would you know to what period I can look back with self-approbation, with thankfulness? To the toil of my early years; to the struggle after an ideal of greatness, goodness and beauty; to the self-forgetfulness that saw only the glorious goal far, far before me; to the undismayed resolve that sought only its attainment. Or to a time still later, when the visions of manhood’s impure and selfish ambition had faded away; when the soul had shaken off some of her fetters, and roused herself to a perception of the eternal, the perfect, the divine; when I became conscious of the delusive vanity of earthly hopes and earthly excellence, but at the same time awakened to the revelation of that which cannot die!

“You see me now, seventy-three years old, and too poor to command even a shelter for the few days that yet remain to me in this world. I have lost the splendid fame I once possessed; I have lost the riches that were mine; I have lost the power to win even a competence by my own labors—but I have not lost my passion for our glorious music, nor enjoyment of the reward, more precious than gold, she bestows on her votaries; nor my confidence in Heaven. And you, at twenty-seven, you—more greatly endowed—to whom the world is open—you despair! Are you worthy to succeed, O man of little faith?”

“My friend—my benefactor!” cried the young artist, clasping his hand with deep emotion.

“Cast away your bonds; cut and rend, if your very flesh is torn in the effort; and the ground once spurned, you are free. Come, I am pledged for your success—for if you do not rise, I am no prophet! What have you been doing?” and he turned over rapidly the musical notes that lay on the table. “Here, what is this—a symphony? Play for me, if you please.”

So saying, with a gentle force he led his young friend to the piano, and Haydn played from the piece he had nearly completed.

“So, this is excellent, admirable!” cried Porpora, when he rose from the instrument. “This suits me exactly. And you could despair while such power remained to you! When can you finish this? for I must have it at once.”

“To-morrow, if you like,” answered the composer, more cheerfully.

“To-morrow then—and you must work to-night. I see you are nervous and feverish; but seize the happy thought while it flies—once gone, you have no cord to draw it back. I will go and order you a physician;—not a word of remonstrance;—he will come to-morrow morning;—how madly your pulse throbs—and when your work is done, you may rest. Adieu for the present.” And pressing his young friend’s hands, the eccentric but benevolent old man departed—leaving Haydn full of new thoughts, his bosom fired with zeal to struggle against adverse fortune. In such moods does the spiritual champion wrestle with the powers of the abyss and mightily prevail.

When Haydn, late that night, threw himself on his bed, weary, ill and exhausted, his frame racked with the pains of fever, after having worked for hours in the midst of reproaches from her who ought to have lightened his task by her sympathy, he had accomplished the first of an order of works destined to endear his name to all succeeding time. Who that listened to its clear and beautiful melody, could have divined that such a production had been wrought out in the gloom of despondency, poverty and disease?

While the artist lay on a sick bed, attended only by the few friends whom compassion more than admiration of his genius called to his side, and forgotten by the great and gay to whose amusement so many years of his life had been devoted, a brilliant fête was given by Count Mortzin, an Austrian nobleman of immense wealth and influence, at which the most distinguished individuals in Vienna were present. The musical entertainments given by these luxurious patrons of the arts were, at that time and for some years after, the most splendid in Europe, for the most exalted genius was enlisted in their service—and talent, as in all ages, was often fain to do homage to riches and power.

When the concert was over, Prince Antoine Esterhazy expressed the pleasure he had received, and his obligations to the noble host. “Chief among your magnificent novelties,” said he, “is the new symphony, St. Maria. One does not hear every day such music. Who is the composer?”

The Count referred to one of his friends. The answer was—“Joseph Haydn.”

“I have heard his quartettos—he is no common artist. Is he in your service, count?”

“He has been employed by me.”

“With your good leave, he shall be transferred to ours; and I shall take care he has no reason to regret the change. Let him be presented to us.”

There was a murmur among the audience, and a movement, but the composer did not appear; and presently word was brought to his highness that the young man on whom he intended to confer so great an honor was detained at home by indisposition.

“So, let him be brought to me as soon as he recovers; he shall enter my service—I like his symphony vastly. Your pardon, count, for we will rob you of your best man.”

And the great prince, having decided the destiny of a greater than himself, turned to those who surrounded him to speak of other matters.

News of the change in his fortune was brought to Haydn by his friend Porpora; and so renovating was the effect of hope, that he was strong enough on the following day to pay his respects to his illustrious patron. Accompanied by a friend who offered to introduce him, Haydn drew near the dwelling of the prince, and was so fortunate as to find admittance. His highness was just preparing to ride, but would see the composer; and he was conducted through a splendid suite of rooms to the apartment where the proud head of the Esterhazys deigned to receive an almost nameless artist. What wonder that Haydn blushed and faltered as he approached this impersonation, as he felt it, of human grandeur?

The prince, in the splendid array suited to his rank, glanced somewhat carelessly at the low, slight figure that stood before him, and said, as he was presented—“Is this, then, the composer of the music I heard last night?”

“This is he—Joseph Haydn,” was the reply.

“So—a Moor, I should judge by his dark complexion.”[6]

The composer bowed in some embarrassment.

“And you write such music? You look not like it, by my faith! Haydn—I recollect the name; and I remember hearing, too, that you were not well paid for your labors, eh?”

“I have not been fortunate, your highness——”

“Why have you not applied to me before?”

“Your highness, I could not presume to think——”

“Eh? Well, you shall have no reason to complain in my service. My secretary shall fix your appointments; and name whatever else you desire. Understand me, for all of your profession find me liberal. Now then, sir Moor, you may go; and let it be your first care to provide yourself with a new coat, a wig and buckles, and heels to your shoes. I will have you respectable in appearance as well as in talents; so let me have no more of shabby professors. And do your best, my little duskey, to recruit in flesh—’twill add to the stature; and to relieve your olive with a shade of the ruddy. Such spindle masters would be a walking discredit to our larder, which is truly a spendthrift one.”

So saying, with a laugh, the haughty nobleman dismissed his new dependent. The artist chafed not at the imperious tone of patronage, for he felt not yet the superiority of his own vocation. It was the bondage-time of genius; the wings were not yet grown which were to bear his spirit up, when it brooded over a new world.

The life which Haydn led in the service of Prince Esterhazy, to which service he was permanently attached by Nicolas, the successor of Antoine, in the quality of chapel-master, was one so easy, that, says his biographer, it might have proved fatal to an artist more inclined to luxury and pleasure, or less devoted to his art and the love of glory. Now, for the first time relieved from care for the future, he was enabled to yield to the impulse of his genius, and create works worthy of the name—works not only pleasing to himself and his patron, but which gradually extended his fame over all the countries of Europe.

II

On the evening of a day in the beginning of April, 1809, all the lovers of art in Vienna were assembled in the theatre to witness the performance of the oratorio of the “Creation.” The entertainment had been given in honor of the composer of that noble work, the illustrious Haydn, by his numerous friends and admirers. He had been drawn from Gumpendorf—his retreat in the suburbs, the cottage surrounded by a little garden, which he had purchased after his retirement from the Esterhazy service, and where he had spent the last years of his life—to be present at this species of triumph. Three hundred musicians assisted at the performance. The audience rose en masse, and greeted with rapturous applause the white-haired man, who, led forward by the most distinguished nobles in the city, was conducted to the place of honor. There seated, with princesses at his right hand, beauty smiling upon him, the centre of a circle of nobility, the observed and admired of all, the object of the acclamations of thousands, who would not have said that Haydn had reached the summit of human greatness—had more than realized the proudest visions of his youth? His serene countenance, his clear eye, his air of dignified self-possession, showed that prosperity had not overcome him, but that amid the smiles of fortune he had not forgotten the true excellence of man.

“I can never hear this oratorio,” remarked one of his friends, whom we shall call Manuel, to another beside him, “without rejoicing for the author. None but a happy spirit could have conceived—only a pure, open, trustful, buoyant soul could have produced such a work. His, like the angels, is ever fresh and young.”

“I agree,” replied his friend, “in your judgment of the mind of Haydn. All the harmony and grace of nature, in her magnificent and beautiful forms, in her varied life, breathe in his music. But I like something deeper, even if it be gloomy. There is a hidden life, which the outward only represents; a deep voice, the echo of that which we hear. The poet, the musician, should interpret and reveal what the ordinary mind does not receive.”

“Beethoven’s symphonies, then, will please you better?”

“I acknowledge that I am more satisfied with them, or rather I am not satisfied, which is precisely what I want. The longings of a human soul are after the ineffable, the unfathomable; and to awaken those longings is the highest triumph of the artist. We are to be lifted above the joys of earth; out of this sunny atmosphere, where trees wave and birds fly, though we rise into a region of cloud and storm, chilly and dark and terrific.”

“You are more of a philosopher than I am,” returned Manuel, laughing. “You may find consolation for your clouds and storms in the thought that you are nearer heaven; but give me the genial warmth of a heart imbued with love of simple nature. I will relinquish your loftier ideal for the beauty and blessing of reality and the living present. For this reason is Haydn, with his free, bright, child-like, healthful spirit, bathing itself in enjoyment, so dear to me. I desire nothing when I hear his music; I feel no apprehension; I ask for no miracles. I drink in the bliss of actual life, and thank Heaven for its rich bestowments.”

“I thought our great composer, on the verge of life, would have looked beyond in his last works,” said the other, thoughtfully; “but I see plainly he will write no more.”

“He has done enough, and now we are ready for the farewell of Haydn.”

“The farewell?”

“Did you never hear the story? I have heard him tell it often myself. It concerns one of his most celebrated symphonies. The occasion was this:—Among the musicians attached to the service of Prince Esterhazy, were several who, during his sojourn upon his estates, were obliged to leave their wives at Vienna. At one time his highness prolonged his stay at the Esterhazy Castle considerably beyond the usual period. The disconsolate husbands entreated Haydn to become the interpreter of their wishes. Thus the idea came to him of composing a symphony in which each instrument ceased one after the other. He added, at the close of every part, the direction, ’here the light is extinguished.’ Each musician, in his turn, rose, put out his candle, rolled up his notes, and went away. This pantomime had the desired effect; the next morning the prince gave orders for their return to the capital.”

“An amiable thought; I have heard something of it before.”

“As a match story, he used to tell us of the origin of his Turkish or military symphony. You know the high appreciation he met with in his visits to England?”

“Where, he maintains, he acquired his continental fame—as we Germans could not pronounce on his claims till they had been admitted by the Londoners.”

“True; but notwithstanding the praise and homage he received, he could not prevent the enthusiastic audience from falling asleep during the performance of his compositions. It occurred to him to devise a kind of ingenious revenge. In this piece, while the current is gliding softly, and slumber beginning to steal over the senses of his auditors, a sudden and unexpected burst of martial music, tremendous as a thunder peal, startles the surprised sleepers into active attention. I should like to have seen the lethargic islanders, with their eyes and mouths thrown open by such an unlooked-for shock!”

Here a stop was suddenly put to the conversation by the commencement of the performance. “The Creation,” the first of Haydn’s oratorios, was regarded as his greatest work, and had often elicited the most heartfelt applause. Now that the aged and honored composer was present, probably for the last time to hear it, an emotion too deep for utterance seemed to pervade the vast audience. The feeling was too reverential to be expressed by the ordinary tokens of pleasure. It seemed as if every eye in the assembly was fixed on the calm, noble face of the venerated artist; as if every heart beat with love for him; as if all feared to break the spell of hushed and holy silence. Then came, like a succession of heavenly melodies, the music of the “Creation,” and the listeners felt as if transported back to the infancy of the world.

At the words, “Let there be light, and there was light,” when all the instruments were united in one full burst of gorgeous harmony, emotion seemed to shake the whole frame of the aged artist. His pale face crimsoned; his bosom heaved convulsively; he raised his eyes, streaming with tears, towards Heaven, and lifting upwards his trembling hands, exclaimed—his voice audible in the pause of the music—“Not unto me—not unto me—but unto Thy name be all the glory, O Lord!”

From this moment Haydn lost the calmness and serenity that had marked the expression of his countenance. The very depths of his heart had been stirred, and ill could his wasted strength sustain the tide of feeling. When the superb chorus at the close of the second part announced the completion of the work of creation, he could bear the excitement no longer. Assisted by the prince’s physician and several of his friends, he was carried from the theatre, pausing to give one last look of gratitude, expressed in his tearful eyes, to the orchestra who had so nobly executed his conception, and followed by the lengthened plaudits of the spectators, who felt that they were never to look upon his face again.

Some weeks after this occurrence, Manuel, who had sent to inquire after the health of his infirm old friend, received from him a card on which he had written, to notes of music, the words “Meine kraft ist dahin,” (my strength is gone.) Haydn was in the habit of sending about these cards, but his increased feebleness was evident in the handwriting of this; and Manuel lost no time in hastening to him. There, in his quiet cottage, around which rolled the thunders of war, terrifying others but not him, sat the venerable composer. His desk stood on one side, on the other his piano, and he looked as if he would never approach either again. But he smiled, and held out his hand to greet his friend.

“Many a time,” he murmured, “you have cheered my solitude, and now you come to see the old man die.”

“Speak not thus, my dear friend,” cried Manuel, grieved to the heart; “you will recover.”

“But not here,” answered Haydn, and pointed upwards.

He then made signs to one of his attendants to open the desk and reach him a roll of papers. From these he took one and gave it to his friend. It was inscribed in his own hand—“Catalogue of all my musical compositions, which I can remember, from my eighteenth year. Vienna, 4th December, 1805.” Manuel, as he read it, understood the mute pressure of his friend’s hand, and sighed deeply. That hand would never trace another note.

“Better thus,” said Haydn, softly, “than a lingering old age of care, disease, perhaps of poverty! No—I am happy. I have lived not in vain; I have accomplished my destiny; I have done good. I am ready for thy call, O Master!”

A long silence followed, for the aged man was wrapt in devotion. At length he asked to be supported to his piano; it was opened, and as his trembling fingers touched the keys, an expression of rapture kindled in his eyes. The music that answered to his touch seemed the music of inspiration. But it gradually faded away; the flush gave place to a deadly pallor; and while his fingers still rested on the keys, he sank back into the arms of his friend, and gently breathed out his parting spirit. It passed as in a happy strain of melody!

Prince Esterhazy did honor to the memory of his departed friend by the pageant of funeral ceremonies. His remains were transported to Eisenstadt, in Hungary, and placed in the Franciscan vault. The prince also purchased, at a high price, all his books and manuscripts, and the numerous medals he had obtained. But his fame belongs to the world; and in all hearts sensible to the music of truth and nature, is consecrated the memory of Haydn.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] “Faustina Bordoni, born at Venice in 1700, was one of the most admirable singers Italy ever produced. She was a pupil of Gasparini, but adopted the modern method of Bernacchi, which she aided greatly to bring into popular use. She appeared on the stage at the age of sixteen; her success was so great that, at Florence, a medal was struck in her honor; and it was said that even gouty invalids would leave their beds to hear her performance. She was called to Vienna in 1724; two years afterwards she came to the London theatre with a salary of 50,000 francs. Everywhere she charmed by the freshness, clearness and sweetness of her voice, by the grace and perfection of her execution, so that she was called the modern siren. It was at London she met the celebrated Cuzzoni, who enjoyed a brilliant reputation; and the lovers of song were divided in their homage to the two rivals. Händel took part in these disputes. Faustina quitted England in 1728, and returned to Dresden, where she became the wife of Hasse.”—Biog. Universelle.

[5] It is related of Porpora, who was a man of much wit as well as one of the first pianists of his age, that, in reply to certain monks who boasted of the music as well as the piety of their organist, he observed—“Ah yes, I see that this man fulfils to the letter the precept of the evangelist—he does not let his left hand know what his right hand doeth!”

[6] This interview, but little varied in the circumstances, is related by several of Haydn’s biographers.

FRIEDEMANN BACH.

It was on Sylvester night of the year 1736, that a man closely wrapped in his mantle, his hat drawn over his brows, was leaning against the wall of the castle at Dresden, looking upward at the illuminated windows of a mansion opposite. Music sounded within, and the burst of trumpet and the clash of kettledrum accompanied, ever and anon, the announcement of some popular toast. A moment of silence at length intervened, as if one of the guests were speaking aloud; till, suddenly, in a jovial shout, the name “Natalie” was uttered, and every voice and instrument joined in tumultuous applause.

The listener in the street turned to depart, but the next instant felt himself seized by the hand, and looking up, saw the royal page M. Scherbitz.

“Bon soir—mon ami!” cried the page, pressing cordially the hand he had taken. “I am right glad to have met you; I have sought you the whole evening, but never dreamed of finding you here. What are you doing?”

“Philosophizing!” answered the other, with something between a laugh and a sigh.

“Bon!” cried the page—“and just here, opposite the lord premier’s mansion, is the best occasion, I grant, but not exactly the best place for it. Besides it is terribly cold! You will have the goodness, mon ami, to come with me to Seconda’s cellar? We shall not fail there of some capital hot punch, and excellent company.” And taking his friend’s arm, he walked with him to a then celebrated Italian house of refreshment, on the corner of Castle Street and the old market.

Signor Seconda received his guests with many compliments, and officiously begged to know with what he should have the happiness and honor to serve milord, the page, and milord, the court organist. The page ordered hot punch, and passed, with his friend, into an inner apartment, which, to the surprize of both, they found quite empty.

“They will be here presently,” observed von Scherbitz. “Meantime, we will take our ease, and thaw ourselves a little. Parbleu! there is no place on earth so delicious; and I thank fortune, so far as I am concerned, that I can spend the night here! Eh bien! make yourself at home, friend.”

The other threw off his hat and cloak, and stood revealed a handsome man, of about five and twenty, of a figure tall, symmetrical, and bold in carriage, and a countenance whose paleness rendered more striking the effect of his regular, noble, and somewhat haughty features. About his finely chiselled mouth lurked something satirical whenever he spoke; there was a fierce brightness in his large dark eyes, which sometimes, however, gave place to a wild and melancholy expression, particularly when he fixed them on the ground, suffering the long lashes to shade them.

“You are very dull to-night, mon ami!” said the page, while he pressed his friend to a seat next him. “Has any thing happened? Non? Well then, banish your ill humor, and be merry; for life, you know, is short at best.”

“Never fear,” replied his friend. “My resolution is taken, to live while I live, in this world. Yet have patience with me, that I cannot go all lengths with you at all times. You know I am but a two years’ disciple.”

“Pah! one year sufficed to spread your fame in music through Europe! Who knows not the name of Friedemann Bach? You have but one rival, the admirable Sebastian, your father!”

Friedemann colored deeply as he replied, “How durst I think of comparing myself with my father? If my name is celebrated, whom have I to thank but my father? Beside him, I feel, with pride as well as pain, his greatness and my own insignificance. Ah! my love for him elevates me; his love crushes me to the dust, for I know myself unworthy of it!”

“Nay, you are too conscientious,” observed Scherbitz.

“Too conscientious!” repeated Friedemann, with a bitter smile.

“Yes!” returned Scherbitz, “I know not how otherwise to express it. What is the head and front of the matter? The old gentleman is, in certain respects, a little strict; pourquoi? because he is old! you are young, impetuous; have your adventures, and your liberal views, and conceal them from him; not, mark me, out of apprehension, but because things he has no power to change, might cause him chagrin. Enfin! where is the harm in all this?”

Friedemann was sitting with his head resting on his open palm. At the last question he sighed deeply, and seemed about to make a quick reply, but on a second thought, only said, passing his hand over his brow, “Let it alone, Scherbitz; it is as silly as useless to discuss certain matters. Enough, that I have strength, or if you will have it—perverseness, to enjoy life after my own heart. Let us be merry, for here comes the punch!”

Signor Seconda entered, followed by two attendants carrying the hot punch, with glasses; serving his guests at the round table in the midst of the apartment, and providing for the new comers, who entered one after another. These consisted of several officers, and some of the most distinguished musicians and painters then living in the capital.

“Said I not—mon frère?” whispered Scherbitz to his companion, “said I not, they would be here presently? See: Monsieur Hasse,” he said aloud, as he rose to greet a distinguished looking man, who just then came in. Hasse returned his salutation, and after a rapid glance round the company, seated himself at a distant corner table, and motioned to an attendant to take away the light just placed on it. The man obeyed, and set before him a cup and a flask of burgundy.

“The poor fellow,” observed Scherbitz, in a low tone to Friedemann, “dismisses the old year with an ‘Alas!’ and greets the new with an ‘Ah, me!’ tout comme chez nous! If he drink much to-night, ’tis all in honor of his fair Faustina. Well—” he lifted his glass, to drink with Friedemann.

“I am sorry for him,” replied Bach; “but why not separate himself from the wife no longer worthy his esteem and love? they say it is out of gratitude for her having taken care of him when an unknown youth; but this gratitude is weakness, and will be the destruction not only of the man, but of the artist. All his works show too well what is wanting in him—namely: strength. In everything he writes there is a softness, the offspring of deep, hidden sorrow. But not the grief of a man; it is, if not thoroughly womanish, the sorrow of a stripling!”

“Is it not on this account that he is the favorite composer in our world of fashion?”

“Very possibly; but I am sure he would give much not to be so on this account!”

Their discourse was here interrupted; for many newly arrived guests took their places at the table. The glasses were rapidly emptied and replenished; the conversation became general, and assumed more and more of a jovial character.

An elegant groom of the chambers, whom a mischievous lieutenant of the guard had enticed thither, and introduced, before he was aware, into the midst of the company, occasioned infinite amusement among the guests, whose unbridled festivity he endeavored to awe by a mien of importance. His efforts, however, produced a contrary effect from that which he intended; and after he had joined the revellers in pledging a few toasts, he was himself the merriest of all. He laughed, he strode about—he clapped applause. Friedemann watched the scene with secret pleasure; it nourished the scorn which he, in common with others who stand ill with themselves, cherished for the whole human race. He could not refrain, now and then, from stealing a glance at the corner where Hasse sat, apparently indifferent to all that was passing about him.

“Apropos—sir groom!” cried Scherbitz, suddenly—“what was that admirable poem you had the pleasure of presenting to a famous artiste, a few days ago?”

The groom winked at him with a smile, pursed up his mouth, and said, “Monsieur Scherbitz, at your service—the poem runs in this way—

“On earth’s warm breast the pensile beams fall goldenly and bright—

The mountain gales, the merry flowers—are swelling with delight;

But nothing can such rapture yield unto this heart of mine,

As—Oh, Faustina Hasse, that radiant neck of thine!”

“Ah! c’est bien dit, sur mon honneur!” cried Scherbitz.

“Is it not?” returned the groom, self-complacently; “it is composed by our best poet, and I paid for it five august d’ors, besides a tun of stadt beer.”

“Here’s to the ‘radiant neck,’” cried one of the guests with a laugh. All joined in the toast, and the glasses clashed.

Hasse rose from his seat, and approaching the table, said, with a courtly bow—

“Messieurs! I commend myself to your remembrance, one and all! To-morrow early I leave Dresden, to return to Italy, perhaps for ever.”

The company were astonished. An officer asked—“How, Monsieur Hasse—you leave us? And your lady—?”

“Remains here,” interrupted Hasse, with a smile of bitterness. There was universal silence. Hasse, turning to Friedemann, and offering him his hand, said mildly, though earnestly—“Farewell, Bach! Present my adieus to your esteemed father, and tell him he may depend on hearing something good, one day, of the disciple of Scarlatti. May Heaven keep you from all evil!” He then, visibly affected, left the room.

Friedemann looked after him with much emotion, and murmured, “Poor wretch! and yet, would I not exchange with him? I might be the gainer!”

Peals of laughter interrupted him; they were occasioned by the comical groom, who, scarcely master of his wits, was going over the secret chronique scandaleuse, to the amusement of his auditors, relating the most surprising events, in all which he had been the hero, though few of them redounded to his honor. From these he went on to others; from the chronique scandaleuse to the disputes of the artists; in all matters of gossip proving himself thoroughly at home, and, finally, as the crown of all his merits, avowing himself a devoted adherent of Voltaire, whose epoch had then just commenced. The chamberlain received a full tribute of applause; the clapping of hands, cries of “bravo!” and fresh toasts, attested the approbation of the spectators at his speech, not the less, that the speech was in part unintelligible. At length he fell back in his seat quite overcome, and was asleep in a few moments. This was just what his mischievous friends desired. They stripped him of his gay court dress, and put on a plain one; some wild young men then carried him out of the house, and delivered him into the custody of the watch, as a drunken fellow whom no one knew, to be taken to the great guard-house. The company then amused themselves with imagining the terror and despair of the poor groom, when, awakening on New-year’s morning, he should find himself in his new quarters.

The last hour of the old year struck, like a warning, amid the mirth and festivity of those guests; they heeded it not. Clamorous revelry filled up that awful interval between the departing and the coming time; revelry echoed the stroke of the first hour in the new year, mingled with the tumult of the storm that raged without; nor was the bacchanalian feast at an end till the morning broke, troubled and gloomy. The revellers then, one after another, reeled homewards; Friedemann Bach alone retained the steadiness of his gait, and his self-possession. The youthful vigor of his frame enabled him to withstand the effects of a night’s festivity; but the bitter contempt with which he had early learned to look upon the ordinary efforts and impulses of men, found sufficient to nourish its growth.

On the morning of the New year, Friedemann, pale and disturbed, was pacing up and down his chamber, when Scherbitz came in.

“The compliments of the season to you!” cried the ever merry page. “Health, contentment, fortune, and all imaginable blessings!”

“The blessing is here!” sighed Friedemann, handing his friend an open letter.

Scherbitz read it through, and said, with some appearance of emotion—“Mon ami! your papa is a dear, charming old gentleman, whose whole heart is full of kindness for his Friedemann; every line of this letter expresses it. May he have a long and happy life! But I pray you, for the thousandth time, to recollect that it is quite impossible to satisfy, honestly, all the claims of such distinguished virtue of the olden time. Believe me, mon ami, the time will come when we, madcaps as we now are, shall be pointed out as wig-blocks that frown upon the disorderly behavior of our juniors. The wheel of time rolls on, and no mortal hand can check its course; it should suffice that we keep ourselves from falling, and being crushed in the dust beneath it.”

“Can we do that?”

“Mon ami! Do I not stand, albeit I am a page forty years old? And look you, I know that I shall remain so, as long as I serve my lord faithfully. I might have opposed the all-powerful minister, and the country would have glorified me; yet I am a page, no captain, at forty years of age! I have been the talk of the capital, yet I stand firm!”

“And your consolation?”

“A knowledge that it has always gone thus in the world; that I am not the first whose life is a failure; that I shall not be the last; a perverse determination to live through a life which a thousand others would end in despair; in fine, curiosity to see what will be the end of the whole matter. Be reasonable, mon ami! I am really something of a hero! Were I an artist, as you are, I should have nobler consolations than perverseness and curiosity. Enough of my own insignificance; but let me ask you, have you forgotten the heroic Händel, whom, three years ago, you welcomed here in the name of your father?”

“How could I forget that noble being?”

“Ah, there I would have you, friend! You tell me yourself, Händel is not, as an artist, like your father; his fantasy is more powerful, his force more fully developed; he soars aloft, a mighty eagle, in the blaze of eternal light; while your father, a regal swan, sails majestically over the blue waters, and sings of the wonders of the deep. Well! we all know Monsieur Händel an honorable man—a man comme il faut; yet how different is he from your father! What the one, in limited circles, with calm and earnest thought, labors after, what he accomplishes in his silent activity—the other reaches amidst the tumult of a stormy life; amid a thousand strifes and victories. Yet your father honors and loves him, and blames him not for the path by which he travels towards the goal. It is also your path, and is not the worst that you might take. So—en avant—mon ami!”

“You forget,” said Friedemann, gloomily, “you forget that Händel, in all his wild and agitated life, never lost himself; and that his belief was such as he might acknowledge even to my inflexible father.”

“That I well remember, friend; and also that if Händel had been born in 1710, instead of 1687, he must have had more liberal views of certain things than he now has, if he thought it worth while to spend time upon matters of belief at all. He is a mighty musician; he lives and lets live; and credit me, did as others do, before he was your age; Faustina Hasse could tell you many pretty stories thereof, if she placed not so much stress upon outward demeanor.”

“He never played the hypocrite to his father!”

“Because it was not worthwhile to lie to the old dupe. And now, mon ami, do not flatter yourself you can mislead a page forty years old! To speak fairly and honestly, your self-reproach and your—pour ainsi dire—profligacy, have a cause very different from that you have chosen to assign. I tell you, between ourselves, there is another secret, whose discovery you dread far more than the unmasking of your petty hypocrisy.”

Friedemann reddened as he asked, “What do you mean, von Scherbitz?”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the page, “you need not look so gloomy because I have guessed the truth. Non, non, cher ami. If you really wish to keep your secret, you must govern your eyes better, when the name, ‘Natalie’ is uttered. Your last night’s behavior opposite the minister’s palace was not necessary to convince me that you have looked too deeply into the dark eyes of the little countess.”

The flush on Friedemann’s cheeks gave place to a deadly paleness; but mastering his emotions by a violent effort, he said, in a husky voice—

“You have discovered all; but you will be silent—will you not?”

“O ma foi! said I not, mon enfant, that I only warned you to be cautious before others? I will be silent, as a matter of course, and so, no more of it. Farewell! I am going to the guard-house, to see the happy waking of our noble chamberlain! You go to church, to edify the faithful with your organ-playing; come afterwards to Seconda’s, where the groom shall give a splendid breakfast as his ransom. Courage! be not too philosophical! I hate the old Italian who made you so melancholy!”

The page departed, and Friedemann, having dressed himself, left his house to go to the church of Saint Sophia.

The service was at an end; the organ’s last tones died tremulously along the vast arches, like the sighs of a suppliant angel. All was still again, and the worshippers departed from the sanctuary. Friedemann, too, arose, closed the instrument, and descended from the choir, more composed, if not more cheerful, than he had gone there. Just as he was going out, he felt himself clasped in a pair of vigorous arms; and looking up, with a joyful cry of—“Ah, my father!” flung himself on the bosom of Sebastian Bach.

“God’s grace be with thee, on this New year’s morn,” cried Sebastian, clasping his son to his heart. “And my best blessing! Yea, a thousand, Friedemann! You made my heart leap, ere yet I saw you, with pure joy! Truly, you have bravely—greatly acquitted yourself, in this morning’s work! Ay, you know, to make others skilful in our sacred art, was ever my pride; Heaven will not reckon with me for presumption, nor must you take it for such, when I say—that as you were always my dearest pupil, you have become my best! Now conduct me to your lodgings, Master court-organist; Philip is already there, and unpacking; for eight days I propose to tarry with my Friedemann. We have been long separated, and though you wrote me charming letters, that, as you know, between father and son, is not like discoursing face to face, with hand in hand!” So saying, he took Friedemann’s arm with affectionate pleasure, and walked with him towards his dwelling, talking all the while.

A new surprise awaited Friedemann there; for his younger brother, Philip Emanuel, in the three years that had flown since his departure from Leipzig, had grown a stately youth, and as his father testified, a ripe scholar in his art. He was a gay, light-hearted boy, “a little subtle upon the organ,” as his father observed with a smile, “and certainly more at home on the piano; but a true and pious spirit, that scorned disguise.”

Friedemann suppressed a sigh at the last remark of Sebastian, and gave his brother a heartfelt welcome. A servant in a rich livery interrupted the conversation. He presented a note to Friedemann, and said he was ordered to wait for an answer. Friedemann colored as he took the billet, opened it, glanced at the contents, and said briefly, “I will be there at the appointed hour.” The servant bowed and disappeared.

“Ha!” observed Sebastian, with a smile, “it seems our court-organist has to do with very distinguished people.”

“It was the livery of the Lord Premier,” said Philip.

Sebastian started, and asked, “Eh, Friedemann, is it so? A domestic of His Excellency, the Count von Bruhl, comes to your house?”

“He was sent,” replied Friedemann, with some embarrassment, “only by the niece of His Excellency, the Countess Natalie.”

“Eh? you are acquainted with the young lady, then?”

“She is my pupil. This billet instructs me to come to her this afternoon, to arrange a concert she wishes to give on her aunt’s birth-day.”

“Eh? how come you to such an honor? I thought those matters were under the jurisdiction of M. Hasse.”

“My dear father, as the young lady’s music-master, I cannot well decline commissions of the sort, especially as they here promote one’s reputation. With regard to M. Hasse, he departed hence early this morning; we shall no more have the pleasure of hearing new songs from him.”

“Hasse gone hence?” repeated Sebastian, with astonishment—“the excellent, amiable Hasse? Eh? where is he gone? Tell me, Friedemann!”

“It is a long story,” replied his son, with a meaning glance at his young brother.

The father understood the hint. “You may go till meal-time, Philip,” he said, “and amuse yourself by seeing the city.” Philip bowed obediently, gave his hand to his brother, and quitted the room. “Now, my son,” said Sebastian, “we are alone; what has happened to M. Hasse?”

Friedemann gave him an account of Hasse’s departure—of his contemplated journey to Italy, and the well known cause of his disquiet and exile. Bach listened attentively. When his son had ended, he said, confidentially—“It was right that Philip should not hear such a tale—and that you suggested it to me to send him away. Hem! at court, indeed, all is not as it should be; there is much said in our Leipzig, as I could tell you, about it. Well, one must not listen to every thing; our most gracious Elector and sovereign means well with his subjects, and whoever is a faithful subject, will acknowledge that, and speak not of things which he who commits them has to answer for. We will say no more about it; you will go this afternoon to her gracious ladyship, and I warrant me, know how to demean yourself. I have cared enough, methinks, for your manners.” Friedemann pressed his father’s hand, and looked fondly on the good old man. “Tell me now, sir court-organist,” continued the elder Bach, “what you have been doing of late. You have sent me but little for a long while; I hope you have not been idle.”

“Surely not, my father! I have worked assiduously, but have done little that satisfied me; and what does not satisfy me, I would rather destroy, than venture before the world. In art, one should accomplish the best, or nothing at all.”

“No, no!” cried Sebastian, interrupting his son; “that would be, indeed, a hard condition for many; for the greatest number among those who earnestly and honestly devote themselves to art; who find therein, often, the only consolation and happiness of their lives. The chosen are few—the called are many! And trust me, Friedemann, the called are not held in less esteem for the sake of the chosen, if they prove themselves true laborers! Art is like love. We all bear and cherish love in our hearts, and whether the bosom is covered by a regal mantle, or by a beggar’s cloak, love, which dwells within, owns but one home—Heaven. Could the highest and the best alone avail in art, how should we and our equals stand? I can do little, but my will is honest, and vast is my reward! Yes! I am, as regards earthly good, like the poor man in the Evangelist; yet I would not exchange with a monarch! I rejoice in humility over my success, great or small as it may be; and for the rest, I submit me to the will of God!”

“Oh, that all had your apprehension of Art, my dear father; that all would strive to practise it as you do!”

“You will, my boy!” said Sebastian, tenderly. “I find much that is excellent in your Fughetten. Be not too severe with yourself; and remember that the fresh, free impulses of a young heart are ever accordant with the dictates of justice and truth.”

“They are, indeed!” murmured Friedemann, gloomily.

His father continued—“Since we are permitted, my boy, to meet on this New-year’s morning, allow me to ask how it stands with you in other respects? Eh, Friedemann, will you not soon seek out a wife among the daughters of the land? I warrant me, the court-organist need not seek long, to find a comely and willing damsel. Eh? speak, boy!”

“Dear father! there is time enough!”

“Pah! pah! I was not as old as you are, when I espoused your mother; and by my faith! I would have married sooner, if I had had my place. So make haste, Friedemann! ‘Early wooed, has none rued!’”

“It is a serious step, father.”

“That is very certain, and I am sure you would not take it precipitately; but I pray you, dear son, do it speedily. How merry a grandfather I shall be! and if the child is a boy, he must be named after me; and I will teach him his first notes. Ay, ’tis very true, marriage is no child’s play. I can tell you, son, I have toiled unweariedly, oft oppressed with care, to furnish you, my boys and girls, with your daily bread. Yet, has not the Almighty blessed my labors? Have I not brought you all up happily, to be brave men, and skilful musicians? It is singular, Friedemann, that from my great grandfather down, all the sons of the Bach family have had taste and talent for music. Look you—as I wrote down my last fugue, I thought of my sons, and of you, particularly, and confessed myself happy! I used often to think I might write something, like the old masters, which, centuries hence, could edify and delight men—that they would love my memory. May I be forgiven if there was aught of worldly arrogance in the thought. Now, however, I have become less ambitious; but I have one vision, in which my fancy will revel as long as I live! It is this—how rapturous will it be—when all the Bachs meet together in the Kingdom of Heaven, and unite in singing to the glory of God—their ‘hallelujahs’ resounding forever and ever in the presence of the Uncreate—who was, and is, and shall be! Friedemann! child of my heart! let me not miss you there!”

“Father!” cried the young man, and sank overpowered at Sebastian’s feet.

The elder Bach, unacquainted with the wo that struggled in his son’s breast, saw only in his agitation a burst of filial feeling. He laid both hands on the head of the kneeling youth, and said, devoutly, “God’s peace be with you, my Friedemann, now and ever, Amen!”

Friedemann arose, pale, but with a smile on his face. He kissed his father’s hand, and slowly withdrew from the apartment; but scarcely was the door closed behind him, than he rushed impetuously through the hall, down the steps, and through the streets to the open space, where he threw himself on the frozen earth, hid his burning forehead, and cursed aloud his miserable being.

After the lapse of an hour, having collected and composed himself, he returned to his father, and conversed with apparent cheerfulness. The elder Bach chatted at table with Philip, who was required to give him an account of all the magnificence he had seen in the capital. The splendor of Dresden had reached its utmost under the administration of the luxurious and prodigal Count von Bruhl; and no court, not even that of Vienna, rivalled the Polish Saxon in this respect.

After dinner, the father reminded his favorite that it was time to dress, so as to be in season at the minister’s palace; and Friedemann hastened to do so. With a beating heart, with feelings that partook both of pleasure and despair, he found himself at the palace. As he entered the hall, a side door was suddenly thrown open, and a small man, with striking features, and soft, clear blue eyes, richly dressed, with a blazing star on his breast, came forth: it was the minister himself. As Friedemann stopped and bowed to him, he advanced, speaking in the gentlest and blandest tone imaginable—

“Ah! bon jour, Monsieur Bach! Much happiness with the New year! My niece has sent for you? I am pleased to see you so punctual. I see, with satisfaction, you are attached to our house, and shall remember your zeal where it will do you good. I shall improve the first opportunity to convince you by deeds, of my good will. Now to the Countess!”

He nodded to the young man, smiled, and skipped out of the door and down the steps to his carriage, which soon drove away with him.

Young Bach looked after him, and murmured to himself, “Can he have guessed my secret? The smile of that man ever bodes disaster! Well, come what may, what can make me more wretched than I am? On, reprobate!” He crossed the hall, and passed through one of the galleries towards the apartment of the Countess Natalie.

“This way,” said the maid, who was waiting for him in the ante-room, and without further announcement, she opened the door of the cabinet, where Natalie, charmingly dressed, was reclining on a divan. Friedemann entered.

Natalie arose quickly, and stood a moment gazing earnestly on the visitor. She might have seen twenty summers; her figure was not tall, but perfectly symmetrical, and voluptuous in its rounded fulness; her head was beautiful, though not classical in its contour; a curved nose, and a pair of well defined, though delicately pencilled eyebrows, gave an expression of decision and pride to her countenance, while the exquisite, rosy mouth, and eyes shadowed by their long lashes, exhibited more the character of softness and tenderness. A profusion of dark hair floated unconfined over her neck, and relieved the outlines of her somewhat pale, but lovely face.

She stood still a moment before Friedemann, who cast down his eyes embarrassed; then approaching, she laid her small white hand lightly on his shoulder, and said, in a mild voice—“Tell me, Bach, what were you doing last night so late, opposite our house?”

Friedemann raised his dark, flashing eyes to hers, but dropped them the next instant. Natalie continued—“I saw you plainly, as I stepped a moment out on the balcony for a breath of fresh air—and I knew you at once. You were leaning against the castle wall; it seemed as if you were waiting for some one. Come—Bach, answer me!”

The young man struggled down his emotions, and after a pause, said coldly—“You sent for me, most gracious Countess, to honor me with your commands respecting the arrangement of a concert.”

Natalie turned her back pettishly, and cried in an angry and disappointed tone—“Thus—haughty man! you thank me, too weak of heart! for my trust—for my concessions! Out on ungrateful man!”

Friedemann’s pale face became crimson, and in a subdued voice, which had something in it absolutely terrific, from the deep sorrow and the wild passion it expressed, he replied—“What shall I—what can I say to you? Look at me, and enjoy your triumph! You have made me wretched—but I conjure you, let me have the only consolation that remains—the conviction that I alone am to bear the wrath and curse of offended heaven!”

“Friedemann!” cried the maiden, shocked, and she turned again to him, her eyes suffused with tears—“spare me; master this agitation, I entreat you!”

“I will not!” returned the young man, impetuously, “I will not spare you! you have yourself torn open, in cruel sport, the wounds of this heart! Look, how it bleeds! and yet, oh, fate, cannot cease to beat! I will not spare you! you are the only being on earth, to whom I dare unveil myself; I have purchased that right with my happiness here and hereafter; and this only, last right none shall tear from me! I gave you all! truth for falsehood—pure, undying love, for frivolous, heartless mockery!”

“I mocked you not!” protested Natalie, looking earnestly at him. “Believe me, I meant well.”

“With me? Did you love me?”

“Ask me not.”

“Natalie, answer! Did you love me?”

“How can it help, if I tell you I loved you? Are we not parted for ever?”

“No! by my soul! no! If you love me, nothing on earth shall part us! For the sake of your love, mark me—I would not spare even the heart of my father, though it should cost his life! But I must know—if you have loved—if you yet love me! If you have not, if you do not, I will ask—woman! wherefore did you tempt the free-hearted youth, who lived but for his art, with encouraging looks and flattering words? Wherefore did you give yourself—”

“Hold, unhappy man!”

“Wherefore?” repeated Friedemann, with a burst of passionate grief.

“I honored your mind—your genius—your heart.”

“And you loved me not?”

“You will madden me with these questions!”

“And you loved me not?”

“I could not see you suffer—I wished to restore your peace—to have you acquiesce—”

“All that you gave without love, I despise! If you do love me, how can you bear to think of becoming the wife of another?”

“Ah! you know well, my station—the will of my uncle—”

“And my happiness, my peace is nothing to you?”

“Why can you not be calm—happy, when you know that my affection is still yours—that I can never love another!”

Friedemann’s brow kindled, he stamped fiercely with his foot, and muttered—“Hypocrite, liar, coward! and all for the sake of a coquette!”

“Your passion makes you unjust and weak,” said Natalie, with displeasure. “I am no coquette. Is not the story of my education familiar to you? My parents died early; they were poor, but descended from one of the oldest families in the land; my proud uncle, whose nobility was younger, surrounded me with all the state and splendor his power could command. I will not indulge in self-commendation, for that I early perceived the worthlessness of all this magnificence; but it is something, that I yielded not to temptation, which, in the midst of pomp and luxury, approached me in a thousand enticing shapes. It is much; I dare commend myself therefor, and be proud; for I had no loving, careful mother, to teach me the lessons of virtue. I grew thus to womanhood, flattered by puppets, by venal slaves, by smiling fools; for I had not yet seen a man. I saw you—I loved you. Must I excuse to you my too mighty love?”

“Ah! Natalie! what must I think? You love me, yet scorn to be my true and wedded wife! You love me, and will marry the creature of your uncle, whom you regard with indifference—with aversion? Must I never know what to make of you?”

“You must know that interest impels me not to this step, but a sense of duty.”

“Sense of duty?”

“Yes! and towards you. I feel that as your wife I could never make you happy—could never be happy myself. You are a great artist, can accomplish much; but you cannot rise beyond a certain sphere—and I—think you it would be so easy for a princely maiden to fulfil the duties of a quiet citizen’s wife? And were I willing to sacrifice all for you, where should we find a refuge from the pursuit of my incensed uncle? Nay—if we even found that, in some desert solitude, how long could the high-minded, ambitious artist endure this inglorious concealment?” Friedemann looked mournfully on the ground, and was silent; the lady continued,—“If I knew you discontented, could I be happy? Or you, if you saw my grief? I will do all for you that a woman in my circumstances can do for her beloved; my uncle’s minion can never obtain any portion of my heart. I will live for you alone! And you—live for your art and me!”

“And must I enjoy your affection as a dishonorable thief?” asked Friedemann, angrily.

“Our regard cannot remain concealed—yet, for your sake, I will bear the condemnation of the world!”

“And the world’s scorn? No—you shall not! The woman whom I love—for whom I am miserable—for whose sake I have deceived father, brother, friends—that woman shall none dare to scorn! Farewell, Natalie! we never meet again! Be what your future husband is not—be noble and true. And believe me, low as I am sunk, all virtuous resolution has not yet left my heart! I must be unhappy, but no longer utterly wretched, for you shall esteem me!”

“Friedemann!” cried the maiden, and threw herself weeping on his breast, “I honor, I admire you!”

Here the waiting maid entered hastily, and not without alarm, announced the minister’s approach.

“Recollect yourself!” whispered Natalie, as she disengaged herself from the arms of her lover.

The minister cried in a cordial tone as he entered—“Ha! Monsieur Bach, here still? I am delighted to see you again. Well, ma chére nièce!” turning to the blushing girl, “how goes it? Is all arranged for the concert—and will it suit?”

“I hope so, most gracious uncle!”

“That is charming, my love; my wife will be enchanted with this kind attention. You, my dear Monsieur Bach, will certainly arrange all for the best, of that I am assured. Come very often to my house! understand—very often! I place the highest value upon you and your talents.”

The young man thanked him, somewhat bewildered, and took his leave.

“A strong head, and great, great talent,” observed the minister, looking after him, while he took a pinch from his jewelled snuff-box. He said more in his praise, then passed to indifferent subjects, and at length retired from the apartment, after having pressed his lips to the white forehead of his niece, who dutifully kissed his hand.

As Friedemann left the palace, the page rushed hastily from round a corner to him, and asked—“Whither?”

“Home!”

“Not there. Come with me instantly to Faustina’s.”

“Are you mad?”

“More reasonable than yourself, mein engel! Out on the blindness that cannot see the trap the wary bird-catcher has laid for the bird!”

“What mean you? What is the matter?”

“Sacre-bleu! Come to Faustina’s with me, or you are to-night on the road to Konigstein! The lord Minister knows all!” And he led him away.

Twilight had come on; Philip had called for lights, and placed himself beside his father, who, sitting at the table, was diligently perusing Friedemann’s last exercises and compositions, giving what he had read to his son, for the same purpose. At last, looking up, he asked—“Well, Philip, what think you of our Friedemann?”

“Ah, father,” replied the lad, “do not make sport of me! But indeed, I know not how to express what I think and feel. I am moved, rapt—I admire my brother. It seems to me often as if I were reading something of yours; and then all is again so strange to me—so different from yours—I feel troubled—I know not why. In short, I cannot feel undisturbed joy in these compositions.”

Sebastian looked grave and thoughtful for a moment, then turning with a smile to his son, he said—

“Yes, Philip, there is to me also something strange and paradoxical in Friedemann’s works; and this is more the case in his exercises and sketches, than in his finished pieces; yet I am not disturbed; yea, I deeply rejoice therein.”

“Rejoice?” repeated Philip, and looked doubtingly on his father; the latter continued—

“I know what you mean by this question; your own light, glad spirit accords not with the earnest, oft gloomy character displayed in Friedemann’s works. Heaven knows, he inherits not the gloomy from me, though I have always dealt earnestly with art. But, observe, Friedemann’s character is not yet fixed. All assures me there is something great in the man; but he is hardly yet determined how to develop it. He seeks the form, by which he shall represent what lives within him. I have examined closely and dispassionately; it is not a father’s partiality that leads me to speak as I do. Friedemann seeks for himself a new path to the goal. Will he succeed? I hope so, when I reflect that every strong spirit has sought and discovered a new path, winning what his predecessor would have given up as impossible. I know not if I deserve so high a degree of praise as has been accorded to me; but this I know, Philip, and acknowledge, that from her origin, Art has ever advanced, and still advances, and her temple is not yet completed. Will it ever be? I think not; for the perfect dwells not on earth; yet therefore is Art on earth so divine and eternal, that we may ever long for her fairest rewards, and strive after them with our best strength.”

“It is so,” said Philip, struck with his father’s remarks; “if one thinks he has accomplished something worthy, he soon finds there exists in his fantasy images far nobler and fairer, than with all his industry and taste he can produce.”

The conversation was interrupted by a stout knock at the door. The elder Bach answered by a “Come in!” the door opened, and two tall men entered, and inquired for the court-organist.

“I expect my son every moment,” answered Bach, and asked if the gentlemen had any message to leave. They replied that they were friends of the court-organist, and would wait for his coming. They seated themselves without farther ceremony; Sebastian also resumed his seat, and endeavored to introduce general conversation. But his politeness and his trouble were in vain; the two visitors only answered in monosyllables, and in a tone by no means encouraging, so that an awkward silence soon prevailed, and Sebastian, as well as Philip, wished, with all their hearts, for Friedemann’s arrival. Still Friedemann came not; but after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the door was opened without a previous knock, and the page, von Scherbitz, entered.

“Bon soir!” cried he, in an indifferent tone, while he fixed a keen look on the two strangers, who rose from their seats as they perceived him.

“Whom have I the honor—” asked Sebastian, somewhat surprised at the unceremonious intrusion.

“Von Scherbitz,” replied he, “page in the service of His Highness, and a friend of your son Friedemann, if so be that you are the elder Bach.”

“I am,” returned Sebastian, smiling. “My son must be in soon; these gentlemen, also his friends, are waiting for him.”

“Friends?” repeated von Scherbitz, “friends of Friedemann! So, so!” He placed himself directly before the two men, who were visibly embarrassed, and looked down. The page stood awhile in silence; at length he said in a cold, ironical tone, “Messieurs! you are come too late, in spite of the haste with which his Excellency thought proper to send you, and indeed you are here quite unnecessarily. Go, messieurs! Carry your lord the compliments of the page, M. Scherbitz, and tell him the court-organist, Bach, is with the Signora Hasse; I myself took him there, informed the sovereign of my doing, as in duty bound, and have already obtained my pardon!”

The two men started up and left the apartment without answering a word; the page threw himself on a seat, and burst into loud laughter.

The elder Bach, who knew not what to make of the whole scene, stood in blank surprise in the middle of the room, looking inquiringly at Philip, who, with equally astonished and anxious looks, was gazing at the page.

At length von Scherbitz ceased laughing, arose, approached the old man, and said with earnestness and respect, “Pardon, Master Cantor, for my strange behavior. I will explain it to you; I have much to communicate, but to you alone. It concerns your son, Friedemann—”

“My son?”—“My brother?” cried Sebastian and Philip in the same breath. “Where is he?”

“As I told those men,” replied the page, “at the house of Signora Hasse.”

“And what does he there?” asked Sebastian.

“I must tell you alone.”

“Go, Philip, to your chamber,” said the father mildly; and as the boy lingered, he repeated with more earnestness—“Go!” With a look of anxiety the youth retired.

Sebastian, full of serious misgiving, seated himself, and said, “Now, M. Scherbitz, we are alone; what have you to tell me of my Friedemann, whose friend you are pleased to call yourself?”

“I am his friend!” said the page, not without feeling; “and that I am, I have not first proved to-day!”

“And those two men, who marched off so quickly, when you told them my son was at Madame Hasse’s?”

“Were in no way his friends—tout au contraire, mon ami! and on this account I wish to speak with you.”

“Speak, then, M. Scherbitz!”

Scherbitz seemed at a loss in what manner to communicate to Bach the information he could no longer keep from him. For the first time in his life, in the presence of that worthy old man, his bold levity deserted him. Sebastian sat opposite with folded hands, his clear and searching eyes fixed steadily upon him. Recollecting himself, at last he began—

“Your son, Friedemann, my good sir, has told me how different, even when a child, he always was from his brothers and sisters, in that, with an earnestness far beyond his years, he apprehended and retained whatever moved his fancy.”

“Yes, yes, it was so!” exclaimed Bach. “This peculiarity endeared the boy to me at first; but in later years it has made me anxious for him.”

“You have brought him up strictly, sir.”

“Very strictly, M. Scherbitz; in the fear of God, as is a parent’s duty! yet I have constrained him to nothing—and only when he was convinced, have I led him strictly to follow his conviction. He who discerns the truth and the right, and obeys it not, is either a fool or a knave; not a man!”

“Ah! my dear sir, may not an excess of strength lead a well meaning man out of the way; yea, even to his ruin?”

“That is possible; but he should reserve his strength to struggle, not weakly yield. He should either rouse himself, and atone for his faults, or perish like a man.”

“Heaven grant the first!” murmured the page.

“Do you fear the last?” asked Sebastian, quickly, and alarmed.

“No, M. Cantor; I trust Friedemann’s strength to rise again.”

“To rise again? Monsieur, tell me, in few words—what of my son?”

“Well, then! you have brought up your son as a man of honor; but you yourself, sir, are too little acquainted with the present ways of the world, to be able to shield him against the dangers that beset the path of youth, when, without a guide or counseller, he enters the great arena of life. Your son, till then, had known nothing of the world, beyond his paternal dwelling and your church of Saint Thomas. He was called to Dresden. He was received as the son—as the first disciple of the famous Sebastian Bach; and it was soon found that he was himself a master in his art. Esteem, admiration, were his; the great treated him with favor, his inferiors flattered him as the favorite of the great. Is it surprising that his head was somewhat turned, and that he forgot his place? Yet all would soon have been right again, when he learned to separate appearances from realities; but as ill luck would have it, the young Countess de Bruhl employed him as her music-master. In a word, your son loves her!”

“Is the boy mad?” cried Bach, angrily, and rising from his chair.

“Gently, papa!” interrupted the page; “if you knew the young Countess, you would confess, that for a young man like your son, it would be impossible not to love her; particularly as she was resolved to be loved; and in truth, she has excellently well managed it!”

Sebastian sank again on his seat, and his brow became clouded. The page continued—

“Friedemann struggled bravely against his passion, but the little Countess would not allow resistance—”

“Poor Friedemann!” sighed the father.

“When the first violence of his passion was over, he thought upon his father. He would have torn himself from his beloved—but could he? ought he? Everything was against their union. Was he to discover all to you, who had no misgiving? Disturb your peace, and that of your family? He resolved to bear all the anguish alone. The resolution was a noble one, but it made him so much the more wretched, since he, who so reverenced truth, had to dissemble with his father.”

“Cease, M. Scherbitz!” said Sebastian, in a low, mournful voice.

“I have little more to say, M. Cantor. Friedemann’s conscience gave him no peace day or night; and he suffered much from the fear of discovery. He fled to dissipation for relief. There were about him younger and older libertines. Thus I became acquainted with him; I, whose life has been an error! I would fain have aided him; but I saw then was not the time. His grief was too new; his passion reigned too fiercely in his breast; I looked to time for the cure, and sought only to keep him from too wild company. I was not always successful. Now, however, he has taken a wise step. He himself has broken off his connection with the Countess.”

“Heaven be praised!” cried Sebastian with joy; the page continued—

“First hear me out, M. Cantor; the minister has discovered their intimacy. He swears your son’s destruction—there I have baffled him; but I cannot prevent the necessity of Friedemann’s quitting this place.”

“It needs not!” said Sebastian, with quickness. “My poor son shall go hence; he needs comfort, and he can find it only with me!”

“He may come to you, then?” asked Scherbitz.

“What a question! Where is the father who can repel his unhappy child? And I know, sir, how unhappy my poor Friedemann must be; for I know, better than any other, his fiery soul! Bring him to me. I know he has ever loved his father; he must learn also to trust me with filial confidence!”

“My good sir!” cried Scherbitz with emotion, taking Sebastian’s hand, and pressing it to his bosom, “had I had such a father, I should have been something more than a page, in my fortieth year. Your Friedemann is saved!”

He left the apartment. Sebastian looked sadly after him, and murmured to himself, “Ah! you know not what is in my heart, and that I dare not speak the whole truth, if I would save my boy! My fairest dream is melted away—the dream I indulged, of finding in my first-born a friend, pure and true—such as I have sought my life long in vain! Oh! now I acknowledge, the truest friend, the purest joy, is Art! Without her, where should I find comfort? All thanks and praise to Him who has given the children of earth such a companion through their pilgrimage of life!”

He passed from the room into an adjoining dark one, where a small but excellent work of Silbermann’s was set up; he opened the piano, played a prelude, and began, with a full heart, the beautiful melody of an old song by Paul Gerhard, the first verse of which ran as follows:—

“Commit thy ways, Oh, pilgrim,

And yield thy sick heart’s sighs

Unto the faithful caring

Of Him who rules the skies!”

More steady, more powerful rose the harmony; it filled the apartment, and was heard even in the streets, where it brought peace and consolation to more than one sick heart, as the passers-by stopped to listen.

In a luxuriously decorated room, lighted by a splendid astral lamp, reclined on a rich ottoman Faustina Hasse, the most beautiful woman, and the greatest dramatic singer, not only of her own, but perhaps of all times.

She wore a simple white robe, of the finest material; a costly necklace of pearls was rivalled by the snow of her lovely neck; her lofty brow was somewhat paler than usual, and a touch of melancholy about her mouth softened the pride that generally ruled the expression of those exquisite features.

“Let him come in!” said she, carelessly, to the waiting-maid, who had just announced a visitor. The maid withdrew, and the minister, Count von Brühl, entered, with a low and courtly bow. Faustina replied by a slight inclination of her head, and without changing her own easy position, motioned him to a seat. The minister sat down, and began smilingly—

“My late visit surprises you, does it not, Signora?”

“I am not yet aware of its object.”

“Oh, that is plain! I am a good spouse, as is known; in fourteen days comes my consort’s birth-day, and I intend giving a fête, as handsome as my poor means will allow. But how will it surpass in splendor all other fêtes in the world, if Faustina Hasse will honor it with her presence! Will the Signora let me sue in vain?”

“I do not sing, my lord minister.”

“How have I deserved, Signora, that you should so misinterpret my well meant petition?”

“Will His Highness honor the feast with his presence?”

“He received graciously his most faithful servant’s petition, and was pleased to promise me.”

“Good—I will be there.”

“Divine Faustina! My gratitude is unbounded!”

He kissed her hand, and was about to retire. Faustina started up hastily, and cried with flashing eyes—

“Hold—a word!” The minister stood still. “Where is Friedemann Bach?” asked she.

The Count could not suppress a start of surprise, but he answered blandly—“This question, most honored lady, from you—”

“Where is Friedemann Bach?” repeated Faustina, with vehemence. “I will know!”

“Well, then; he is probably on his way to Konigstein.”

Faustina smiled scornfully, and asked—“For what?”

“To save him from yet severer punishment. The whole parish is disgusted at the scandalous life their court-organist leads, who, if he edifies the devotional with his organ-playing on Sunday morning, celebrates the wildest orgies with his fellow rioters, at Seconda’s, on Sunday night!”

“And what is done with his fellow rioters?”

The Count von Brühl shrugged his shoulders, and replied dejectedly—“They are of the first families.”

“And therefore pass unpunished? Very fair, my lord minister! But you are mistaken; Bach is not on the road to Konigstein; he is here, in my house, and has seen His Highness.”

“How, Signora!” cried the Count, really shocked—“what have you done?”

“Silence—I command you!” said Faustina, haughtily. The minister was silent, and she continued—“His Highness knows all; knows why you pursue the unhappy youth, and would bring unspeakable misery on the whole family—and such a family! Heartless courtier! You cannot comprehend the worth of such a man. Friedemann must leave this city, but he goes freely, and must not be unprovided for. Give him another place, one worthy of his genius. That is His Highness’s will!”

She left the apartment. The minister stepped in much embarrassment to a window, looked out into the darkness, and drummed with his fingers upon the pane. When he turned round, he saw Friedemann and the page, who had entered the room. There was a storm in his breast, but he suppressed all signs of agitation, and walking up to the young man, said in a gentle, though earnest tone, “Monsieur Bach, it grieves me much that you must leave us so suddenly; but since that cannot be helped, we must yield to what is unavoidable. You will go as soon as possible to Merseburg; the place of organist in that cathedral is vacant, and I have appointed you to it. Adieu!” And he retired.

“Bravissimo, mon comte!” cried the page, laughing as he looked after him—“where is there a better actor? Roscius is a poor bungler to him! But now, mon ami”—he turned to Friedemann—“come with me to your father. Courage! he knows all.”

“All!” repeated the youth, and with a look of despair he followed his friend. They passed out into the open air. It was a clear winter’s night; the stars glittered in the deep blue firmament, recording in burning lines their hymn of praise to Infinite love; but in the heart of the young man dwelt hopeless anguish.

The pious melody Sebastian sang, was yet unfinished, when they arrived at the house. They entered. Philip, who saw them first, hastened to tell his father. Sebastian came into the room; as he approached his son, he said, “You come back to me—you are welcome!”

“Can you forgive me, father?” murmured Friedemann, fixing his looks gloomily on the ground.

“You have deeply sinned against your first, your truest friend; but I trust you will have ability to amend, and I have forgiven you!”

“And without a word of reproach?”

“Your own conscience has suggested more than I could say; it is now my part to console you. Come with me to Leipzig, and if I alone cannot comfort you, why, the others shall help me!”

“No, by my life!” cried Friedemann, looking up boldly. “I pass not again the sacred threshold of my home, till I am worthy of you—or quite resigned to despair!”

“Is that your firm resolve?” asked Sebastian.

“It is, my father! Henceforward I will be true to you. I know not if I shall overcome this anguish, but I will struggle against it, for I have yet power! If victorious, more is won than lost! But if I am overcome—”

“Then come to my heart, Friedemann!”

“I will!”

Sebastian held out his hand to his son. Friedemann flung himself into his father’s arms.

The next morning they parted. Sebastian returned to Leipzig, and Friedemann prepared for his journey to Merseburg.

Mᶜ Rae, sc.

SEBASTIAN BACH.

SEBASTIAN BACH.

“If the lessons were only over!” cried impatiently Lina, the youngest daughter of Sebastian Bach.

“They will soon be over,” said her mother; “it has already struck twelve.”

“Ah! what with the beating and blowing above there, my father often does not hear the hour strike. He is too zealous with his pupils.”

Madam Anna Bach smiled good humoredly at the impatience of her favorite, and replied—“Take care your father does not hear you talk so. He would interpret it ill. He regrets often enough, already, that his daughters have no gift for music, while his sons have been skilled on the piano and the organ from their earliest childhood.”

Lina fixed her beautiful hazel eyes earnestly on her mother, and said with some petulance—“Yet my father, if he would be just, must acknowledge that we three girls give him more pleasure than all his sons, skilful musicians as they are!”

“Silence!” said her mother, gravely. “It does not become you to boast of your father’s regard, nor to accuse your brothers. Go to your sisters, and to work.”

Lina obeyed; but when at the door she turned suddenly round, ran back to her mother, seized her hand, kissed it affectionately, and said—“Be friends with me, mamma! I meant no harm by what I said.”

“That I well know,” replied Madam Bach; “you are a good girl, but you have not the quiet manners of your other sisters. You are hasty and vehement, like the brother you resemble in outward features—whom you always blame, because he has grieved your father, and yet whom you love better than all the rest.”

“Friedemann!” cried Lina, and threw herself sobbing into her mother’s arms. Then recovering herself, with a “I will be good, mamma!” she left the apartment.

Madam Bach, after speaking a moment with her youngest son, Christian, was about to follow, when the door opened and her excellent husband, Johann Sebastian, entered. He was still a stately and handsome man, of steady carriage, and eyes that beamed with the brilliancy of youth; but thirteen years had considerably changed him; deep furrows were in the once open and smooth forehead; his cheeks were fallen in, and their color betrayed disease.

“Is your lesson over?” asked his wife.

Sebastian held out his hand affectionately, and answered—“Yes, for to-day.” He placed himself in his arm-chair, and Madam Bach continued—

“You are glad of it, for you seem to-day very much exhausted.”

“Ay; old age will have its claims satisfied, and rest does me good now and then; but glad—no! I am not glad that the hours are at an end, in which I must do my duty. I can impart instruction yet—I have strength to make good scholars, and so long as I can work, none shall find me remiss.”

“You will do much good yet!”

“That is in God’s hand, Anna! My will indeed is to do—you look so pleasant—what have you there?”

“A letter for you from Philip.”

“Ho, ho!” cried Sebastian, while he joyfully rose; “has the scapegrace at last found time to write to his old father? By my faith, I have doubted whether he has ever learned letter-writing, since he has been concert-master in the service of His Majesty of Prussia! Well—what says he?” and he opened the letter, and read—

“My dear and honored father—

“You will pardon your most dutiful son, that he has not written in so long a time to his beloved and honored parent, and will impute this neglect of duty by no means to any lack of filial affection, or of dutiful esteem, since it is solely and entirely owing to the pressing business of my situation. This magnificent capital is all life, as far as music is concerned. At court there is a great concert two or three times a week, without numbering the private entertainments, which His Majesty has every evening in his cabinet, where I accompany him on the pretty Silbermann’s piano, on which my beloved father played before His Majesty.

“His Majesty plays on the flute quite surprisingly; and I think his tone fuller and better than Herr Quantz can produce. But, as respects time, I am obliged to give good heed to keep with him, for His Majesty is capricious, and troubles himself little with the notes—going forward and backward and stopping at his own will and pleasure. This is pleasant enough when he plays alone, but in concerts occasions much confusion.

“His Majesty has always been very well pleased with my accompaniment; and after every piece we have executed together, His Majesty has been pleased to say—‘You have done this well.’

“His Majesty always inquires in a friendly manner after my esteemed father, and often asks me—‘Will not your papa come once more to Berlin?’ This I would propose, with proper discretion; and I can promise beforehand, if my dear and esteemed father will visit us, he will be received with joy and honors by all. Be pleased to pardon my hasty writing; convey my best love and duty to my most honored mother, my beloved brothers and sisters, and make happy with a speedy answer

“Your dutiful son,
“Philip Emanuel Bach.
“Berlin, July 18th, 1750.”

Sebastian folded the letter again, and said, with a good humored smile—“His hasty writing I must indeed pardon for this once; for he has never written to me otherwise.”

“What think you of his proposition to visit Berlin once again?” asked Madam Bach. “The journey, I think, would do you good.”

“It would indeed!” replied Sebastian, cheerfully. “I would gladly see Berlin and His Majesty once more! Ay! twice in my life have I been wrought to believe there was something good in me; the first time was in the year seventeen, when Monsieur Marchand took himself quietly off, the evening before our appointed contest, so that I held the field alone in Dresden—ha! ha! ha! The second time, was three years ago, when the great King of Prussia came into the ante-chamber to meet me and give me welcome; and when some rude chamberlains began to laugh at my expressions of duty and homage, His Majesty chid them with ‘Messieurs! voyez vous, c’est le vieux Bach!’ That pleased me wonderfully, and Friedemann, too!”

“You will go, then?”

“Yes—if they will give me leave here—and there be a small overplus of money in the purse, I should be glad. It is strange that in my old days, I should be seized with a roving propensity, of which I had little or nothing when I was young. Enough for this time; let us go to dinner.”

The day was near its close, and Sebastian sat before the door of his dwelling, by the side of his wife, and surrounded by his family; his two eldest sons only, Friedemann and Philip, were wanting. The mother and daughters were employed in sewing and knitting work, and whispered now and then to each other. The sons listened to what the elder Bach was telling them of his youthful studies, particularly under the century-old organist, Reinecken, in Hamburg.

The setting sun threw his last rays upon the quiet group under the green and stately linden which shaded the entrance to the old Thomas school. A picture was presented, which in its true keeping might have inspired the genius of the greatest painter of that day.

In the midst of Sebastian’s story, Caroline, who had been looking towards the corner where Cloister street runs into Thomas’ church-yard, sprang to her feet with a cry of surprise.

“What is the matter?” asked her mother, alarmed: while the others all rose, leaving the venerable father alone sitting on the bench. Before the maiden could answer, the tall figure of a man was seen hastily crossing the church-yard towards the house, and now Sebastian rose too, for he recognized his son Friedemann.

“Salve!” cried the old man. “Do you come to stay?”

“I have kept my word!” answered Friedemann, “and if you think right, I will stay!”

Sebastian, nodding a pleased assent, held out his hands to his son, and embraced him with transport. His mother and the rest crowded round him, all but Caroline, who stood in her place, looking inquiringly at her brother. After he had returned the greeting of his family, he turned and addressed her. Then her eyes sparkling, her lovely face suffused with the flush of joy, she cried—

“I also bid you welcome!”

After the first surprise was over, Sebastian led his son into his chamber, and with gentle earnestness repeated his question.

“Come as you will, you are welcome;” said he: “yet what brings you here so suddenly?”

“That it is not the old story, my father,” replied Friedemann, “you will believe upon my assurance. Ah! thirteen years are enough to blunt one sorrow—the more certainly, the greater it is! But a thousand new ones are born to me, and one among them yields not in bitterness to the first!”

“And what is that, Friedemann?”

“I despair of ever doing anything truly great in my art! I have only pride, not power, to support me against daily vexations. I have purposed well—true! I have purposed well. I wished to strike out a new path, without neglecting the excellent old school. I might err—ay! I have erred! the result proves it; but the motive of my exertions was pure; what I strove after was great and noble. But I have been slandered—insulted! my aim ridiculed—my endeavors themselves maliciously criticised—decried!—”

“And by whom, Friedemann?”

Friedemann started at this question; at length he said—“I am wrong, I know, to permit the judgment, or rather the silly prating of a malignant fool to destroy the pleasure arising from my exertions; and yet it is so. There is a certain schoolmaster Kniff in Halle, who, though all he accomplishes himself is contemptible, yet passes for a luminary in the musical horizon; I think they call his works reviews.”

“Ay,” cried Sebastian, “I know them to be ridiculous. I think the schoolmaster must be the cause of some sport in Halle.”

“You are mistaken, father,” replied Friedemann. “He is not derided, but feared on account of his malice; and those who fear him not, are pleased at the base libels by which he strives to bring down others to his own level.”

“And can that disturb you?” asked Sebastian, “notwithstanding your knowledge that only the base and the evil array themselves against the good? Methinks I have ever taught you, there is no more certain proof of elevated worth, than the impotent rage and opposition of the vicious. I never taught you to look with pride or arrogance on your equals or inferiors, but to be calm, self-possessed, and to maintain your ground, even against the great, much more against the rich! That is man’s first duty; practise it, Friedemann, and no schoolmaster Kniff, or any one else, can make you dissatisfied with yourself or your efforts.”

Caroline here interrupted the conversation, announcing a stranger, who wished to speak with her father.

“Who is it?” asked Sebastian.

“He will not tell his name, but says he is a friend of yours.”

“Bring him in, then,” answered the old man, and Caroline left the chamber.

“Bon soir!” cried the stranger, as he entered, in a sharp voice, while he hastened towards Sebastian, and held out his hand; “bon soir, mon cher papa! Do you not know me?”

Sebastian could not immediately recollect the face. Friedemann recognized him at once, and said—

“Ah! Monsieur Scherbitz! good evening.”

“Ha! ha!” cried Scherbitz, laughing, “is not this our ex-court-organist? Exactly! there is the same ill-boding frown between the brows as in 1737. You are but little changed, my friend, with being thirteen years older. I am still the same, except that at fifty-three I am grown to be First Lieutenant.”

“You proved yourself a friend to my son in time of misfortune,” said Sebastian, “and are therefore ever welcome to me and mine. To what lucky chance am I indebted for the pleasure of welcoming you in my quiet home?”

“To the most unlucky, my good sir! I was so careless, at the Prime Minister’s last court, as to tread on the left fore-paw of his lady-consort’s lap-dog. The beast cried out; the Countess demanded satisfaction; and in punishment for my misdeed I am marched as first lieutenant to Poland, in the body-guard of his Excellency.”

Friedemann laughed. Sebastian, who felt a horror creep over him at his sarcastic, misanthropic wit, sought to change the conversation, but in vain; Scherbitz went on jesting in his bitter way about his tragical destiny. He concluded his account with the information—that he had come over to Leipzig simply and solely to see Papa Bach once more in his life, for, on the word of a first lieutenant, he had ever loved and honored him since the first time he beheld him, thirteen years ago.

The next morning, von Scherbitz was walking in the little garden behind Thomas school, which afforded but a narrow view, being bounded by the high wall on one side, when he saw at the other end Caroline, occupied in fastening the branches of a vine to an espalier. He approached and saluted the young lady; she turned and replied with the same cordiality.

“You are very early at work, Mademoiselle Bach,” said Scherbitz, after a pause, during which she was arranging her vines.

“My father takes great pleasure in cultivating vines,” answered Caroline.

“Do they flourish here?”

“Oh, yes! sometimes.”

“I heard some charming singing, early this morning; it was a woman’s voice. Faustina never sang clearer! Were you the singer, Mademoiselle Bach?”

Caroline blushed, and said—“Not I—it was my mother.”

“Your mamma! C’est vrai! Friedemann told me she sings admirably. But you sing too, mademoiselle?”

“I hum a little, sometimes, like all girls when they are cheerful—but none of my father’s daughters are musical—and he says we have neither taste nor talent to learn it properly.”

“Perhaps you understand it by intuition, already.”

Caroline looked at the lieutenant, and replied with a smile—“you are a good guesser, M. Scherbitz.”

“No great guessing is required; there are many young ladies, who do not sing or play according to rules, yet who, nevertheless, are by no means unmusical.”

“Oh! I love music—I love it dearly! Brother Friedemann knows that—and it is therefore we are so dear to each other. But it is a very peculiar kind of music that I mean.”

“You mean church music?”

“No!”

“Or concert music?”

“Nor that.”

“Or dancing music?”

“No—no!”

“Eh bien! then you are fond of the Opera?”

“Not I—indeed!”

“What sort of music then will you have?”

Caroline laughed, but immediately after replied with a gentle sigh—“The music that I mean is not to be had here in Leipzig.”

“What does that mean? Leipzig is the musical capital of all Europe!”

“Yes—it is very strange—but quite true! I find little or nothing of it here, admirably as my father, my brothers and their scholars execute their parts. Something is still wanting.”

“Mademoiselle Bach, you must have studied in Professor Gottsched’s college, since you are not satisfied even with your father and your brothers!”

“Ah! you must understand me!” cried Caroline, eagerly. “If I would enjoy my music in perfection, all around me must harmonize, and that is not possible here. But in a wood, surrounded by high mountains, the summits glowing in the morning or evening light, while it is yet twilight below; or when only a ray here and there streams down upon the foliage; while above, in the deep blue heaven, clouds are moving, white, rosy and golden—that is a charming accord. And the tops of the trees waving and whispering—the bushes answering in sighs—the brook singing its constant, yet ever new melody—the flowers moving like magic bells—the wild bird trilling his song! And when the sun is set, and the moon climbs the rocky verge and pours her soft silvery light on the scene,—or when dark clouds gather in the heavens, and hissing lightnings dart through them, and echo reverberates the thunder, and the swollen stream roars, and foams over the rocks and the crushed trees—all is to me, music!”

Scherbitz looked a moment in astonishment at the young lady, then answered—“Mademoiselle, it is possible you are not a singer, but you are a poet!” And he left her, to communicate his discovery to his friend.

Friedemann, with a bitter smile, replied—“It is as you say, von Scherbitz, and that it is so, is reason enough to drive me mad, if there were none other! I love this child, as my own soul. I have seen her grow up, and ripen into bloom—I shall see her die—for the fairest gifts of heaven are only lent to poor unhappy man, that their loss may add to his misery.”

“True, and false, mon ami! as we take it. Do you know in what lies your fault and mine? We philosophize too much! Do not laugh; parole d’honneur—I speak in earnest! It is true, each of us in his way; we should have done better by acting, instead of thinking so deeply; instead of mocking at, and saying all possible evil of this miserable world—we should have acted. Not the will, but action, removes mountains. There lies a paradox in the truth that the greatest thinker, when it comes to the deed, can do absolutely nothing; a paradox, but it manifests at the same time the wisdom of the Creator; for wo to the system of the world, if the mightiest thoughts and designs were deeds! Satan, who revolted, cannot be dangerous to heaven. Man, whom the Maker created after his own image, could, if he possessed the power to do what he imagines in the moments of his exstacy—”

“Cease, von Scherbitz!” cried Friedemann; “I see the abyss before me!”

“Va! we are safe, cher ami! for as I said, we are but philosophers. Had not the minister played the spy on you and his pretty niece, had not I, malheureusement, stepped upon the foot of the Countess’ lap dog, we should be perhaps at this moment both sitting quietly in Dresden—you as Natalie’s fireside friend, bewitching her, yourself, and the world—I, as a merry page of fifty-three, jesting and enduring—and, morbleu! am I not enduring even now?”

“Do you know,” asked Friedemann, and as he spoke his countenance assumed a strange expression—“do you know I have often fervently prayed that I might be mad—for a time—not for ever!” in a quick and vehement tone—“no, no! for all the world not for ever! but for a time I would be mad, that I might forget; and again, I feel the memory of what I have experienced would even then cling to me.” He pressed his hand with a wild gesture before his eyes.

The lieutenant started, and said, soothingly—“Give not so much heed to my idle talk, my friend! I am old, melancholy—have no hope of a brighter future; but you, you are young, can yet do much—so much—”

“What can I do?” cried Friedemann, with harrowing laughter. “Nothing—nothing—nothing! With me at five and thirty, all is dead! All—more than with you at fifty! Ha! mark you not, where madness lurks yonder, behind the door, and makes ready to spring upon my neck, as I go out? He dares not seize on me when my father is near; but shrinks up, till he is little, very little, then hides himself in an old spider’s web over the window. But he shall not get hold of me so easily! ha, ha, ha! I am cunning! I will not leave the chamber without my father! Look you, old page, I understand a feint as well as you!”

“Mon ami! mon ami! what is the matter?” cried the lieutenant, and seizing his friend by the shoulders, he shook him vehemently. “Friedemann Bach, do you not hear me?”

Friedemann stared at him vacantly a moment. At length his face lost its unnatural expression, his eyes looked like living eyes again, and he asked softly—“What would M. Scherbitz?”

“What would I? man! what makes you such an idiot? Recollect yourself.”

“Eh!” said Friedemann, smiling; “Eh, M. Scherbitz, who takes a jest so deeply? And you really believe, that I am sometimes mad? Ah! not yet; I am rational, more rational than ever!”

“Well, well! mon ami, it was your jest, but one should not paint Satan on the wall. Pry’thee, sit you down, and play me something, that I may recover myself; you acted your part so naturally.”

Friedemann sat down in silence to the instrument and began to play.

“I dreamt not of this!” muttered the lieutenant, while Friedemann, after having played half an hour, suddenly let his hands drop down, sank back, and fell fast asleep.

On the morning of the 21st July, 1750, the church-bells rang a solemn, yet cheerful peal, inviting the pious inhabitants of the city to the house of God. The sky was perfectly cloudless; the glad Sabbath sun shone brightly, and the pious heart felt strengthened anew in faith and devotion. Into Friedemann’s heart also this day penetrated a beam of comfort, of joy, of love. He had spent a part of the preceding night in studying a masterpiece of his father’s—the great Passions Music. Full of the grandeur of the work, his face animated with serene delight, he was walking to and fro in the chamber of the old man, pondering in his mind a similar work, which he had thought of undertaking.

Sebastian sat in his arm-chair, with folded arms, dressed ready for church, and followed with his eyes, smiling affectionately, the movements of his son. After a while he said—

“I am glad the Passions Music pleases you so well; I have a work of quite another kind finished, the first idea of which I got from your Fughetten. And you are the first after me that shall see it.”

He went to his desk, opened it, took out a sealed packet and gave it to his son. It bore the inscription—“To my son Friedemann.”

“In case I had died without seeing you again,” observed the old man. “I am rejoiced it has happened otherwise; you may break the seal.”

Friedemann did so, and on opening the package, his eyes fell on that nobly conceived, that admirably executed work, which, from the day of its first appearance to the latest time, has commanded the admiration and reverence of all the initiated—“The Art of Fugues, by Johann Sebastian Bach.”

Friedemann looked over the manuscript with sparkling eyes, and said—“Then I have not lived in vain! my poor attempt has suggested a work which, or I must be deceived, is destined to immortalize the name of its author! Receive my thanks, father; you have given me much to-day!”

“I know, Friedemann, you at least appreciate and honor my design; so that I receive much from you. Such appreciation is most gratifying to us from those we love, and is the highest reward earth can bestow.”

“And you, father, have understood me?”

“Yes—grieve not over the judgment of others; yet while you endeavor to deserve the appreciation, the regard of your equals, labor to instruct those who cannot repay you thus. Will man assume more than higher powers—and only show to the best, that he belongs to the best! Are you skilful and faithful, let your light shine, else you degrade yourself and rebel against the Being who gave you power and inclination to be so.”

Here the chime of the bells, which had ceased for some time, began anew; the door opened, and Madame Bach, her three daughters, the boy Christian, and von Scherbitz, entered, all ready for church. Madame Bach gave her husband a prayer-book and a bunch of flowers; Caroline handed him his hat.

Sebastian rose, gave his arm to his wife, and walked to the door, accompanied by his children and his friend. Turning back an instant, he glanced at the window shaded with vine-leaves, on which the sunlight glistened, and said—

“What a lovely morning!”

He was about quitting the room, when he stopped suddenly! prayer-book and flowers fell from his hands: the females shrieked; he struggled to regain his strength a moment, then sank back lifeless into the arms of his son.

Thus died Johann Sebastian Bach, by a stroke of apoplexy, the 21st of July, 1750.

Three years after, Baron von Globig was celebrating the feast of the vintage at his splendid villa at Loschwitz, some distance from Dresden. Richly gilded gondolas, with long and many colored pennants, were gliding to and fro over the bosom of the Elbe, landing the distinguished guests invited by the proprietor of the villa. The splendor, nay, profusion, that marked all the preparations, was not unworthy of the favorite and confidant of the Count von Brühl. Nothing was wanting which the most refined and fastidious taste could suggest.

The host fatigued himself by exuberant efforts to do the honors suitably; this appeared the more singular, as no one took particular notice of him; all observation being directed to his lady, who, though dignified and courteous in her demeanor, manifested little interest in anything that passed.

As twilight came on, colored lamps were lighted in the garden walks, and gorgeous illuminations were displayed before the entrance. Bands of musicians alternated with each other, and joined in full bursts of harmony; brilliant and stately figures whirled through the merry mazes of the dance; all was hilarity and joy, and care was banished.

When the company reassembled in the saloon, the Prussian ambassador presented to the lady of the house a young but distinguished-looking man, as Philip Emanuel, the second son of the great Sebastian Bach.

The Baroness blushed slightly, and after a few words of salutation had passed, asked—“Where is your elder brother, now?”

“We do not know,” replied Philip, sadly; “Friedemann disappeared from Leipzig the day of our father’s death, and none of us have seen him since.”

The Baroness turned away without speaking again. The Baron came up and said in his bland tone—“Will you have the kindness, most honored sir, to let us hear before supper a little, if but a little piece from you? My guests will be delighted to listen to the celebrated Monsieur Bach; and to enhance the effect of your divine playing, I have, by way of fun, permitted a poor half crazy musician from the Prague choir, who plays dances in the villages, to give us a tune in the ante-chamber. The doors may be opened, but he must not come into the light, for his dress is soiled and disordered.”

Meanwhile a full accord sounded from the ante-room; a servant threw open the doors, and in the imperfect light the guests had a glimpse of a meanly dressed man, sitting at the piano, with his back turned towards the door.

The company had anticipated a joke, for the Baron had privately informed every body of his purpose: but it was quite otherwise, when they had heard the wonderful, entrancing harmony, now towering into passion, now sinking to a melodious plaint, which the poor unknown musician drew from the instrument. All were touched; but the Baroness and Philip stood, pale as death, and looked inquiringly, yet doubtingly, upon each other. Suddenly, at a bold turn in the music, the Baroness whispered—“’Tis he!”—and Philip cried aloud—“’Tis he! ’tis my brother—Friedemann!”

The musician turned round, sprang up, and rushed into Philip’s arms. But at sight of the Baroness, he started back with the exclamation—“Natalie!”

The Baroness fell back in a swoon. Friedemann, forcing himself a way through the crowd, rushed from the house.

THE OLD MUSICIAN.

In a room in the upper story of a house in the Friedrichstadt of Berlin, sat an old man, reading musical notes that lay on a table before him. From time to time he made observations with a pencil upon the margin; and seemed so intently occupied that he noticed nothing around him. The room was poorly furnished, and lighted only by a small lamp that flared in the currents of wind, flinging gloom and fitful shadows on the wall. A few coals glimmered in the grate; the loose panes clattered in the window, shaken by the storm without; the weather-cocks creaked as they swung on the roof, and the moaning blast uttered a melancholy sound. It was a night of cold and tempest, and the last of the old year.

The figure of the old man was tall and stately, but emaciated; and his pale and furrowed visage showed the ravages of age and disease. His thin snow-white locks fell back from his temples; but his eyes were large and bright, and flashing with more than youthful enthusiasm, as he read the music.

The bell struck midnight. From the streets could be heard festive music and shouts of mirth, blended in wild confusion; and the wind bore the chant of the Te Deum from a neighboring church.

The old man looked up from his occupation, and listened earnestly. Presently the door was opened, and a young man entered the apartment. The paleness of his face appeared striking in contrast with his dark hair; his expression was that of deep melancholy, and his form was even more emaciated than that of his companion.

“Did you hear the hour strike?” asked the old man.

“I heard it; it was midnight.”

“Indeed!”

“You had better go to rest.”

“To sleep, mean you? I do not need it. I have been reading this legacy of my father. Would that you had had such a father, poor Theodore! What is the New year?”

“Eighty-four.”

“Eighty-four! when it was thirty-seven—we will not speak of that!”

“You always talk thus,” said the young man. “Am I never to know who you are?”

“You might have asked that the day we first met; the day I found you—a madman—who had placed the deadly weapon against his own breast. I pulled it away; I said to you, Live! even if life hath nothing but wo to offer! Live, if thou canst believe and hope; if not, bid defiance to thy fate; but live!”

“You saved me; you see I live, old even in youth.”

“You have many years to number yet.”

“Perhaps not; I suffer too much! But tell me your name, perverse old man!”

“He who composed that noble work,” said the old man, pointing to the music, “was my father.”

“And have you not torn out the first leaf, on which was the title and name? You know I can guess nothing from the notes; they speak a language unknown to me. Speak, old friend; who are you?”

“The Old Musician.”

“Thus you are called by the few who know you in this great city. But you have another name. Why not tell it me?”

“Let me be silent,” entreated the old man. “I have sworn to reveal my name only to one initiated, if I meet such.”

The youth answered with a bitter smile. There was a pause of a few moments; the old man looked anxiously at him, as if noticing for the first time his sunken cheek, and other evidences of extreme ill health. At length he said—

“And have you no better fortune, Theodore, for the New year?”

“Oh yes, fortune comes when we have no longer need of her.”

He drew a roll of money from his vest pocket, and threw it upon the table.

“Gold!” exclaimed the old man.

Theodore produced a flask from the pocket of his cloak. “You have drunk no wine,” he said, “in a long while! Here is some, the best of Johannisberger! Let us greet the New year with revel!”

The old man turned away with a shudder, for recollections of pain were associated with the time.

The youth took a couple of glasses from the cupboard, drew another chair to the table, and sat down while he uncorked the flask. As he filled the glasses, a rich fragrance floated through the room.

He drank to the old man, who responded; and the glasses were replenished.

“Ha, ha! you seem used to it!” cried Theodore, laughing. “It is good for you. Wine is better than Lethe; it teaches us not to forget pain, but to know it the frivolous thing it really is. What a pity that we find the philosopher’s stone only in the bottom of the cup!”

“And how, I pray, came you by such luck?”

“I sold my work to a spendthrift lord, travelling through the city.”

“It is a pity you had not a replico, for your work will never become known, thus disposed of.”

“Ay, but how much is lost that deserves to remain! Those sketches cost me seven years of more than labor; all I have thought, lived, suffered; the first dream of youth; the stern repose after the struggle with fate! I sacrificed all—I spared not even the spark of life; and I thought, when the work was finished, the laurel would at least deck the brow of the dead. Dreams, fantasies! Wherever I offered my work, I was repulsed. The publishers thought the undertaking too expensive; some said I might draw scenes from the Seven years’ war, like M. Chadowiski; others shook their heads, and called my sketches wild and fantastic.”

“Yes, yes!” murmured the old man, musingly. “Lessing, who died three years ago, was right when he said to me, ‘All the artist accomplishes beyond the appreciation of the multitude brings him neither profit nor honor.’ Believe me, Theodore, I know well by experience what is meant by the saying ‘The highest must grovel with the worm.’”

“And I must grovel on, old friend! As long as I can remember, I have had but one passion—for my art! The beauty of woman moved me with but the artist’s rapture! Yet must I degrade my art to the vain rabble; must paint apish faces, while visions of divine loveliness float before me; must feel the genius within me comprehended by none; must be driven to despair of myself! Gifted as few are, free from guilt, I must ask myself, at five and twenty, wherefore have I lived?”

“Live;—you will find the answer.”

“Have you found it—at seventy-four? You cannot evade the question; it presses even on the happy. Had I obtained what I sought, the answer might be—I have lived, and wrought, to win the prize; to shine a clear star in the horizon. So shines Raphael to me; and to you, some old master of your art; and we are doomed to insignificance and disappointment.”

“Be silent!” exclaimed the old man; “that leads to madness, and madness is terrible! They tell me I was thus a long while.”

“Have no fear of that, old friend! We are both too near a sure harbor! Come, finish the wine; welcome the New year! Hark! to the music and the revelry below in the streets; and we are exalted like the ancient gods on the top of Olympus, sipping the precious nectar, and laughing at the fools who rejoice in their being. Drink, as I do! Well, yonder is your bed, and here is mine. I am weary, and wish you a good night!”

The old man also retired to rest; the storm ceased to rage without. The music and ringing of bells continued throughout the night.

The first beams of the sun poured into the chamber, and awoke the old man. It was a clear and cold morning; the air was keen and bracing, the sky blue and cloudless, and the frost had wrought delicate tracery on the panes.

The old man looked out of the window awhile, then went to awaken his young companion. Alas! the hand that lay upon the bed-clothes was cold and stiff. Theodore’s sorrows were ended. The spirit so nobly endowed had broken in the struggle with destiny.

Long did the old man gaze upon the pale remains, his features working with intense emotion. His last stay was broken; his only friend had departed; he was alone and forsaken in the world.

He sat down by the body, and remained motionless the whole day. As night came on, the woman who kept the house came to deliver a message to Theodore, and found the old man sitting by the corpse, exhausted and shivering with the cold. She led him into a warmer room, and gave him food.

The Old Musician and Theodore had lived together nearly two years. The youth supplied their wants by his small earnings as a portrait painter, and by his receipts now and then for a drawing. The old man had nothing; and the landlady, who saw that what Theodore had left would not last long, urged him to go to the overseer of the poor-house and seek an asylum. He repelled the idea, and answered, “No, I will go to Hamburg.”

“To Hamburg!” repeated the woman. “That you cannot do. Hamburg is a long way from Berlin, and before you reach there you would be on another journey.”

But the next day the old man seemed to have forgotten his purpose. According to his custom before he met with his young friend, he wandered through the streets of Berlin, stopping to listen wherever he heard music. Sometimes he would go into the houses, being seldom prevented; for many remembered the Old Musician, whom they had concluded dead, and were glad to see him once more.

As he wandered one evening through the streets, he stopped in front of a palace brilliantly illuminated, from which came the sound of music. He was about to enter, according to his wont, but the Swiss porter pushed him rudely back; so he stood without and listened, and, in spite of the cutting night wind, continued to stand and listen, murmuring often expressions of pleasure and admiration.

A lacquey in rich livery, running down the steps, encountered the old man, and cried in surprise, “Ha! is that you again, Old Musician? It is long since I have seen you. But why do you stand there shaking in the cold?”

“The Swiss would not let me pass,” answered the old man.

“The Swiss is a shallow-pate. Never heed, old friend, but come in with me, and I will bring you a glass of wine to thaw your old limbs. My lord gives a grand concert!” And he led the old man up the steps, saying to the porter, “You must never hinder him from coming in; it is no beggar, but the Old Musician. He comes to hear the music, and my lord has given orders that he shall always be admitted.”

The lacquey led the old man to a seat near the fire in the ante-room, and drew a folding screen before him. “Keep yourself quiet, my good friend,” he said; “You are out of view here, and yet can hear everything. I will fetch you a glass of wine presently.”

The old man sat still and listened to the music in the saloon; it thrilled through his inmost heart. He remained there many hours, till the lacquey, who had frequently visited him in his corner, came and said:

“It is time now to go, my friend; the company are dispersing; I will send my boy home with you.”

“That was admirable music!” cried the old man, drawing a deep breath.

“I am glad you were pleased,” replied the lacquey. “All you heard to-night was composed by the same master, who is now the guest of my lord.”

“Who is he?”

“Master Naumann, chapel-master to the Elector of Saxony.”

“A Saxon!” cried the old man. “Naumann! that is well; where is he?”

“Here, in the house.”

“Let me speak with him.”

“Certainly, if you want to ask anything.”

“No, not to ask; I want to thank him.”

“Well, you may come to-morrow morning.”

“I will come!”

Naumann was not a little surprised when the servant, the next morning, announced his strange visitor. To the question, who was the Old Musician? the man could give no other answer than—“He is the Old Musician, and nobody in Berlin knows his name. He is sometimes half crazy, but is said to have a thorough knowledge of music.”

“Let him come in,” said Naumann; and the lacquey opened the door for the old man.

Naumann rose when he saw him, for in spite of his mean apparel, he had a dignity of mien that inspired with involuntary respect. Advancing to meet him, he said:

“You are welcome, my good sir, though I know not by what name to address you. But you are a lover of the art, and that is enough. Be seated, I pray you.”

The old man, still standing, answered, “I come to thank you, sir chapel-master, for the pleasure of yesterday evening. I was privately a listener to the concert, in which were performed your latest compositions. I will not conceal from you my name; I am Friedemann Bach!”

Naumann stood petrified with astonishment. “Friedemann Bach!” he repeated at length, in a tone of deep and melancholy interest; “the great son of the great Sebastian Bach! It is strange, indeed! Only last year I saw your brother Philip Emanuel at Hamburg. The excellent old man mourns you as dead.”

“Let him do so,” was the reply, “and all who knew me in better days; for the knowledge of my life, as it is, would make them unhappy. Even in Berlin none know that Friedemann Bach yet lives; not even Mendelssohn, the friend of Lessing, to whom I owed, that while he lived, I needed not to starve.”

“What can I do for you?” asked Naumann. “Your brother told me your history. How shall I tell you all the admiration, the affection, the sorrow I have felt, and still feel for you? Tell me, what can I do?”

“Nothing,” answered Bach; “you have done everything for me, in showing me what I could and should have done. I strove after that which you have accomplished. You know wherefore I failed, how my life was wasted, why I fell short in all my bold and burning schemes. But you need not the warning of my history. You walk securely and cheerfully in the right path, and I can only thank you for your magnificent works. The blessing of God be with you! and now I feel that I have nothing more to do in this world.”

The Old Musician departed, and Naumann, when he had collected his thoughts, inquired in vain where he could be found. Friedemann had not suffered the boy who went home with him the preceding evening to go to his door. At length Naumann happened to meet with Moses Mendelssohn, and mentioned what had occurred. Mendelssohn was amazed to hear that Friedemann Bach was yet living, and in Berlin. The two made an appointment to go the next morning to the ancient abode of Lessing, where the Old Musician had lived.

They went together to the house of Lessing in the Friedrichstadt. The landlady opened the door.

“Does M. Friedemann Bach live here yet?” asked Mendelssohn.

“Ah, pardon me!” cried the woman, wiping her eyes with her apron; “just at this time yesterday they carried away my poor Old Musician! He died exactly three weeks after his young friend the painter, whom he loved so well.” Her voice was interrupted by tears.

Mendelssohn and Naumann left the house in silence.

Mᶜ Rae, sc.

MOZART.

MOZART.

FIRST VISIT TO PARIS.

One morning, in the month of November, 1763, a middle aged man, with two children, was seen standing at the door of a small hotel in the Rue St. Honoré. When the servant in livery opened the door in answer to his knock, he inquired if M. Grimm lived there, and presented a letter to be given to him. By his dress, he was evidently a stranger, and as his accent proved, a German. Some minutes passed, while the valet went to deliver the letter; he then returned, and ushered the visitors into his master’s presence.

M. Grimm, the celebrated critic, was reclining in a large arm-chair, close to the fire-place, in a splendid apartment, occupied in reading a new tragedy. He held in his hands the letter he had just received, and glanced over its contents, while the two younger visitors, although uninvited, drew near the fire and spread out their little hands to feel the warmth.

The letter was from one Frederic Boëmer, a fellow-student of M. Grimm at the University of Leipzig, and Secretary to the Prince Archbishop of Saltzburg; less favored however by the gifts of fortune than M. Grimm, who, having come to Paris as the preceptor of the Count von Schomberg’s sons, had risen to be the oracle of literature and art. The letter was filled with reminiscences of the past life of the two friends; and only at the close did the writer remember the purpose of his missive. This was to introduce M. Mozart, the sub-director of the chapel of the Archbishop, who found the small salary he received insufficient for the support of his family, and had determined to travel with his children, and endeavor to earn a maintenance by the exhibition of their astonishing musical talents. They were recommended to the attentions of M. Grimm, whose good word could not fail to excite interest in their behalf.

“You are M. Mozart, of Saltzburg, and these are your children?” asked the critic of the stranger, when he had finished reading the letter.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“And you are come to Paris to exhibit these young artists? I fear I cannot promise you the success I could wish, and for which you hope. The French, with all their pretensions to taste in music, commonly judge of it as deaf people would do. They are in love with the screaming of their actors, and fancy the more noise the finer harmony. Your only chance of success here is to pique the public curiosity by proving the remarkably precocious genius of your children; moreover, the people of the court give the tone to the rest of society, and it will be necessary to secure their favor. I may do something for you with those I can influence; I will try what I can do. Let me see you again in a few days.”

With this scanty encouragement, the father of Wolfgang Mozart was fain to quit the magnificent dwelling of the correspondent of princes.

Leopold Mozart had some reason, founded on experience, to hope for success in his enterprise. He had been, with his wife and two children, in the principal cities of Germany. At Munich, the first place visited by him, his reception by the Elector was encouraging. At Vienna the children were admitted to play before the Emperor. After their return from this first expedition to Saltzburg, the youthful Wolfgang devoted himself, with more ardor than ever, to his musical studies. It was in the month of July, 1763, that this marvellous child, then eight years old, began his journey to Paris, passing through the cities of Augsburg, Manheim, Frankfort, Coblentz and Brussels, and stopping in all of them to give concerts.

Arrived in Paris, without patrons or friends, and but imperfectly acquainted with the language, the father no longer felt the confidence he had before. His first care was to find out the residence of M. Grimm, and to deliver his letter. The splendor that surrounded that distinguished person, was astonishing to him; and contrasting it with the simple home of the Archbishop’s secretary, he did not wonder at finding himself dismissed with a vague promise of protection.

As the little family walked through the streets, they found everything new and wonderful. The beauty of the buildings, the richness of the equipages, the splendor of the shops, delighted the youthful travellers, accustomed to the quiet and plain exterior of the smaller German cities. Now they stopped to admire some extraordinary display of magnificence in the shops; now to hear the singers, or those who performed on musical instruments in the streets.

“Sister,” said the little Wolfgang, after they had listened for some time to a man playing the violin in the court of a hotel, “if they have no better music than this in Paris, I shall wish we had stayed in Vienna.”

The father smiled on the infant connoisseur, and called their attention to different objects as they walked on. They had now reached the Place Louis XV., between the court and garden of the Tuilleries,—where the new equestrian statue of that monarch, executed by Bouchardon, had just been erected. A great crowd was assembled here. Some one had discovered, affixed to the pedestal of the monument, a placard with the words “Statua Statuæ.” Very little was necessary, then as now, to bring together a crowd among the population of Paris. Considerable excitement was evinced in the multitude. It was by no means allayed when the police arrested several, whom, from their wild behavior, they judged to be disturbers of the public peace.

Leopold, holding his children by the hand, continued to advance, curious to see the cause of the tumult, yet obliged frequently to draw his little ones close to him, to protect them from the rude jostling of the passers by. Suddenly he felt a hand laid in a kindly manner on his arm.

“My friend,” said the person who stopped him, “I perceive you are a stranger here. Let me advise you to go no farther; you may be taken up by the police.”

“Can you tell me,” asked Leopold Mozart, “the cause of all this confusion?”

“Not a whit; but I can do better—advise you to get off while you may,” returned the other. “It would be a pity those pretty children should spend the night in prison! This way—this way!” And giving a hand to the boy, the friendly speaker assisted the Germans to escape from the throng. When they were in safety, he replied to the father’s thanks by a courteous adieu, and departed in another direction from that in which they were going.

Our little party lost no time in hastening to the Hotel des Trois Turcs, Rue Saint Martin, where they had fixed their temporary home. It was already past their customary dinner-hour. As they took their places at the table, a servant handed a small package to the elder Mozart. It contained tickets of admission to the opera, sent by M. Grimm. It was the second representation in the new hall of the Tuilleries. The bills promised an entertainment that would be likely to draw a considerable audience.

Here was delight in store for the inexperienced inhabitants of Saltzburg! They talked of nothing else. They dined in haste, and scarce gave themselves time afterwards to make the requisite change in their dress; so great was their impatience and fear of losing, by delay, the smallest portion of their expected enjoyment. They were soon on the way to the theatre, where they arrived full two hours before the commencement of the performance.

By good fortune, while they were looking about in search of some amusement to occupy the time, they lighted upon the gentleman who had warned them to escape from the crowd in the Place of Louis XV. He appeared to have plenty of leisure and joined their party. The singular circumstance that the opera should be performed in the Hall of the Tuilleries, excited the curiosity of Leopold Mozart. His new acquaintance gave him in detail an account of the removal, its consequences, etc., which in brief were somewhat as follows:

A fire broke out in the theatre of the opera, April 6th, 1763, supposed to have originated from the negligence of the workmen employed there. The alarm was not given till too late to save the building, and the flames spread to the buildings of the Palais Royal, the wing of the first court being soon destroyed. No lives were lost, though about two thousand persons were at work in extinguishing the fire. In Paris the people are always disposed to laugh at the most lamentable occurrences, and there was no lack of jokes on this occasion. When the talk was of choosing a location for the new hall, they spoke of the Carousel, the Louvre, and several other places. An abbé, who was well known to hate French music, observed that the opera ought to be located opposite the place where bull-fights were held—“because your great noises should be heard without the city.”

The Duc d’Orleans was anxious that the opera should remain in his neighborhood. He requested of the king that the building should be reconstructed on the same spot, offering many facilities, as well as promising to provide all the means that could be devised for the future safety of the edifice. Louis consented, and the work was commenced. Meantime the French comedians generously offered to give up their theatre gratuitously three times a week for the performances of the opera. The locality however was not convenient; and the managers could not agree to the conditions on which the theatre occupied by the Comédie-Italienne was offered. One immense hall in the Tuilleries was suitable for the purpose; and the king gave permission that it should be appropriated for the opera. At the first concert, on the 29th of April, a great crowd attended. The female singers were Arnould, Lemiére and Dubois; the chief male performers, Gelin, Larrivé and Magnet. The wags said the concerts were the ointments for the burning. The singers were loudly applauded, and it was observed that the orchestra was fuller and performed better than that of the opera.

While these and other pieces of information were given with true French volubility to M. Mozart, the children listening with great attention, the crowd assembled and before long began to chafe and murmur because the doors were not yet opened. The appointed hour struck from the great clock of the Tuilleries, and the impatient multitude pressed with violence against the barriers erected. Our Germans were beginning to be alarmed for their own safety, when the doors were thrown open, and they were borne with the foremost comers into the theatre. They took seats in the pit; the two rows of boxes being occupied by the aristocratic part of the audience.

The admiration of the youthful Mozart was excited by the proportions and splendor of the hall, the luxury of the decorations, and the magnificence of the ladies in the dress circles. Here were the most gorgeous accompaniments to music. He gazed about him wonder-struck till the overture began.

With more than a father’s interest, Leopold watched the countenance of his son. How would a mere child, whose musical taste was not an acquirement, but a gift—an inspiration—judge of what he heard? This orchestra was celebrated throughout Europe, solely on the faith of French judgment. Leopold saw the shade of disappointment on the boy’s speaking face.

“Father,” whispered he, when there was a pause in the music, “they do better than this in our chapel!”

And so in Leopold’s estimation they did; but he dared not to set his own opinion against that of the Parisians; he dared not speak with the boldness of his son.

The overture seemed a long punishment to Wolfgang; at last the curtain rose, amidst an uproar of applause that for some time prevented the actors from being heard. None of the performers were known to the Mozart family. By good luck, however, their acquaintance of the outside obtained a seat near them, and had something to say about every one.

“That is Sophie Arnould,” he remarked of one of them; “she is a delicious actress; there is none more exquisite upon the stage.”

“And is she the first singer in the opera?” asked Wolfgang, after having heard her grand air.

“Certainly,” replied the complaisant cicerone, “you may see that by the applause she calls forth. She plays better than she sings, I confess; her voice has not power enough for the place; but she makes amends for all that by her spirit in acting—by her gestures, and the expression of her eyes, which I defy you to resist. Our young gentlemen are enchanted with her wit; her conversation furnishes the most piquant sauce to their suppers. If in song she only equalled M’lle. Antier, a great actress who retired from the opera twenty years ago! M’lle. Antier was for twenty years the chief ornament of the first theatre in the world. The queen presented her, on her marriage, with a snuff-box of gold, containing the portrait of her majesty; M. and Mme. de Toulouse also made her beautiful presents. She had the honor of filling the first parts in the ballets danced before the king. M’lle. Arnould has not obtained the like favors; but it must be owned that the court is less liberal than formerly. Meanwhile, she is the idol of the public, and her reign promises to be of long duration.”

The youthful artist could not echo these praises. He shook his head and remained silent.

“Or do you like better M’lle. Chevalier, the actress now on the stage? Her fort, they say, is in the grand, the tragic; you need not say to her with Despreaux—

“To move my tears, your own eyes must be wet.”

“I defy you to remain cold while she is declaiming some great scene. But she has not the grace of Sophie Arnould, and there is something of hardness in her tones. Nevertheless, she has her partisans. One of our poets has written some verses to be put at the base of her portrait, to the effect that she bewitches by her voice the hearts that have stood proof against her face.”

Neither in this instance could young Mozart share the enthusiasm of his neighbor. He had no experience, but he was endowed with an intuitive and delicate apprehension in music, which taught him that with their great voices these artists of the opera were not great singers. He became restless with his discontent. The performance went on. The male singers, Pillot and Zelin, were below mediocrity.

“We should have M. Chasse in this part,” cried the cicerone; “he had a most imposing voice, and noble action; but alas! he retired six years ago! His place has not yet been filled.”

The only part of the representation that pleased little Wolfgang, was the dancing. Vestris was not there, but the celebrated Lany performed a pas de deux with her brother. This actress had also received the homage of poetry. The last ballet was admirably executed. It restored the good humor of the young critic.