CHAPTER VI.

But it was no voice that mocked at her grief. Hakem proceeded that

very day to the palace, and sought an interview with the queen. The

guard or sentinel to whom he addressed himself, laughed at his

request. "Give her majesty this paper," said the slave, "and refuse to

deliver it at your peril."

The paper was forwarded to the queen--Hakem was immediately ushered

into her presence.

"You promise here," she said, pointing to the missive she had

received, "to revenge the death of the Duke of Lithuania. I presume

some private motive of revenge against the minister and your master,

prompts your conduct, and you seek from me in additional recompense

for an act which you have already resolved on, but which you think

will be grateful to me. Is it not so?

"Your Majesty is penetrating."

"And this recompense, what is it?"

"That which will cost you nothing, though you alone can accomplish

it--the release and pardon of Augustus Glinski. Obtain this from the

king--which to you will be easy--and with my own hand I will

assassinate the assassin (for such you will doubtless deem him) of the

Duke of Lithuania."

"I will not ask what are your motives in all this, nor how you have

divined my wishes, but revenge the death of the Duke of Lithuania, and

far more than the liberation of the young Augustus shall be your

reward."

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

obtained."

The queen had no objection to urge against this condition; although

she had hitherto, for reasons which may be easily surmised, avoided

any appearance of interest in the fate of Augustus. She acquiesced,

therefore, in Hakem's demand; surprised indeed that she should have

obtained the gratification of her revenge at so slight a cost.

What the influence and the reasonings of the minister could not

effect, was very speedily brought about by the blandishments of the

queen. Augustus Glinski was pardoned, and restored to a portion of his

father's wealth and dignities.

The warrant for the release of the prisoner was conveyed to the hand

of Hakem, together with a message that he was now expected to perform

his part of the engagement.

Hakem, bearing this warrant, and accompanied by one of the officers of

justice, proceeded to the prison of Augustus, and having liberated

him, carried him forthwith to the house of the chancellor; the young

man, who as yet hardly apprehended that he was master of his own

movements, permitting himself without remonstrance to be led by his

new conductor.

The chancellor and his daughter sat together in the same apartment to

which we have already twice introduced the reader. Had his daughter

been happy, what a release for Laski had been his enfranchisement from

public office! "Banishment from court!" he exclaimed to one who would

have condoled with him--"make way there for a liberated prisoner!" But

the grief of his daughter, who strove in vain to check her flowing

tears, entirely pre-occupied his mind. These tears he never chid; her

sadness he never rebuked; he shared it, and by renewed kindness strove

to alleviate it. They sat in silence together, when Hakem, entering,

made his obeisance, and presented Augustus to the astonished Maria.

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

The joy of Maria was extreme. It was soon, however, followed by a

painful embarrassment. Amongst all parties there was a sad conflict of

feeling. Augustus would have given worlds to have thrown himself at

the feet of Maria; but if the memory of what had occurred had not been

sufficient, there stood her father in person before him--the author of

his own father's death.

Hakem broke the silence. "Beautiful being!" he said, kneeling on one

knee before Maria, "whom I have in secret worshipped, whom alone to

worship I have lingered here in the guise and office of a slave--you

bade me save _him_--and I have! Is there any thing further for thy

happiness which the Arab can accomplish?"

"No, Hakem, and I feel already overburdened with gratitude for this

service you have rendered me--_how_ rendered I cannot as yet divine.

There is no other service now I think that any one can render me." As

she spoke, her eye had already turned to the spot where Augustus,

hesitating to approach or to retreat, was still standing.

"No other service! But, by the living God, there is!" cried Hakem,

starting to his feet. His countenance flushed with sudden excitement;

his eye kindled with some generous sentiment. "Hear me, gentle sir,"

he said, addressing himself to Augustus. "Nature calls for

vengeance--is it not so? Christian and Mahometan, we all resemble in

this. Blood cries for blood. But the hand that slew your father--it

was mine. I am the first and direct object of your resentment. Let now

one victim suffice. Is the Arab too ignoble a victim? That Arab is the

preserver of your life, at what cost you may one day learn. Let this

enhance the value of the sacrifice. Over my blood let peace be made

between you." Turning once more, and bowing with deep emotion before

Maria, he then, with a movement quick as thought, plunged a poniard in

his bosom, and fell to the ground. "Go, tell the queen," he said to

the officer of justice, who had stood a mute spectator of this

scene--"tell her what you have witnessed; and add, that my promise has

been fulfilled. And you, Augustus Glinski--will not this suffice? The

assassin of the duke lies here before you. Oh, take her by the hand!"

Then, looking his last towards Maria, he murmured--"And I,

too--loved!" and closed his eyes in death.

The prayer of Hakem was granted. It was impossible to demand another

sacrifice--impossible not to accept this as full atonement to the

spirit of revenge. Over the body of Hakem, whom all lamented and

admired, peace was made.

The generous object of the slave was fully accomplished. His death

procured the long happiness of Maria.

THE LAY OF STARKATHER.

[The following lines are founded on the account given by

Saxo-Grammaticus (Lib. VIII.) of the guilt, penitence, and death

of Starkather, a fabulous Scandinavian hero, famous throughout the

North for his bodily strength and warlike achievements, as well as

for his poetical genius, of which traces are still to be found in

the metrical traditions and phraseology of his country. According

to the old legend, the existence of Starkather was prolonged for

three lifetimes, in each of which he was doomed to commit some act

of infamy; but this fiction has not here been followed out.

Oehlenschlaeger's drama, bearing the name of this hero, has many

beauties; but deviates widely from Saxo's story of his death.]

It was an aged man went forth with slow and tottering tread,

The frosts of many a Northland Yule lay thick upon his head;

A staff was in his outstretched hand, to lead him on his way,

And vainly rolled his faded eyes to find the light of day.

Yet in that ancient form was seen the pride of other years,

In ruined majesty and night the HERO there appears.

The awful brow, the ample breast, a shelter from the foe,

And there the massive weight of arm that dealt the deadly blow.

He stopped a passing stranger's steps, and thus his purpose told,--

"See here the twin swords by my side, and see this purse of gold;

Thy weapon choose to cope with One who should no longer live,

And by an easy slaughter earn the guerdon I would give.

"A hundred winters o'er my soul have shed their gathering gloom,

And still I seek, but seek in vain, an honourable tomb;

With friendly enmity consent to quench this lingering breath,

And give, to crown a warrior's life, one boon--a warrior's death.

"Of matchless might and fearless soul, with powers of song sublime,

I spread afar my name and fame in every Gothic clime;

Those godlike gifts were treasured long from blot and blemish clear,

But one dark act of fraudful guilt bedimmed my bright career.

"When Olo sat, the people's choice, in Sealand's kingly seat,

And trampled liegemen and the laws beneath his tyrant feet,

His nobles placed this glittering hoard within my yielding hand,

And bade me rid them of a rule that wide enslaved the land.

"I watched my royal victim well, I tracked his every path,

And found him with a faithless guard within the secret bath;

Yet rather had I faced an host fast rushing to the fight,

Than the eye of that unarmed man, there gleaming bold and bright.

"The fear of my defenceless foe awhile unnerved my arm,

But thoughts of glory or of gain dispelled the better charm;

The water reddened with his blood, I left the lifeless corse,

To meet myself a living death,--a lifetime of remorse.

"In every feud, in every fray, on every field of strife,

I since have fondly sought release from such a loathed life;

The foremost, who suborned my crime, have perished at my feet,

But none had heart or hand to strike the blow I longed to meet.

"Even as I am, I seek the fight, and offer as the prize

The untasted bait that bribed my soul, nor thou the boon despise;

Else, like some worn-out beast of prey, Starkather soon must lie,

Nor gain the bliss that Odin gives to men who nobly die."

"I know thee now," the stranger said, "I hear thy hated name,

I take thy gold, I take thy life, a forfeit to my claim;

My father fell beneath thy hand, his image haunts me still--

But the hour of his revenge is come, and he shall drink his fill."

He seized a sword; its sweeping edge soon laid the Hero low,

But not before his sinking arm was felt upon his foe:

"Thanks, youthful friend!" the Hero said; "now Odin's hall is won,

Its rays already greet my soul, its raptures are begun."

MOZART.[6]

The true position of the creative musical power in the scale of human

genius is difficult to determine; and will be differently estimated by

different minds. That it is a heavenly gift of a high order, admits of

no doubt; that it exercises over men's minds a mighty, and, under due

safeguards, a beneficent influence, is equally indisputable; and that

its existence implies, and is closely connected with, the possession

of other superior faculties, moral and intellectual, must also, we

think, be clear upon reflection, though this last proposition is not

so likely to be readily conceded. Yet the place which the great

COMPOSER is generally allowed to occupy, in relation to the PAINTER or

the POET, does not correspond either to the qualities or to the

effects displayed in his art. Many would think it a disparagement to

connect the names of Milton or Virgil, Raphael or Michael Angelo, with

those of the greatest musical masters; and it may seem not easy to say

whether this feeling is the result of injustice or accident, on the

one hand; or, on the other, is founded on some deep and solid truth in

the laws and elements of our nature.

The mighty magic that lies in the highest manifestations of musical

composition, must command the wonder and reverence of all who

understand, or even observe, its operation. The power of giving birth

to innumerable forms of exquisite melody, delighting the ear and

stirring every emotion of the soul, agitating us with fear or horror,

animating us with ardour and enthusiasm, filling us with joy, melting

us with grief, now lulling us to repose amidst the luxurious calm of

earthly contentment, now borrowing wings more ethereal than the

lark's, and wafting us to the gate of heaven, where its notes seem to

blend undistinguishably with the songs of superior beings--this is a

faculty that bears no unequivocal mark of a divine descent, and that

nothing but prejudice or pride can deem of trivial or inferior rank.

But when to this is added a mastery over the mysterious combinations

of harmony, a spirit that can make subservient to its one object

immense masses of dissimilar and sometimes discordant, sounds; and,

like the leader of a battle, can ride on the whirlwind and direct the

storm, till it subdue the whole soul, taking captive all our feelings,

corporeal and mental, and moulding them to its will--a power of this

nature seems to equal in dignity the highest faculties of genius in

any of its forms, as it undoubtedly surpasses all the others in the

overwhelming and instantaneous efficacy of its agency while thus

working its wonders. Tame is the triumph of the artist in the

exhibition-room, dim and distant the echo which the poet receives of

the public praise, compared with the unequivocal and irrepressible

bursts of admiration which entrance the great composer in the crowded

theatre, or even with that silent incense which is breathed in the

stifled emotions of his audience in some more sacred place. The

nearest approach to any such enthusiastic tribute, is that which

sometimes awaits the successful tragic poet at the representation of

his dramas; but, besides the lion's share of applause which the actor

is apt to appropriate, what dramatic writer, in our own experience or

history, has been greeted with such homage as that paid to Handel,

when the king and people of England stood up in trembling awe to hear

his _Hallelujah_ chorus?--that which hailed Mozart from the enraptured

theatres of Prague when listening to his greatest operas?--that which

fanned into new fire the dying embers of Haydn's spirit, when the

_Creation_ was performed at Vienna, to delight his declining days,

before an audience of 1500 of the Austrian nobility and gentry?

The ancient poets felt the force of those emotions which musical sound

produces, and shadowed out under its name the great principles of

human harmony and social order. Societies were founded, cities built,

and countries cultivated by Orpheus and Amphion, and men of analogous

fame, who wielded at will this mythic power, and made all the

susceptibilities of nature "sequacious of the lyre."

In one respect the fame of the composer is less diffusible than that

of the poet. He requires various mechanical means and appliances for

his full success. His works must be performed in order to be felt. He

cannot be read, like the poet, in the closet, or in the cottage, or on

the street-stall, where the threadbare student steals from day to day,

as he lingers at the spot, new draughts of delicious refreshment. Few

can sit down and peruse a musical composition even for its melody; and

very few, indeed, can gather from the silent notes the full effect of

its splendid combinations. Yet even here the great master has

analogous compensations. The idle amateur, the boarding-school girl,

the street minstrel, and the barrel-organ, reflect his more palpable

beauties; and, subjecting them to the severe test of incessant

reiteration, make us wonder that "custom cannot stale" the infinite

variety that is shut up even in his simplest creations.

But the creative musician has an immeasurable advantage over both the

painter and the poet in the absence of all local limitation to his

popularity. Here, indeed, the painter is the least favoured by the

nature of his art. The immediate presence of the prophet could only be

felt at Mecca; the perfection of painting can only be seen at Rome.

The poet has a wider range, and can be prized and appreciated wherever

the language is known in which he writes. But the musician is still

more highly privileged. He speaks with a tongue intelligible alike to

every nation and class; he expresses himself in a universal character,

which Bishop Wilkins would have died to possess; he needs no

translation; he can suffer nothing by change of place; his works are

equally and at once capable of being enjoyed at London and Naples,

Paris and Prague, Vienna and St Petersburg. If the enjoyment received

from his powers is not every where equally great, it is not from the

want of a medium to make them understood, but from a difference in the

minds to which they are presented.

The creative art of the musician is not one of mere talent, or of a

certain sensual refinement and dexterity. It involves deep systematic

study, closely akin to that of the severer sciences. It has a sequence

and logic of its own, and excellence in it is unattainable without

good sense and strong intellect. It involves great moral and pathetic

sensibility, and a ready sympathy with all the joys and sorrows of

mankind. And finally, the lightest branch of it is beyond the reach of

any but those who are lifted up by strong feelings of reverence and

devotion. Handel was a man of sincere piety, who avowed it to be the

object of his compositions not merely to please men, but "to make them

better."

"The character of Handel," says Mr Hogarth, in his excellent

_Musical History_, "in all its great features, was exalted and

amiable. Throughout his life he had a deep sense of religion. He

used to express the great delight he felt in setting to music the

most sublime passages of Holy Writ; and the habitual study of the

Scriptures had constant influence on his sentiments and conduct.

For the last two or three years of his life, he regularly attended

divine service in his parish church of St George's, Hanover

Square, where his looks and gestures indicated the fervour of his

devotion. In his life he was pure and blameless."--(Vol. i. 209.)

"Haydn," in like manner, (we quote from the same biographer,) "was

a stranger to every evil and malignant passion; and, indeed, was

not much under the influence of passion of any sort. But his

disposition was cheerful and gentle, and his heart was brimful of

kindly affections. He was friendly and benevolent, open and candid

in the expression of his sentiments, always ready to acknowledge

and aid the claims of talent in his own art, and, in all his

actions, distinguished by the most spotless integrity. Such is the

account of him given by all those who knew him best; and they add,

as the most remarkable feature of his character, that strong and

deeply-rooted sense of religion, which is the only solid

foundation of moral excellence. Haydn's piety was not a mere

feeling, capable, as is often the case with worldly men, of being

excited for the moment by circumstances, and dying away when the

external influence is removed; it was an active principle, which

guided the whole tenor of his life and conduct. His sacred music

was exalted by the existence, in his mind, of those devout

sentiments which it is the object of sacred music to express.

'When I was engaged in composing _The Creation_,' he used to say,

'I felt myself so penetrated with religious feeling, that before I

sat down to write, I earnestly prayed to God that he would enable

me to praise him worthily.'"--(Vol. i. 304.)

Similar feelings of strong piety, as well as of generous benevolence,

animated and inspired the great and amiable man whose character is

more immediately the subject of this article. It would be difficult,

indeed, to think of an oratorio or requiem written by a scoffer or a

sceptic.

With such exalted requisites, so intense a power, and so extensive a

range of influence, it is strange that the composer should not have

taken the rank and relative dignity to which he seems entitled in the

province of the arts. But honour and fame are chiefly dispensed by

poets and literary men; and it is impossible not to feel that,

generally speaking, the musician is treated by men of letters as an

alien from their own lineage. Music may be praised in vague and

evasive terms; but the individual composer is not deemed deserving of

mention. All the great masters of the pencil have been cordially

commended in immortal verse; but of the great composers' names scarce

a notice is to be found. It is not wonderful that the poet should

prize above all others his own form of art. Poetry, as the mouthpiece

of practical wisdom, as the clearest interpreter of all instruction,

must ever hold an undisputed pre-eminence. Painting, too, as nearest

akin to poetry in the objects it presents and the effects it produces,

may be allowed at least to contest the palm for the second rank. But

that music in the person of her most inspired sons, should have been

sternly excluded from a participation in the honours awarded to her

sister arts, seems an injustice which can be defended on no pleadable

grounds. The explanation of it seems to be, that most of our great

poets--and this has certainly been the case in England--have had no

love or knowledge, and no true appreciation, of high musical

composition. Milton alone seems to have been an exception; and, we

cannot doubt, that if he had lived in the same age with Handel, he

would have given utterance to his admiration in strains worthy of them

both. The rest of our _vates sacri_, on whom immortality is

proverbially said to depend, seem, generally speaking, to have been

ignorance itself in this department. Several of them, indeed, have

written odes for St Cecilia's day, but this does not prove that they

had a taste for more than rhythm. Pope had the tact to call Handel a

giant, and speaks cleverly of his "hundred hands" as sure to be fatal

to the reign of Dulness.

"Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands,

Like bold Briareus, with his hundred hands,

To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes,

And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums.

Arrest him, goddess! or you sleep no more."

But no reference is made to the exquisite beauty of his compositions.

The loudness is all that seems to be praised, and we suspect, that in

private Pope was inclined to laugh with Swift in his disparaging

comparison between Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Wordsworth has written

on the "Power of Sound;" but the small part of it that touches on the

musical art, does not impress us with the idea of his knowing or

caring much about it, though in this, as in other things, he has the

sense and philosophy to sacrifice a cock to Esculapius, and to bow

down to what others worship, even where he does not himself feel the

influence of a warm devotion. Collins and Moore, and perhaps a few

others whom we have overlooked, ought to be excluded from this

condemnation; but they have not been led to speak of individual

musicians, or have not had courage to leave the beaten track.

Thus neglected by those who would have been its most faithful

depositaries and most effective champions, the fame of the musical

composer has been left to the guardianship of the few sound and

enlightened judges who thoroughly comprehend him, to the humble but

honest admiration of professional performers, to the practice and

imitation of effeminate amateurs, to the cant of criticism of the

worthies on the free list, and to the instinctive applause of the

popular voice. Even with these humbler hands to build up his monument,

the great master of music has a perpetual possession within the hearts

of men, that the poet and the painter may well envy. Every chord in

the human frame that answers to his strains, every tear that rises at

the bidding of his cadences, every sob that struggles for an outlet at

his touches of despairing tenderness, or at the thunders of his

massive harmony, is a tribute to his power and his memory, enough to

console his spirit if it can still be conscious of them, or to have

rewarded his living labours in their progress by a bright anticipation

of their effects. If nobles, and even nations, do not contend for the

possession of his works, or offer a ransom for their purchase, such as

is daily given for the masterpieces of the painter's power; it is the

pride of his genius that his compositions cannot be appropriated or

possessed. An oratorio of Handel, or an opera of Mozart, cannot become

property like a picture of Raphael or Guido. They belong to mankind at

large, open to all, and enjoyable by all who have the faculty to

perceive, and delight in, their beauties; and in every theatre and

public place, in every church and in every chamber throughout

Christendom, a portion of their divine and various influence, suited

to the scene and occasion, is always within reach, to make men gentler

and better, happier and holier, than they would otherwise be without

such manifestations of their Maker's wondrous gifts.

Nowhere can the views we have above suggested be better illustrated,

than in the fate and character of the singular man who, if not the

first, was yet only second to one other, among those on whom music has

shed her fullest inspiration.

It is not our intention to follow minutely the events of Mozart's

life. They are generally well known; and to those who wish to have a

clear, complete, and judicious view of them, we can safely recommend

the book noticed at the outset of this article.

Mozart was born at Salzburg in 1756, and died at Vienna in 1791, in

his thirty-sixth year. But into that short space were compressed as

many proofs and compositions of genius, as much joy and sorrow, as

much triumph and humiliation, as would have crowded a much longer

lifetime. His early indications of genius are well known, and were

indeed wonderful, even as compared with those of other great

composers--for Handel, Haydn, and Beethoven, all gave proofs of their

musical powers in boyhood--though none of them as children showed that

full maturity of mind which distinguished Mozart, and which only a few

of those who witnessed it could fully appreciate. Mozart's

organization was obviously of the finest and tenderest texture; but he

had also many advantages in his nurture, and, among others, the

inestimable blessing of a happy home, where harmony reigned in the

hearts, as well as upon the lips and fingers of the inmates. His

father was a man of sense and education, as well as of musical talent,

and in all respects did his duty to his son throughout life, amidst

many difficulties and disappointments, resulting partly from his own

dependent situation at Salzburg, and partly from an over-estimate of

the worldly prosperity which his son's genius should have commanded.

His mother seems also to have been an excellent person; and from the

remarkable letters which Mozart wrote from Paris to prepare his father

for her death, after the event had happened, she appears to have been

the object of the tenderest affection to her family. Mozart uniformly

discharged towards his parents all the offices of pious devotion; and

he was always affectionately attached to his sister, who was a few

years older than himself, and whose early and distinguished skill as a

performer must have been useful in assisting her brother's tastes. In

1829 the Novello family saw this lady at Salzburg, a widow and in

narrow circumstances.

"We found Madame Sonnenberg, lodged in a small but clean room,

bed-ridden and quite blind. Hers is a complete decay of nature;

suffering no pain, she lies like one awaiting the stroke of

death, and will probably expire in her sleep.... Her voice was

scarcely above a whisper, so that I was forced to lean my face

close to hers to catch the sound. In the sitting-room still

remained the old clavichord, on which the brother and sister had

frequently played duets together; and on its desk were some pieces

of his composition, which were the last things his sister had

played over previous to her illness."

With becoming delicacy, the fruits of an English subscription were

presented to her on her name-day, as a remembrance from some friends

of her brother.

The bane of Mozart's fortunes was the patronage on which he was

dependent. His father had got into the trammels of the Archbishop of

Salzburg--a sordid, arrogant, and ignorant man, who saw Mozart's value

in the eyes of others, though he could not himself estimate it, and

would neither pay him nor part with him. When in his twentieth year,

and already a great composer and an efficient performer, Mozart was in

the receipt, from this princely prelate, for the liberal use of his

musical talents, of a salary equal in amount to about L1, 1s. English,

per annum.

"Among a multitude of compositions that he wrote for the

archbishop's concerts, in 1775, are five concertos for the violin,

which he probably performed himself. His gentle disposition made

him easily comply with any proposal to augment pleasure, however

out of his usual course. During the following year, 1776, he seems

to have made his last great effort to awaken the archbishop to

some sense of his desert, and a due generosity of acknowledgment,

by producing masses, litanies, serenades, divertimentos for

instruments, clavier concertos, &c., too numerous for detail. But

in vain; and what aggravated the injury of this monstrous

appropriation of labour was, that the father, whose household

economy was now somewhat pinched, on applying for permission to

remedy these circumstances by a tour, was refused. From that hour

Wolfgang threw by his pen in disgust--at least as far as it

concerned voluntary labour."

It was now resolved that Mozart should leave Salzburg with his mother,

and try his fortune in the world. He was every where admired; but the

wonder of his childhood had passed away, and empty praise was all that

he could, for the most part, earn. After lingering, in the sickness of

hope deferred, at several of the German courts, his destination was at

last fixed for Paris. His chance of success as a courtier was probably

diminished by the blunt though kindly frankness of his opinions, and

by his inability to stoop to unworthy means of rising. He had also

many rivals to encounter, particularly those of the more slender

school of Italian melody; and few of the public had knowledge or

independence enough to forsake the inferior favourites that were in

vogue.

In approaching Paris, Mozart became alarmed at the prospect of his

being there compelled to resort to the drudgery of tuition for his

support. "I am a composer," he said, "and the son of a kapell-meister,

and I cannot consent to bury in teaching the talent for composition

which God has so richly bestowed upon me." His father, more

experienced in the world, and more prudential in his ideas,

endeavoured to modify his alarm, and urge him to perseverance in any

honourable course of employment. The father's letter at this time to

his son, to apprize him of the true position of the family, and

preserve him against the dangers in his path, is honourable to both,

and worthy of perusal.

"This being in all probability the last letter that you will

receive from me at Mannheim, I address it to you alone. How deeply

the wider separation which is about to take place between us

affects me, you may partly conceive, though not feel it in the

same degree with which it oppresses my heart. If you reflect

seriously on what I have undergone with you two children in your

tender years, you will not accuse me of timidity, but, on the

contrary, do me the justice to own that I am, and ever have been,

a man with the heart to venture every thing, though indeed I

always employed the greatest circumspection and precaution.

Against accidents it is impossible to provide, for God only sees

into futurity. Up to this time we cannot be said to have been

either successful or unsuccessful; but, God be thanked, we have

steered between the two. Every thing has been attempted for your

success, and through you for our own. We have at least endeavoured

to settle you in some appointment on a secure footing; though fate

has hitherto decreed that we should fail in our object. This last

step of ours, however, makes my spirit sink within me. You may see

as clearly as the sun at noonday, that, through it, the future

condition of your aged parents, and of your affectionately

attached sister, entirely depends upon you. From the time of your

birth, and indeed earlier, ever since my marriage, I have found it

a hard task to support a wife, and, by degrees, a family of seven

children, two relatives by marriage, and the mother, on a certain

income of twenty-five florins a month, out of this to pay for

maintenance and the expenses of child-bed, deaths, and sicknesses;

which expenses, when you reflect upon them, will convince you that

I not only never devoted a kreutzer to my own private pleasure,

but that I could never, in spite of all my contrivances and care,

have managed to live free from debt without the especial favour of

God; and yet I never was in debt till now. I devoted all my time

to you two, in the hope and indeed reliance upon your care in

return; that you would procure for me a peaceful old age, in which

I might render account to God for the education of my children,

and, without any other concern than the salvation of my soul,

quietly await death. But Providence has so ordered, that I must

now afresh commence the ungrateful task of lesson-giving, and in a

place, too, where this dreary labour is so ill paid, that it will

not support one from one end of the year to the other; and yet it

is to be thought a matter of rejoicing if, after talking oneself

into a consumption, something or other is got by it.

"I am far, my dear Wolfgang, from having the least mistrust in

you--on the contrary, on your filial love I place all confidence

and every hope. Every thing now depends upon fortunate

circumstances, and the exercise of that sound understanding which

you certainly possess, if you will listen to it; the former are

uncontrollable--but that you will always take counsel of your

understanding I hope and pray....

"You are now a young man of twenty-two years of age; here is none

of that seriousness of years which may dissuade a youth, let his

condition be what it may--an adventurer, a libertine, a

deceiver--be he old or young, from courting your acquaintance, and

drawing you into his society and his plans. One may fall into this

danger unawares, and then not know how to recede. Of the other sex

I can hardly speak to you, for there the greatest reserve and

prudence are necessary, Nature herself being our enemy; but

whoever does not employ all his prudence and reserve in his

intercourse, will with difficulty extricate himself from the

labyrinth--_a misfortune that usually ends in death_. How blindly,

through inconsiderate jests, flattery, and play, one may fall into

errors at which the returning reason is ashamed, you may perhaps

have already a little experienced, and it is not my intention to

reproach you. I am persuaded that you do not only consider me as

your father, but as your truest and most faithful friend, and that

you know and see that our happiness or unhappiness--nay, more, my

long life or speedy death is, under God, so to speak, in your

hands. If I know you aright, I have nothing but pleasure to expect

in you, which thought must console me in your absence for the

paternal pleasure of seeing, hearing, and embracing you. Lead the

life of a good Catholic Christian; love and fear God; pray to him

with devotion and sincerity, and let your conduct be such, that

should I never see you more, the hour of my death may be free from

apprehension. From my heart I bless you."

His reception at Paris was comparatively cold. The Parisians were

scarcely done with the "faction fight" in which the rivalry of Gluck

and Piccini had involved them; but none of the partisans were inclined

to be enthusiastic about the new-comer. His only great admirer, and

his best friend, seems to have been his acute and accomplished

countryman Grimm, who prophesied that monarchs would dispute for the

possession of Mozart. The prediction was fulfilled, but not in

sufficient time to benefit the unhappy subject of their competition.

"Baron Grimm and myself often vent our indignation at the state of

music here, that is to say, between ourselves; but in public it is

always '_bravo! bravissimo!_' and clapping till the fingers burn.

What most displeases me is, that the French gentlemen have only

so far improved their taste as to be able to _endure_ good things;

but as for any perception that their music is bad--Heaven help

them!--and the singing--_oime!_"

Again he writes--

"You advise me to visit a great deal, in order to make new

acquaintances, or to revive the old ones. That is, however,

impossible. The distance is too great, and the ways too miry to go

on foot; the muddy state of Paris being indescribable; and to take

a coach, one may soon drive away four or five livres, and all in

vain, for the people merely pay you compliments, and then it is

over. They ask me to come on this or that day--I play, and then

they say, '_O c'est un prodige, c'est inconcevable, c'est

etonnant_;' and then '_a Dieu_.'"

"All this, however," Mr Holmes observes, "might have been endured,

so far as mere superciliousness and _hauteur_ to the professional

musician were involved, if these people had possessed any real

feeling or love for music; but it was their total want of all

taste, their utter viciousness, that rendered them hateful to

Mozart. He was ready to make any sacrifice for his family, but

longed to escape from the artificial and heartless Parisians.

"If I were in a place," he writes, "where people had ears to hear,

hearts to feel, and some small degree of perception and taste, I

should laugh heartily over all these things--but really, as it

regards music, I am living among mere brute beasts. How can it be

otherwise? It is the same in all their passions, and, indeed, in

every transaction of life; no place in the world is like Paris. Do

not think that I exaggerate when I speak thus of the state of

music here--ask any one except a native Frenchman, and if he be

fit to answer the question, he will tell you the same. I must

endure out of love to you--but I shall thank God Almighty if I

leave this place with my healthful natural taste. It is my

constant prayer that I may be enabled to establish myself, that I

may do honour to the German nation, and make fame and money, and

so be the means of helping you out of your present narrow

circumstances, and of our all living together once more,

cheerfully and happily."

Take the following vivid sketch of his task in teaching composition to

a young lady:--

"Among these pupils one is daughter of the Duc de Guines, with

whom I am in high favour, and I give her two hours' instruction in

composition daily, for which I am very liberally paid. He plays

the flute incomparably, and she magnificently on the harp. She

possesses much talent and cleverness, and, in particular, a very

remarkable memory, which enables her to play all her pieces, of

which there are at least two hundred, without book. She is

doubtful whether she has genius for composition--particularly with

respect to thoughts or ideas; her father (who, between ourselves,

is a little too much in love with her) affirms that she certainly

has ideas, and that nothing but modesty and a want of confidence

in herself prevent their appearing. We shall now see. If she

really have no ideas, and I must say I have as yet seen no

indication of them, it will be all in vain, for God knows I can

give her none. It is not her father's intention to make any very

great composer of her. 'I do not wish her,' he says, 'to write any

operas, airs, concertos, or symphonies, but merely grand sonatas

for her instrument, as I do for mine.'

"I gave her the fourth lesson to-day, and, as far as the rules of

composition go, am tolerably satisfied with her; she put the bass

to the first minuet which I placed before her, very correctly. We

now commenced writing in three parts. She tried it, and fatigued

herself in attempts, but it was impossible to help her; nor can we

move on a step further, for it is too early, and in science one

must advance by the proper gradations. If she had genius--but

alas! there is none--she has no thoughts--nothing comes. I have

tried her in every imaginable way; among others it occurred to me

to place a very simple minuet before her, to see whether she could

make a variation upon it. That was all to no purpose. Now, thought

I, she does not know how to begin; so I varied the first bar for

her, and told her to continue the variation pursuing that idea;

and at length she got through tolerably well. I next requested her

to begin something herself--the first part only--a melody; but

after a quarter of an hour's cogitation nothing came. I then wrote

four bars of a minuet, and said, 'What a stupid fellow I am, I

have begun a minuet, and cannot finish the first part of it. Have

the goodness to do it for me.' She distrusted her ability, but at

last, with much labour, something came to light. I rejoiced that

we got something at last. She had now to complete the entire

minuet, that is to say, the melody only. On going away, I

recommended her to alter my four bars for something of her own; to

make another beginning even if she retained the same harmony, and

only altered the melody. I shall see to-morrow how she has

succeeded."

In the midst of this irksome labour, Mozart's beloved mother expired

at Paris in the summer of 1778, after a fortnight's illness. He then

wrote to his father that she was "very ill," and to a family friend at

Salzburg, desiring him to prepare his father and sister for the truth.

The whole correspondence at this time is interesting. The letter to

the Abbe Bullinger is in these words:--

"Sympathize with me on this the most wretched and melancholy day

of my life. I write at two o'clock in the morning to inform you

that my mother--my dearest mother--is no more! God has called her

to himself. I saw clearly that nothing could save her, and

resigned myself entirely to the will of God; he gave, and he can

take away. Picture to yourself the state of alarm, care, and

anxiety in which I have been kept for the last fortnight. She died

without being conscious of any thing--her life went out like a

taper. Three days ago she confessed, received the sacrament and

extreme unction; but since that time she has been constantly

delirious and rambling, until this afternoon at twenty-one minutes

after five, when she was seized with convulsions, and immediately

lost all perception and feeling. I pressed her hand and spoke to

her; but she neither saw me, heard me, nor seemed in the least

sensible; and in this state she lay for five hours, namely, till

twenty-one minutes past ten, when she departed, no one being

present but myself, M. Haine, a good friend of ours whom my father

knows, and the nurse.

"I cannot at present write you the whole particulars of the

illness; but my belief is, that she was to die--that it was the

will of God. Let me now beg the friendly service of you, to

prepare my poor father by gentle degrees for the melancholy

tidings. I wrote to him by the same post, but told him no more

than that she was very ill; and I now await his answer, by which I

shall be guided. May God support and strengthen him! Oh, my

friend! through the especial grace of God I have been enabled to

endure the whole with fortitude and resignation, and have long

since been consoled under this great loss. In her extremity I

prayed for two things: a blessed dying hour for my mother, and

courage and strength for myself; and the gracious God heard my

prayer, and richly bestowed those blessings upon me. Pray,

therefore, dear friend, support my father. Say what you can to

him, in order that when he knows the worst, he may not feel it too

bitterly. I commend my sister also to you from the bottom of my

heart. Call on both of them soon, but say no word of the

death--only prepare them. You can do and say what you will; but

let me be so far at ease as to have no new misfortune to expect.

Comfort my dear father and my dear sister, and pray send me a

speedy answer."

The letter to his father is curiously circumstantial; but if on such

occasion it is allowable to deceive at all, it is allowable to make

the deception complete.

"The cause of my having left your letter of the 11th of June so

long unanswered is, that I have very unpleasant and melancholy

intelligence to communicate. My dear mother is very ill. At the

beginning of her illness she was, as usual, bled, and this seemed

to relieve and do her good; but in a few days she began to

complain of sudden chills and heats, which were accompanied by

headach and diarrhoea. We began now to use the remedy that we

employ at home--the antispasmodic powder. We wished that we had

brought the black, but had it not, and could not get it here,

where even its name, _pulvis epilepticus_, is unknown. But as she

got worse continually, spoke with difficulty, and so far lost her

hearing, that it was necessary to call out in speaking to her,

Baron Grimm sent us his physician. She is still very weak, and is

also feverish and delirious. They want to give me hope; but I have

not much. I have been long already--for days and nights

together--between hope and fear; but I have now entirely resigned

myself to the will of God, and I hope that you and my dear sister

will do the like. What are the means then to give us calm and

peace, in a degree, if not absolutely? I am resigned, let the end

be what it may, because I know that God, who, however mysteriously

he may proceed to human eyes, ordains every thing for the best, so

wills it; and I am not easily persuaded out of the belief, that

neither physician nor any other man, neither misfortune nor

accident, can either take or give life, but God alone, though

these are the means which he mostly employs; but even these not

always. We see people constantly sinking and dying around us; but

I do not say, on that account, that my mother must and will die,

or that we have lost all hope. She may recover, if it be the will

of God. I, however, find consolation in these reflections, after

praying to God as earnestly as I am able for my dear mother's

health and life; they strengthen, encourage, and console me, and

you must needs think I require them. Let us now change the

subject, and quit these melancholy thoughts. Let us hope, if not

much, and put our trust in God, consoling ourselves with the

reflection, that every thing is well ordered which the Almighty

orders, and that he best knows what is essential to our temporal

happiness and our eternal salvation."

The elder Mozart had, in the mean time, without knowing of her

illness, begun a letter to his wife, designed to reach her on her

name-day; but, before its conclusion, he had received his son's

letter, and seen the Abbe, and had thus learned not only her danger

but its result.

"M. Bullinger found us, as every one else did, in deep affliction;

I handed him your letter without saying a word; he dissembled very

well; and having read it, enquired what I thought about it. I

said, that I firmly believed my dear wife was no more. He almost

feared the same thing, he told me--and then, like a true friend,

entered upon consolatory topics, and said to me every thing that I

had before said to myself. We finished our conversation, and our

friends gradually left us with much concern. M. Bullinger,

however, remained behind, and when we were alone, asked me whether

I believed that there was any ground for hope after such a

description of the illness as had been given. I replied, that I

not merely believed her dead by this time--but that she was

already so on the very day that the letter was written; that I had

resigned myself to the will of God, and must remember that I have

two children, who I hoped would love me, as I lived solely and

entirely for them; indeed, that I felt so certain, as to have

taken some pains to write to, and remind you of the consequences,

&c. Upon this he said, 'Yes, she is dead,' and in that instant the

scales fell from my eyes; for the suddenness of the accident had

prevented my perceiving, what I else should have suspected, as

soon as I had read your letter--namely, how probable it was that

you had privately communicated the real truth to M. Bullinger. In

fact, your letter stupified me--it at first was such a blow as to

render me incapable of reflection. I have now no more to say. Do

not be anxious on my account, I shall bear my sorrow like a man.

Remember what a tenderly loving mother you have had--now you will

be able to appreciate all her care--as in your mature years, after

my death, you will mine, with a constantly increasing affection.

If you love me, as I doubt not but you do, take care of your

health--on your life hangs mine, and the future support of your

affectionate sister. How incomprehensibly bitter a thing it is,

when death rends asunder a happy marriage--can only be known by

experience."

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

"I hope that you are now prepared to receive with firmness some

intelligence of a very melancholy and distressing character;

indeed, my last letter, of the 3d, will not have encouraged you to

expect any thing very favourable. On the evening of the same day

(the 3d,) at twenty-one minutes after ten at night, my mother fell

happily asleep in God, and was already experiencing the joys of

heaven at the very moment that I wrote to you. All was over--I

wrote to you in the night, and I trust that you and my sister will

pardon this slight but very necessary artifice;--for when, after

all the distress that I had suffered, I turned my thoughts towards

you, I could not possibly persuade myself to surprise you all at

once with the dreadful and fatal news. Now, however, I hope that

you have both prepared yourselves to hear the worst; and after

giving way to the reasonable and natural impulses of your grief,

to submit yourselves at last to the will of God, and to adore his

inscrutable, unfathomable, and all-wise providence.

* * * * *

"I write this in the house of Madame d'Epinay and M. Baron de

Grimm, with whom I am now staying, and where I have a pretty

little room with a pleasant prospect, and am, as far as

circumstances will permit, happy. It would be a great additional

comfort were I to hear that my dear father and sister had resigned

themselves with fortitude and submission to the will of God;

trusting him entirely, in the full conviction that every thing is

ordered for our good. Dear father--be comforted! Dearest

sister--be comforted!--you know not the kind intentions of your

brother towards you; because hitherto they have not been in his

power to fulfil.

"I hope that you will both be careful of your health. Remember

that you have still a son--a brother--who will exert himself to

the utmost for your happiness, well knowing what sacrifices you

are both ready to make for him, and that when the time shall come,

neither of you will oppose the fulfilment of his honourable

wishes. Oh! then we will lead a life as peaceful and happy as is

attainable in this world; and at length, in God's time, meet all

together again in the enjoyment of that object for which we were

created."

We have given these letters at some length, as we think they show the

worth, affection, and right feeling of the whole family.

The disconsolate state in which his father was thus left, decided

Mozart, however reluctant, to return to the hated service of the

Archbishop at Salzburg. The terms on which he was received back were

somewhat improved, for his absence had rendered his value more

perceptible; and a greater latitude was allowed him in visiting, and

composing for other courts. In the winter of 1780-1, he made use of

his leave of absence by writing and bringing out at Munich, with

triumphant success, the splendid serious opera of _Idomeneo_, always

so great a favourite with himself, and which is still regarded as a

masterpiece.

"With this work, the most important in its influence on music,

Mozart crowned his twenty-fifth year. The score is still a picture

to the musician. It exhibits consummate knowledge of the theatre,

displayed in an opera of the first magnitude and complexity; which

unites to a great orchestra the effects of a double chorus on the

stage and behind the scenes; and introduces marches, processions,

and dances, to various accompaniments in the orchestra, behind the

scenes, or under the stage. This model opera, in which Mozart

rises on the wing from one beauty to another through long acts,

was completed, as we have seen, within a few weeks, and ever since

has defied the scrutiny of musicians to detect in it the slightest

negligence of style."

In March 1781, Mozart followed the Salzburg court to Vienna, where he

was subjected to such indignity by his patron, as finally to terminate

their connexion. The author of _Idomeneo_ was required to take his

meals at the same table with his grace's valets, confectioner, and

cooks. This was too much, even for Mozart's good-nature; and,

aggravated by the Archbishop's refusal to allow the display of his

talents to the public, gave him courage to insist for his dismissal.

"The step, however, of resigning a pension, and of throwing

himself entirely upon the public for fame and support, was a more

important one than his sanguine imagination and excitement of

feeling permitted him at the time to contemplate. How far his

being an _unappointed_ composer may have hastened the production

of his immortal works, is open to question; but that his life was

sacrificed in struggling against the difficulties in which he was

thereby involved, is beyond a doubt.

"In the absence of any immediate design of a new dramatic

composition, and delighted at the effect which his public

performance on the pianoforte had created at Vienna, Mozart forgot

all the fears he had expressed previously to his journey to Paris;

thought no more that teaching would interfere with the higher

vocation of his muse; and was content to become the fashionable

performer, teacher, and pianoforte composer of the day. This mode

of life for a time had its temptations and its success; and he

hoped that he might still better assist his father at Vienna than

at Salzburg, as he was at intervals able to remit to him sums of

from ten to thirty ducats. But here commenced the precarious

existence which the composer was for the future destined to lead.

For, not only was the taste of Vienna then, as now, proverbially

variable and flippant--not only was concert-giving an uncertain

speculation, and teaching an inconstant source of income--but in a

man, who, like Mozart, had, from time to time, strong impulses to

write for the theatre, it frequently happened that the order and

regularity of his engagements were made to yield to the object

which engrossed him; and that the profits of his time were

sacrificed on the one hand, without any proportionate advantage on

the other."

Let it be observed that Mozart's payment for teaching among the

Austrian nobility, was, at the rate of five shillings a lesson!

Mozart was distinguished for virtues which belong only to great or

good men when labouring in the field of emulation--an absence of all

envy and jealousy, of which he was himself too much the object, and a

just and generous estimate of excellence in others. As observed by Mr

Holmes, good music, not his own, was his best relaxation from his

toils; and his predecessors and contemporaries were alike sure of that

sincere admiration which sprang from an unselfish love of the art. His

regard and respect for Haydn, who was greatly his inferior in genius

and power, is a pleasing illustration of what we have said.

"At this time, Joseph Haydn was established as kapell-meister in

the service of Prince Nicholas Esterhazy, and enjoyed a very

extensive reputation, which, indeed, the native energy of his

genius, and the fortunate circumstances of his mature life,

enabled him to earn with ease in a variety of compositions. He was

frequently at Vienna, in the suite of his prince; and it was

natural that Mozart, who had long lived on terms of mutual esteem

with Michael Haydn, at Salzburg, should be predisposed to a regard

for his brother;--but the simplicity, benevolence, and sincerity

of Joseph Haydn's character, when united with the charming

qualities of his genius, offered more than the materials for an

ordinary friendship. The attachment of these two men remains

accordingly one of the most honourable monuments of the virtuous

love of art that musical history can produce. Haydn was at this

period about fifty years of age. His constant habit of writing

five hours a-day, had accumulated in a series of years a large

collection of quartets, pianoforte music, church music, and

symphonies, most of which were greatly admired for the spirit and

elegance of their style, and the clearness and originality of

their design. Mozart at once saw and acknowledged the excellence

of Haydn; and in his future intercourse with that master, took the

part which the difference of their age, if not of their genius,

rendered graceful--by deferring to his judgment with all the

meekness of a learner. To Haydn he submitted many of his

compositions before publication; delighting often to call him his

master and model in quartet writing, which he now began to

cultivate in earnest; and omitting no circumstance which could

gratify the veteran musician in possessing such an admirer. Haydn

on his part repaid all this devotion with becoming generosity.

However conscious that, in the universality of musical power, his

own genius must be placed at a disadvantage in comparison with

that of his friend, he harboured no envious or unworthy sentiment;

and death alone interrupted the kind relation in which each stood

to the other.

"At the musical parties which Mozart gave from time to time, when

he had new compositions to try, and leisure to indulge his

disposition for sociality, Haydn was a frequent guest, and no one

more profoundly enjoyed the extraordinary beauty and perfection of

Mozart's pianoforte playing. Years after, when those fingers, and

the soul which animated them, were sought for in vain, a few

touching words from Haydn spoke more feelingly to the imagination,

in the description of that beauty, than the most laboured and

minute criticism could have done. 'Mozart's playing,' said he, 'I

can never forget.'"

Haydn's high estimate of his friend's superiority to himself, was

always expressed with equal generosity. In a company of critics, who

discovered that there were faults in Mozart's operas, Haydn, when

appealed to, replied--"All I know is, that Mozart is the greatest

composer now existing." When applied to in 1787, to write a comic

opera, Haydn thought a new subject, or _libretto_, would be necessary,

and adds--

"Even then it would be a bold attempt, as scarcely any one can

stand by the side of the great Mozart. For were it possible that

I could impress every friend of music, particularly among the

great, with that deep musical intelligence of the inimitable works

of Mozart--that emotion of the soul with which they affect me, and

in which I both comprehend and feel them, the nations would

contend together for the possession of such a gem. Prague ought to

retain him, and reward him well too; else the history of great

genius is melancholy, and offers posterity but slight

encouragement to exertion, which is the reason, alas! that many

hopeful and aspiring spirits are repressed. I feel indignant that

this _unique_ Mozart is not yet engaged at some royal or imperial

court. Forgive me if I stray from the subject--but I love the man

too much."

Again, when engaged, along with Mozart, for Salomon's concerts in

England--a plan which, so far as Mozart was concerned, was unhappily

not carried out--Haydn's only stipulation was, that his compositions

should precede those of his friend; and avowed, with unparalleled

frankness, his feeling that he would otherwise have less chance of

being heard with success.

The celebrity of Mozart, and the applause which attended some of his

new compositions, procured him the notice, and ultimately the

patronage, of the Emperor Joseph--though somewhat unsteadily

conferred, and divided with unworthy Italian rivals. The change,

however, was tardy, and, when it came, did not much improve his

external circumstances. The appointments he held made but a miserable

sinecure, with a still more miserable salary; but the deficiency was

supplied by soft words and familiar looks, which, with Mozart's kindly

disposition, served to attach him to his imperial master, better than

would have been done by a larger allowance ungraciously given.

In the mean time, relying upon his position as a composer, and hoping

for the best, Mozart had formed the connexion, as to which Mr Hogarth

justly says, "that his fixing his affections on the admirable woman

whom he married, was the wisest act, as it was the happiest event, of

his life. Constance Weber was his guide--his monitress--his guardian

angel. She regulated his domestic establishment--managed his

affairs--was the cheerful companion of his happier hours--and his

never-failing consolation in sickness and despondency. He passionately

loved her, and evinced his feelings by the most tender and delicate

attentions."

It is remarkable that Mozart's attachment had at first been directed

to his wife's elder sister, and seemed to be returned on her part. But

after his absence in Paris, he was coldly received when they again

met, and, fortunately for himself, he transferred his affections to

Constance, who became his wife.

Rich as this union was in affection, and in all the happiness that

affection can bestow, it was soon checkered by distress and

difficulty. The health of the wife became precarious; and Mozart's

ignorance of the world, as well as his generous and joyous

disposition, joined to the precarious and varying amount of his

earnings, and the disappointment in his prospects of imperial favour,

involved him in debt, which, by overtaxing his mind and body, led to

the errors and excesses, such as they were, of his latter life, and

ultimately undermined his constitution, and brought him to an untimely

tomb.

The "res angusta domi" stimulated the composer's pen, and the rapidity

of his productions at this time is marvellous. The taste of Vienna,

however, was capricious; and cabals among singers and critics

succeeded in deadening the effect of his _Figaro_, when first brought

out, and in thoroughly disgusting Mozart with the Viennese opera. How

different the reception which it met from the true hearts and

well-attuned ears of the Bohemian audiences! It was in February 1787,

after parting with the Storaces, on their leaving for England, with a

hope that the mighty master would soon be allured to follow them, that

his Bohemian visit was paid.

"In the very same week that he parted from his English friends,

Mozart himself set out upon a journey to Prague, whither he had

been very cordially invited by a distinguished nobleman and

connoisseur, Count John Joseph Thun, who maintained in his service

an excellent private band. This was the first professional

expedition of any consequence in which he had engaged since his

settlement in Vienna; it was prosecuted under the most favourable

auspices, and with glowing anticipations of that pleasure for

which he so ardently longed, but so imperfectly realized at

home--the entire sympathy of the public. Nor was he disappointed.

On the same evening that he alighted at the castle of his noble

entertainer, his opera of 'Figaro' was given at the theatre, and

Mozart found himself for the first time in the midst of that

Bohemian audience of whose enthusiasm and taste he had heard so

much. The news of his presence in the theatre quickly ran through

the parterre, and the overture was no sooner ended than the whole

audience rose and gave him a general acclamation of welcome,

amidst deafening salvos of applause.

"The success of 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' so unsatisfactory at Vienna,

was unexampled at Prague, where it amounted to absolute

intoxication and frenzy. Having run through the whole previous

winter without interruption, and rescued the treasury of the

theatre from ruinous embarrassments, the opera was arranged in

every possible form; for the pianoforte, for wind-instruments

(garden music,) as violin quintets for the chamber, and German

dances; in short, the melodies of 'Figaro' re-echoed in every

street and every garden; nay, even the blind harper himself, at

the door of the beer-house, was obliged to strike up _Non piu

andrai_ if he wished to gain an audience, or earn a kreutzer. Such

was the effect of the popular parts of the opera on the public at

large; its more refined beauties exercised an equal influence on

musicians. The director of the orchestra, Strobach, under whose

superintendence 'Figaro' was executed at Prague, often declared

the excitement and emotion of the band in accompanying this work

to have been such, that there was not a man among them, himself

included, who, when the performance was finished, would not have

cheerfully recommenced and played the whole through again.

"Finding himself, at length, in a region of sympathy so genial and

delightful, a new era in the existence of the composer seemed to

open, and he abandoned himself without reserve to its pleasures.

In retracing a life so ill rewarded by contemporaries, and so

checkered by calamity, it is pleasant to dally awhile in the

primrose path, and enjoy the opening prospects of good fortune.

"In a few days he was called upon to give a grand concert at the

opera-house. This was in reality his first public appearance, and

many circumstances conspire to render it memorable; but chiefly

that every piece throughout the performance was of his own

composition. The concert ended by an improvisation on the

pianoforte. Having preluded and played a fantasia, which lasted a

good half-hour, Mozart rose; but the stormy and outrageous

applause of his Bohemian audience was not to be appeased, and he

again sat down. His second fantasia, which was of an entirely

different character, met with the same success; the applause was

without end, and long after he had retired to the

withdrawing-room, he heard the people in the theatre _thundering_

for his re-appearance. Inwardly delighted, he presented himself

for the third time. Just as he was about to begin, when every

noise was hushed, and the stillness of death reigned throughout

the theatre, a voice in the pit cried '_from Figaro_.' He took the

hint, and ended this triumphant display of skill by extemporising

a dozen of the most interesting and scientific variations upon the

air _Non piu andrai_. It is needless to mention the uproar that

followed. The concert was altogether found so delightful, that a

second, upon the same plan, soon followed. A sonnet was written in

his honour, and his performances brought him one thousand florins.

Wherever he appeared in public, it was to meet testimonies of

esteem and affection. His emotion at the reception of 'Figaro' in

Prague was so great, that he could not help saying to the manager,

Bondini, 'As the Bohemians understand me so well, I must write an

opera on purpose for them.' Bondini took him at his word, and

entered with him, on the spot, into a contract to furnish his

theatre with an opera for the ensuing winter. Thus was laid the

foundation of 'Il Don Giovanni.'"

The greatest of Mozart's operas was composed at Prague, on a second

visit thither in 1787, when he lived with a musical friend in the

suburbs of the city. "Here, on an elevated site which commanded a view

of the antique magnificence of Prague, its faded castles, ruined

cloisters, and other majestic remains of feudal times, under the mild

rays of an autumnal sun, and in the open air, _Don Giovanni_ was

written." It was immediately brought out at Prague with the success

it deserves, and was afterwards performed at Vienna, but was badly got

up, and but indifferently received. "Don Giovanni," said its author,

"was rather written for Prague than Vienna, but chiefly for myself and

my friends." It is a disgraceful fact, that it was eclipsed in

popularity among the Viennese by the "Tarrare" of Salieri, of which no

one now knows any thing.

In 1787 Mozart's father died at Salzburg, less happy, it is to be

feared, than his own worth and his son's genius should have made him.

But he was ignorant of the great truth, that fame, and often merely

posthumous fame, is the chief external blessing that awaits men of

extraordinary mental powers in the arts, and that the appropriate

reward of genius, any more than of virtue, is not always--"bread." On

hearing of his father's illness, Mozart had written him in

affectionate terms--

"I have just received some news which has given me a sad blow; the

more so, as your last letter left me reason to suppose that you

were in perfect health. I now, however, learn that you are really

very ill. How anxiously I await and hope for some comforting

intelligence from you I need hardly say, although I have long

since accustomed myself in all things to expect the worst. As

death, rightly considered, fulfils the real design of our life, I

have for the last two years made myself so well acquainted with

this true friend of mankind, that his image has no longer any

terrors for me, but much that is peaceful and consoling; and I

thank God that he has given me the opportunity to know him as the

key to our true felicity. I never lie down in bed without

reflecting that, perhaps (young as I am), I may never see another

day; yet no one who knows me will say that I am gloomy or morose

in society. For this blessing I daily thank my Creator, and from

my heart wish it participated by my fellow-men."

In the autumn of the same year, he lost a valued and valuable friend

in Dr Barisani of Vienna, whose medical attentions had already been

eminently useful to him, and might, if they had been continued, have

saved him from those irregularities of alternate labour and indulgence

which so soon afterwards began to affect his health. Mozart made, on

this occasion, an affecting entry in his memorandum-book, under some

lines which his friend had written for him.

"To-day, the 2d of September, I have had the misfortune to lose,

through an unexpected death, this honourable man, by best and

dearest friend, and the preserver of my life. He is happy!--but

I--we, and all who thoroughly knew him, cannot again be so--till

we have the felicity to meet him in a better world, never again to

separate."

In 1789, Mozart visited Prussia, where he was well received by every

one, and seems to have been happy. We may here insert part of a

well-known letter, written about this time, to an amateur baron, which

gives a curious picture of Mozart's character and habits, as well as

of the mixed tone of good humour and good sense with which he seems to

have both written and conversed. The baron had sent him some tolerable

music, and some better wine.

"TO THE BARON V----.

"Herewith I return you, my good baron, your scores; and if you

perceive that in my hand there are more _nota benes_ than notes,

you will find from the sequel of this letter how that has

happened. Your symphony has pleased me, on account of its ideas,

more than the other pieces, and yet I think that it will produce

the least effect. It is too much crowded, and to hear it partially

or piecemeal (_stueckweise_) would be, by your permission, like

beholding an ant-hill (_Ameisen haufen_). I mean to say, that it is

as if Eppes, the devil, were in it.

"You must not snap your fingers at me, my dearest friend, for I

would not for all the world have spoken out so candidly if I could

have supposed that it would give you offence. Nor need you wonder

at this; for it is so with all composers who, without having from

their infancy, as it were, been trained by the whip and the curses

(_Donnerwetter_) of the maestro, pretend to do every thing with

natural talent alone. Some compose fairly enough, but with other

people's ideas, not possessing any themselves; others, who have

ideas of their own, do not understand how to treat and master

them. This last is your case. Only do not be angry, pray! for St

Cecilia's sake, not angry that I break out so abruptly. But your

song has a beautiful cantabile, and your dear _Fraenzl_ ought to

sing it very often to you, which I should like as much to see as

to hear. The minuet in the quartet is also pleasing enough,

particularly from the place I have marked. The _coda_, however,

may well clatter or tinkle, but it will never produce _music_;

_sapienti sat_, and also to the _nihil sapienti_, by whom I mean

myself. I am not very expert in writing on such subjects; I rather

show at once how it ought to be done.

"You cannot imagine with what joy I read your letter; only you

ought not to have praised me so much. We may get accustomed to the

hearing of such things, but to read them is not quite so well. You

good people make too much of me; I do not deserve it, nor my

compositions either. And what shall I say to your present, my

dearest baron, that came like a star in a dark night, or like a

flower in winter, or like a cordial in sickness? God knows how I

am obliged, at times, to toil and labour to gain a wretched

livelihood, and Staenerl, (Constance,) too, must get something.

"To him who has told you that I am growing idle, I request you

sincerely (and a baron may well do such a thing) to give him a

good box on the ear. How gladly would I work and work, if it were

only left me to write always such music as I please, and as I can

write; such, I mean to say, as I myself set some value upon. Thus

I composed three weeks ago an orchestral symphony, and by

to-morrow's post I write again to Hoffmeister (the music-seller)

to offer him three pianoforte quatuors, supposing that he is able

to pay. Oh heavens! were I a wealthy man, I would say, 'Mozart,

compose what you please, and as well as you can; but till you

offer me something finished, you shall not get a single kreutzer.

I'll buy of you every MS., and you shall not be obliged to go

about and offer it for sale like a hawker.' Good God! how sad all

this makes me, and then again how angry and savage, and it is in

such a state of mind that I do things which ought not to be done.

You see, my dear good friend, so it is, and not as stupid or vile

wretches (_lumpen_) may have told you. Let this, however, go _a

cassa del diavolo_.

"I now come to the most difficult part of your letter, which I

would willingly pass over in silence, for here my pen denies me

its service. Still I will try, even at the risk of being well

laughed at. You say, you should like to know my way of composing,

and what method I follow in writing works of some extent. I can

really say no more on this subject than the following; for I

myself know no more about it, and cannot account for it. When I

am, as it were, completely myself, entirely alone, and of good

cheer--say, travelling in a carriage, or walking after a good

meal, or during the night when I cannot sleep; it is on such

occasions that my ideas flow best and most abundantly. _Whence_

and _how_ they come, I know not; nor can I force them. Those ideas

that please me I retain in memory, and am accustomed, as I have

been told, to hum them to myself. If I continue in this way, it

soon occurs to me how I may turn this or that morsel to account,

so as to make a good dish of it; that is to say, agreeably to the

rules of counterpoint, to the peculiarities of the various

instruments, &c.

"All this fires my soul, and, provided I am not disturbed, my

subject enlarges itself, becomes methodized and defined, and the

whole, though it be long, stands almost complete and finished in

my mind, so that I can survey it, like a fine picture or a

beautiful statue, at a glance. Nor do I hear in my imagination the

parts _successively_, but I hear them, as it were, all at once

(_gleich alles zusammen_.) What a delight this is I cannot tell!

All this inventing, this producing, takes place in a pleasing

lively dream. Still the actual hearing of the _tout ensemble_ is

after all the best. What has been thus produced I do not easily

forget, and this is perhaps the best gift I have my Divine Maker

to thank for.

"When I proceed to write down my ideas, I take out of the bag of

my memory, if I may use that phrase, what has previously been

collected into it in the way I have mentioned. For this reason the

committing to paper is done quickly enough, for every thing is, as

I said before, already finished; and it rarely differs on paper

from what it was in my imagination. At this occupation, I can

therefore suffer myself to be disturbed; for whatever may be going

on around me, I write, and even talk, but only of fowls and geese,

or of Gretel or Baerbel, or some such matters. But why my

productions take from my hand that particular form and style that

makes them _Mozartish_, and different from the works of other

composers, is probably owing to the same cause which renders my

nose so or so large, so aquiline, or, in short, makes it Mozart's,

and different from those of other people. For I really do not

study or aim at any originality; I should, in fact, not be able to

describe in what mine consists, though I think it quite natural

that persons who have really an individual appearance of their

own, are also differently organized from others, both externally

and internally. At least I know that I have constituted myself

neither one way nor the other.

* * * * *

"Here, my best friend and well-wisher, the pages are full, and the

bottle of your wine, which has done the duty of this day, is

nearly empty. But since the letter which I wrote to my

father-in-law, to request the hand of my wife, I hardly ever have

written such an enormously long one. Pray take nothing ill. In

speaking, as in writing, I must show myself as I am, or I must

hold my tongue, and throw my pen aside. My last word shall be--my

dearest friend, keep me in kind remembrance. Would to God I could

one day be the cause of so much joy to you as you have been to me.

Well! I drink to you in this glass: long live my good and

faithful ----." "W. A. MOZART."

Before he left Prussia, the King offered him an appointment and a

liberal pension. "Can I leave my good Emperor?" said Mozart with

emotion. The proposal, however, made its impression, and shortly

afterwards probably encouraged him, at Vienna, on occasion of fresh

intrigues against him, to tender his resignation of his paltry

situation there. But a kind-like appeal from his imperial patron drove

him at once from his intention, and fixed him where he was. It was

afterwards hinted to him that he might, at least, have taken this

opportunity to stipulate for a better provision for himself. "Satan

himself," he replied, "would hardly have thought of bargaining at such

a moment."

The year 1789-90 seems to have been about the most disastrous in the

situation of his affairs, and led to the most unhappy results.

"The music-shops, as a source of income, were almost closed to

him, as he could not submit his genius to the dictates of fashion.

Hoffmeister, the publisher, having once advised him to write in a

more _popular_ style, or he could not continue to purchase his

compositions, he answered with unusual bitterness, 'Then I can

make no more by my pen, and I had better starve, and go to

destruction at once.' The fits of dejection which he experienced

were partly the effect of bodily ailments, but more of a weariness

with the perplexity of affairs, and of a prospect which afforded

him but one object on which he could gaze with certainty of

relief, and that was--death. Constant disappointment introduced

him to indulgences which he had not before permitted himself.

"He became wild in the pursuit of pleasure; whatever changed the

scene was delightful to him, and the more extravagant the better.

His associates, and the frequent guests at his table, were

recommended by their animal spirits and capacity as boon

companions. They were stage-players and orchestral musicians, low

and unprincipled persons, whose acquaintance injured him still

more in reputation than in purse. Two of these men, Schickaneder,

the director of a theatre (for whom Mozart wrote the

'Zauberfloete,') and Stadler, a clarionet-player, are known to have

behaved with gross dishonesty towards the composer; and yet he

forgave them, and continued their benefactor. The society of

Schickaneder, a man of grotesque humour, often in difficulties,

but of inexhaustible cheerfulness and good-fellowship, had

attractions for Mozart, and led him into some excesses that

contributed to the disorder of his health, as he was obliged to

retrieve at night the hours lost in the day. A long-continued

irregularity of income, also, disposed him to make the most of any

favourable moment; and when a few rouleaus of gold brought the

means of enjoyment, the Champagne and Tokay began to flow. This

course is unhappily no novelty in the shifting life of genius,

overworked and ill-rewarded, and seeking to throw off its cares in

the pursuits and excitements of vulgar existence. It is necessary

to know the composer as a man of pleasure, in order to understand

certain allusions in the correspondence of his last years, when

his affairs were in the most embarrassed condition, and his

absence from Vienna frequently caused by the pressure of

creditors. He appears at this time to have experienced moments of

poignant self-reproach. His love of dancing, masquerades, masked

balls, &c., was so great, that he did not willingly forego an

opportunity of joining any one of those assemblies, whether public

or private. He dressed handsomely, and wished to make a favourable

impression in society independently of his music. He was sensitive

with regard to his figure, and was annoyed when he heard that the

Prussian ambassador had said to some one, 'You must not estimate

the genius of Mozart by the insignificance of his exterior.' The

extremity of his animal spirits may occasion surprise. He composed

pantomimes and ballets, and danced in them himself, and at the

carnival balls sometimes assumed a character. He was actually

incomparable in Arlequin and Pierrot. The public masquerades at

Vienna, during the carnival, were supported with all the vivacity

of Italy; the emperor occasionally mingled in them, and his

example was generally followed. We are not, therefore, to measure

these enjoyments by our colder northern notions."

It should be added, what Mr Holmes tells us on good authority, that

the vice of ebriety was not among Mozart's failings. "He drank to the

point of exhilaration, but not beyond." His fondness for

ballet-dancing may seem strange to us, who have almost a Roman

repugnance to such exhibitions in men of good station. But it is

possible that in some minds the love of graceful motion may be a

refined passion and an exalted art; and it is singular that Mozart's

wife told of him, that, in his own estimation, his taste lay in

dancing rather than in music.

"That these scenes of extravagant delight seduced him into

occasional indulgences, which cannot be reconciled with the purity

of his earlier life, it would be the worst affectation in his

biographer to deny. Nor is it necessary to the vindication of

Mozart that such temporary errors should be suppressed by a

feeling of mistaken delicacy. Living such a round of excitements,

and tortured by perpetual misfortunes, there is nothing very

surprising in the fact, that he should sometimes have been drawn

into the dangerous vortex; but he redeemed the true nobility of

his nature by preserving, in the midst of his hasty inconstancies,

the most earnest and unfailing attachment to his home. It is a

curious illustration of his real character, that he always

confessed his transgressions to his wife, who had the wise

generosity to pardon them, from that confidence in his truth which

survived alike the troubles and temptations of their checkered

lives."

Let none lightly dare either to condemn or to imitate the

irregularities of life of such wondrous men as Mozart and our own

Burns. Those who may be gifted with equally strong and exquisite

sensibilities as they, as fine and flexible affections, as bright an

imagination, beautifying every object on which its rainbow colours

rest, and who have been equally tried by affliction and

misconstruction, and equally tempted by brilliant opportunities of

pleasure in the intervals of penury and pain--these, if they stand

fast, may be allowed to speak, and they will seldom speak

uncharitably, of their brethren who have fallen; or, if they fall,

they may be heard to plead a somewhat similar excuse. But let ordinary

men, and men less extraordinary than those we speak of, beware how

they either refer to them as a reproach, or follow them as an example.

The excesses of men of genius are always exaggerated by their enemies,

and often overrated even by their friends and companions. With

characteristic fervour they enter enthusiastically into every thing in

which they engage; and, when they indulge in dissipation, delight to

sport on the brink of all its terrors, and to outvie in levity and

extravagance the most practised professors of their new art. Few that

see or hear them think, that even in the midst of their revels their

hearts are often far away, or are extracting good from the evil spread

before them; and that all the waste of time and talent, so openly and

ostentatiously exhibited, is compensated in secret by longer and

intenser application to the true object of their pursuit, and by acts

of atonement and self-denial, of which the conscious stars of heaven

are the only created witnesses. The worst operation of dissolute

indulgences on genius is not, perhaps, in producing depravity of

heart or habits, for its pure plumes have a virtue about them that is

a preservative against pollution; but in wearing out the frame,

ruffling the temper, and depressing the spirits, and thus embittering

as well as shortening a career that, even when most peaceful and

placid, is often destined to be short and sad enough.

The good-natured sympathy which Mozart always felt in the welfare of

the very humblest of his brethren of the lyre, is highly creditable to

him. But the extent to which he sacrificed his own interests to serve

them, was often any thing but prudent. He was devoid of every sordid

and avaricious feeling, and indeed carried his generosity to an

excess.

"The extreme kindness of his nature was grossly abused by artful

performers, music-sellers, and managers of theatres. Whenever any

poor artists, strangers in Vienna, applied to him for assistance,

he offered them the use of his house and table, introduced them to

the persons whom he thought could be of use to them, and

frequently composed for their use concertos, of which he did not

even keep a copy, in order that they might have the exclusive

advantage of playing them. But, not content with this, they sold

these pieces to music-publishers; and thus repaid his kindness by

robbing him. He seldom received any recompense for his pianoforte

compositions, but generally wrote them for his friends, who were,

of course, anxious to possess some work of his for their own use,

and suited to their powers of playing. Artaria, a music-seller of

Vienna, and other members of the trade, contrived to get

possession of many of these pieces, and published them without

obtaining the author's consent, or making him any remuneration for

them. A Polish count, who was invited to a concert at Mozart's

house, heard a quintet performed for the first time, with which he

was so greatly delighted that he asked Mozart to compose for him a

trio for the flute. Mozart agreed, on condition that he should do

it at his own time. The count next day sent a polite note,

expressive of his thanks for the pleasure he had enjoyed, and,

along with it, one hundred gold demi-sovereigns (about L100

sterling.) Mozart immediately sent him the original score of the

quintet that had pleased him so much. The count returned to Vienna

a year afterwards, and, calling upon Mozart, enquired for the

trio. Mozart said that he had never found himself in a disposition

to write any thing worthy of his acceptance. "Perhaps, then," said

the count, "you may find yourself in a disposition to return me

the hundred demi-sovereigns I paid you beforehand." Mozart

instantly handed him the money, but the count said not a word

about the quintet; and the composer soon afterwards had the

satisfaction of seeing it published by Artaria, arranged as a

quartet, for the pianoforte, violin, tenor, and violoncello.

Mozart's quintets for wind instruments, published also as

pianoforte quartets, are among the most charming and popular of

his instrumental compositions for the chamber; and this anecdote

is a specimen of the manner in which he lost the benefit he ought

to have derived, even from his finest works. The opera of the

'Zauberfloete' was composed for the purpose of relieving the

distresses of a manager, who had been ruined by unsuccessful

speculations, and came to implore his assistance. Mozart gave him

the score without price, with full permission to perform it in his

own theatre, and for his own benefit; only stipulating that he was

not to give a copy to any one, in order that the author might

afterwards be enabled to dispose of the copyright. The manager

promised strict compliance with the condition. The opera was

brought out, filled his theatre and his pockets, and, some short

time afterwards, appeared at five or six different theatres, by

means of copies received from the grateful manager."

Mozart's career, when hastening to its close, was illumined by gleams

of prosperity that came but too late. On returning from Prague, in

Nov. 1791, from bringing out the _Clemenza di Tito_, at the coronation

of Leopold, the new Emperor--

"He found awaiting him the appointment of kapell-meister to the

cathedral church of St Stephen, with all its emoluments, besides

extensive commissions from Holland and Hungary for works to be

periodically delivered. This, with his engagements for the

theatres of Prague and Vienna, assured him of a competent income

for the future, exempt from all necessity for degrading

employment. But prospects of worldly happiness were now phantoms

that only came to mock his helplessness, and embitter his parting

hour."

"Now must I go," he would exclaim, "just as I should be able

to live in peace; now leave my art when, no longer the slave

of fashion, nor the tool of speculators, I could follow the

dictates of my own feeling, and write whatever my heart prompts. I

must leave my family--my poor children, at the very instant in

which I should have been able to provide for their welfare."

The story of his composing the requiem for a mysterious stranger, and

his melancholy forebodings during its composition, are too well known

to require repetition here. The incident, to all appearance, was not

extraordinary in itself, and owed its imposing character chiefly to

the morbid state of Mozart's mind at the time.

On the 5th of December 1791, the ill-defined disease under which he

had for some time laboured, ended in his dissolution; and subsequent

examination showed that inflammation of the brain had taken place. He

felt that he was dying--"The taste of death," he said to his

sister-in-law, "is already on my tongue--_I taste death_; and who will

be near to support my Constance if you go away?"

"Suessmayer (an assistant) was standing by the bedside, and on the

counterpane lay the 'Requiem,' concerning which Mozart was still

speaking and giving directions. As he looked over its pages for

the last time, he said, with tears in his eyes, 'Did I not tell

you that I was writing this for myself?'"

It should be added that this "Suessmayer, who had obtained

possession of one transcript of the 'Requiem,' the other having

been delivered to the stranger immediately after Mozart's decease,

published the score some years afterwards, claiming to have

composed from the _Sanctus_ to the end. As there was no one to

contradict this extraordinary story, it found partial credit until

1839, when a full score of the 'Requiem' in Mozart's handwriting

was discovered."

We have now done. The life and character that we have been

considering, speak for themselves. Mozart is not perhaps the greatest

composer that ever lived, but Handel only is greater than he; and to

be second to Handel, seems now to us the highest conceivable praise.

Yet, in some departments, Mozart was even greater than his

predecessor. It is not our intention to characterise his excellences

as a composer. The millions of mankind that he has delighted in one

form or other, according to their opportunities and capacities, have

spoken his best panegyric in the involuntary accents of open and

enthusiastic admiration; and his name will for ever be sweet in the

ear of every one who has music in his soul.

Two remarks only we will make upon Mozart's taste and system as a

master. The first is, that he invariably considered and proclaimed,

that the great object of music was, not to astonish by its difficulty,

but to delight by its beauty. Some of his own compositions are

difficult as well as beautiful, and in some the beauty may be too

transcendental for senses less exalted than his own. But the

production of _pleasure_, in all its varied forms and degrees, was his

uniform aim and effort; and no master has been more successful. Our

next remark is, that, with all his genius, he was a laborious and

learned musician; and the monument to his own fame which he has

completed in his works, was built upon the most anxious, heartfelt,

and humble study of all the works of excellence that then existed, and

without knowing and understanding which, he truly felt that he could

never have equalled or surpassed them.

FOOTNOTE:

[6] _The Life of Mozart, including his Correspondence._ By EDWARD

HOLMES Author of "A Ramble among the Musicians of Germany." London:

Chapman and Hall. 1845

TO THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

SIR,--The accompanying narrative was originally sent from the

Sandwich Islands in the shape of a letter. Since my return to

England, it has been suggested to me that it would suit your

pages. If you think so, I shall be happy to place it at your

disposal. The ground-plan annexed is intended merely to assist the

description: it has no pretensions to strict accuracy, the

distances have been estimated, not measured.--I remain, Sir, your

obedient servant,

AN OFFICER OF THE ROYAL NAVY.

ACCOUNT OF A VISIT TO THE VOLCANO OF KIRAUEA, IN OWHYHEE, SANDWICH

ISLANDS, IN SEPTEMBER 1844.

The ship being about to proceed to Byron's Bay, (the Hilo of the

natives,) on the N.E. side of Owhyhee, to water, the captain arranged,

that to give all opportunity to all those who wished to visit the

volcano, distant from the anchorage forty miles, the excursion should

be made in two parties. Having anchored on Wednesday the 11th of

September, he and several of the officers left Hilo early on the 12th;

they travelled on horseback, and returned on the ensuing Monday,

highly delighted with their trip, but giving a melancholy description

of the road, which they pronounced to be in some places impassable to

people on foot. This latter intelligence was disheartening to the

second division, some of whom, and myself of the number, had intended

to walk. These, notwithstanding, adhered to their resolution; and the

second party, consisting of eight, left the ship at 6 A.M. on Tuesday.

Some on horseback, and some on foot, we got away from the village

about eight o'clock, attended by thirteen natives, to whose calabashes

our prog and clothing had been transferred; these calabashes answer

this purpose admirably; they are gourds of enormous size, cut through

rather above their largest diameter, which is from eighteen inches to

two feet; the half of another gourd forms the lid, and keeps all clean

and dry within; when filled, they are hung by net-work to each end of

a pole thrown across the shoulders of a native, who will thus travel

with a load of fifty or sixty pounds about three miles an hour. The

day was fine and bright, and we started in high spirits, the horsemen

hardly able to conceal their exultation in their superiority over the

walkers, whilst they cantered over the plain from which our ascent

commenced; this, 4000 feet almost gradual in forty miles, is not

fatiguing; and thus, although we found the path through a wood about

three miles long, very deep, and the air oppressive, we all arrived

together without distress at the "half-way house," by 1 P.M. Suppose a

haystack hollowed out, and some holes cut for doors and windows, and

you have a picture of the "half-way house," and the ordinary dwellings

of the natives of these islands; it is kept by a respectable person,

chiefly for the accommodation of travellers, and in it we found the

comfort of a table, a piece of furniture by these people usually

considered superfluous. Here we soon made ourselves snug, commencing

by throwing ourselves on the mats, and allowing a dozen vigorous

urchins to "rumi rumi" us. In this process of shampooing, every muscle

is kneaded or beaten; the refreshing luxury it affords can only be

perfectly appreciated by those who have, like us, walked twenty miles

on a bad road, in a tropical climate. Here we were to stay the night,

and our first object was to prepare dinner and then to eat it; all

seemed disposed to assist in the last part of this operation, and

where every one was anxious to please, and determined to be pleased,

sociability could not be absent. After this we whiled away our time

with books and conversation, till one by one dropping asleep, all

became quiet, except a wretched child belonging to our hostess, who,

from one corner of the hut, every now and then set up its shrill pipe

to disturb our slumbers.

[Illustration: Map of the Crater.]

_Explanation of Plan:--_

A A The outer rim.

B B The inner rim.

C The active crater.

D D D D D The surface of the larger crater.

E E E E The dike.

F The house.

G The hut.

H H Track to and from crater.

I I Track of party on Wednesday night.

_o o o o o o_ Cones in large crater.

We were on the march the next morning at six, the walkers more

confident than the horsemen, some of whose beasts did not seem at all

disposed for another day's work. Our road lay for the most part

through immense seas of lava, in the crevices of which a variety of

ferns had taken root, and, though relieving the otherwise _triste_

appearance, in many places shut out our view of any thing besides. Two

of the walkers, and some of the horsemen, came in at the journey's

end, shortly after eleven o'clock; the remainder, some leaving their

horses behind them, straggled in by two P.M. Here we were at the

crater! Shall I confess that my first feeling was disappointment? The

plan shows some distance between the outer and inner rims, immediately

below the place where the house (F) is situated; this is filled up by

another level, which shuts out a great part of the prospect; the

remainder was too distant, and the sun's rays too powerful, to allow

of our seeing more than a quantity of smoke, and an occasional fiery

ebullition from the further extremity. It was not until we had walked

to the hut (G) that we became sensible of the awful grandeur of the

scene below; from this point we looked perpendicularly down on the

blackened mass, and felt our insignificance. The path leads between

many fissures in the ground, from which sulphurous vapour and steam

issue; the latter, condensing on the surrounding bushes, and falling

into holes in the compact lava, affords a supply of most excellent

water. As evening set in, the active volcano assumed from the house

the appearance of a city in flames; long intersecting lines of fire

looked like streets in a blaze; and when here and there a more

conspicuous burst took place, fancy pictured a church or some large

building a prey to the element. Not contented with this distant view,

three of our party started for the hut, whence in the afternoon we had

so fine a prospect. When there, although our curiosity was highly

gratified, it prompted us to see more; so, pressing a native into our

service, we proceeded along the brink of the N.W. side, until, being

nearly half-way round the outer circle of the crater, we had hoped to

obtain almost a bird's-eye view of the active volcano; we were

therefore extremely chagrined to find, that as we drew nearer our

object, it was completely shut out by a ridge below the one on which

we stood. Our walking had thus far been very difficult, if not

dangerous, and this, with the fatigues of the morning, had nearly

exhausted our perseverance. We determined, however, to make another

effort before giving it up, and were repaid by the discovery of a spur

which led us down, and thence through a short valley to the point

where our track (I) terminates. We came in sight of the crater as we

crested the hill; the view from hence was most brilliant. The crater

appeared nearly circular, and was traversed in all directions by what

seemed canals of fire intensely bright; several of these radiated from

a centre near the N.E. edge, so as to form a star, from which a

coruscation, as if of jets of burning gas, was emitted. In other parts

were furnaces in terrible activity, and undergoing continual change,

sometimes becoming comparatively dark, and then bursting forth,

throwing up torrents of flame and molten lava. All around the edge it

seemed exceedingly agitated, and noise like surf was audible;

otherwise the stillness served to heighten the effect upon the senses,

which it would be difficult to describe. The waning moon warned us to

return, and reluctantly we retraced our steps; it required care to do

this, so that we did not get back to the house before midnight. Worn

out with the day's exertions, we threw ourselves on the ground and

fell asleep, but not before I had revolved the possibility of standing

at the brink of the active crater after nightfall. In the morning we

matured the plan, which was to descend by daylight, so as to

reconnoitre our road, to return to dinner, and then, if we thought it

practicable, to leave the house about 5 P.M., and to remain in the

large crater till after night set in. The only objection to this

scheme (and it was a most serious one) was, that when we mentioned it

to the guides, they appeared completely horror-struck at the notion of

it. Here, as elsewhere in the neighbourhood of volcanic activity, the

common people have a superstitious dread of a presiding deity; in this

place, especially, where they are scarcely rescued from heathenism, we

were not surprised to find it. This, and their personal fears, (no

human being ever having, as the natives assured us, entered the crater

in darkness,) we then found insuperable: all we could do was to take

the best guides we were able to procure with us by daylight, so that

they should refresh their memories as to the _locale_, and ascertain

if any change had taken place since their last visit, and trust to

being able during our walk to persuade one to return with us in the

evening. Accordingly we all left the house after breakfast, following

the track marked (H), which led us precipitously down, till we landed

on the surface of the large crater, an immense sheet of scoriaceous

lava cooled suddenly from a state of fusion; the upheaved waves and

deep hollows evidencing that congelation has taken place before the

mighty agitation has subsided. It is dotted with cones 60 or 70 feet

high, and extensively intersected by deep cracks, from both of which

sulphurous smoke ascends. It is surrounded by a wall about twelve

miles in circumference, in most parts 1000 feet deep. I despair of

conveying an idea of what our sensations were, when we first launched

out on this fearful pit to cross to the active crater at the further

end. With all the feeling of insecurity that attends treading on

unsafe ice, was combined the utter sense of helplessness the

desolation of the scene encouraged: it produced a sort of instinctive

dread, such as brutes might be supposed to feel in such situations.

This, however, soon left us, and attending our guides, who led us away

to the right for about a mile, we turned abruptly to the left, and

came upon a deep dike, which, running concentric with the sides,

terminates near the active crater, with which I conceive its bottom is

on a level. The lava had slipped into it where we crossed, and the

loose blocks were difficult to scramble over. In the lowest part where

these had not fallen, the fire appeared immediately beneath the

surface. The guides here evinced great caution, trying with their

poles before venturing their weight; the heat was intense, and made us

glad to find ourselves again on _terra firma_, if that expression may

be allowed where the walking was exceedingly disagreeable, owing to

the hollowness of the lava, formed in great bubbles, that continually

broke and let us in up to our knees. This dike has probably been

formed by the drainage of the volcano by a lateral vent, as the part

of the crater which it confines has sunk lower than that outside it,

and the contraction caused by loss of heat may well account for its

width, which varies from one to three hundred yards. In support of

this opinion, I may mention, that in 1840 a molten river broke out,

eight miles to the eastward, and, in some places six miles broad,

rolled down to the sea, where it materially altered the line of coast.

From where we crossed, there is a gradual rise until within 200 yards

of the volcano, when the surface dips to its margin. Owing to this we

came suddenly in view of it, and, lost in amazement, walked silently

on to the brink. To the party who had made the excursion the previous

evening, the surprise was not so great as to the others; moreover, a

bright noonday sun, and a floating mirage which made it difficult to

discern the real from the deceptive, robbed the scene of much of its

brilliancy; still it was truly sublime, as a feeble attempt at

description will show. This immense caldron, two and three quarter

miles in circumference, is filled to within twenty feet of its brim

with red molten lava, over which lies a thin scum resembling the slag

on a smelting furnace. The whole surface was in fearful agitation.

Great rollers followed each other to the side, and, breaking,

disclosed deep edges of crimson. These were the canals of fire we had

noticed the night before diverging from a common centre, and the

furnaces in equal activity; while what had appeared to us like jets of

gas, proved to be fitful spurts of lava, thrown up from all parts of

the lake (though principally from the focus near the N.E. edge) a

height of thirty feet. Most people probably would have been satisfied

with having witnessed this magnificent spectacle; but our admiration

was so little exhausted, that the idea continually suggested itself,

"How grand would this be by night!" The party who had encountered the

difficulties of the walk the night before, were convinced that no

greater ones existed in that of to-day; and therefore, if it continued

fine, and we could induce the guide to accompany us, the project was

feasible. The avarice of one of these ultimately overcame his fears,

and, under his direction, we again left the house at 5 P.M., and,

returning by our old track, reached the hill above the crater about

the time the sun set, though long after it had sunk below the edge of

the pit. Here we halted, and smoking our cigars lit from the cracks

(now red-hot) which we had passed unnoticed in the glare of the

sunlight, waited until it became quite dark, when we moved on; and,

great as had been our expectations, we found them faint compared with

the awful sublimity of the scene before us. The slag now appeared

semi-transparent, and so extensively perforated as to show one sheet

of liquid fire, its waves rising high, and pouring over each other in

magnificent confusion, forming a succession of cascades of unequalled

grandeur; the canals, now incandescent, the restless activity of the

numerous vents throwing out great volumes of molten lava, the terrible

agitation, and the brilliancy of the jets, which, shooting high in the

air, fell with an echoless, lead-like sound, breaking the otherwise

impressive stillness; formed a picture that language (at least any

that I know) is quite inadequate to describe. We felt this; for no one

spoke except when betrayed into an involuntary burst of amazement. On

our hands and knees we crawled to the brink, and lying at full length,

and shading our faces with paper, looked down at the fiery breakers as

they dashed against the side of the basin beneath. The excessive heat,

and the fact that the spray was frequently dashed over the edge, put a

stop to this fool-hardiness; but at a more rational distance we stood

gazing, with our feelings of wonder and awe so intensely excited, that

we paid no regard to the entreaties of our guide to quit the spot. He

at last persuaded us of the necessity of doing so, by pointing to the

moon, and her distance above the dense cloud which hung, a lurid

canopy, above the crater. Taking a last look, we "fell in" in Indian

file, and got back to the house, with no further accident than a few

bruises, about ten o'clock. The walk had required caution, and it was

long after I had closed my eyes ere the retina yielded the impressions

that had been so nervously drawn on them. The next morning at nine, we

started on our return to the ship, sauntering leisurely along, picking

strawberries by the way, and enjoying all the satisfaction inherent to

the successful accomplishment of an undertaking. With health and

strength for any attempt we had been peculiarly favoured by the

weather, and had thus done more than any who had preceded us. Our

party, under these circumstances, was most joyous; so that,

independent of the object, the relaxation itself was such as we

creatures of habit and discipline seldom experience.

To make this narrative more intelligible, it will be necessary to

describe briefly the position and general features of this volcano,

which does not, like most others, spring from a cone, but has

excavated for itself a bed in the side of Mowna Roa, which rises

14,000 feet above the level of the sea; it is about sixteen miles

distant from the summit of the mountain, wherein is an enormous

extinct crater, from which this is probably the outlet; it is 4000

feet above the level of the sea, and twenty miles from the nearest

coast line. Several distinct levels in the present crater prove that

it has eaten its way to its present depth. On the most elevated of

these large trees now grow, evidences of many years' tranquillity;

lower down we come to shrubs, and lastly to the fern, apparently the

most venturesome of the vegetable kingdom; it seems to require nothing

but rest and water, for we found it shooting out of crevices where the

lava appeared to have undergone no decomposition. Nowhere, I conceive,

(not even in Iceland,) can be seen such stupendous volcanic efforts as

in Owhyhee. The whole island, eighty-six miles long by seventy broad,

and rising, as it does at Mowna Keah, more than 15,000 feet above the

sea, would seem to have been formed by layers of lava imposed at

different periods. Some of these have followed quickly on each other;

while the thickness of soil, made up of vegetable mould and decomposed

lava, indicates a long interval of repose between others. The present

surface is comparatively recent, though there is no tradition of any

but partial eruptions.

"O Lord! how manifold are Thy works: in wisdom hast Thou made them

all!"

We reached the village the next day at 1 P.M., and after a refreshing

bathe, returned on board to find the ship prepared for sea, to which

we proceeded the following morning at four o'clock.