The British Press; or, Morning Literary Advertiser.
London, England, 1825-08-16 00:00:00

LITER.4I2T GLEANINGS.

. .
No. XII.
LAST DAYS br Mozaay.--During the last years of Mo-
zart's life, his health, which had always been delicate,
declined rapidly. Like all persons of imagination, he was
timidly apprehensive of future evils, sod the idea that
he had not long to live, often distressed him. At these
times, he worked with such rapidity and unremitting at-
tention, that he sometimes forgot every thing that did not
relate to his art. Frequently, in the height of his enthu-
siasm. his strength failed him, he fainted, and was obliged
to be carried to his bed. 'Every one saw that he Was ruin-
ing his health by this immoderate application. His wife
and his friends did all they could to divert him. Out of
complaisance, he accompanied them in the walks and vi-
sits to which they took him, but his thoughts were always
absent. He was only occasionally roused &din this silent
and habitual melancholy by the presentiment of his ap-
proaching end, an idea which always awakened ih him
fresh terror.

His wife, uneasy at these singular habits, invited to the
house those persons whom he was most fond of seeing, and
who pretended to surprise him, at times when, after many
hours application, he ought naturally to have thought of
resting. Their visits pleased him, but he did not lay aside
his pen ; they talked, and endeavoured to engage him in
conversation, hut he took no interest in it ' • they addressed
themselves particularly to him, he uttered a few inconse-
quential words, and went on with his writing.
This ettrethe application, it may be oblerved, sometimes
accompanies genius, but is by no means a proof of it.
Who can read Thomas's emphatic collection of superla-
tives ? Yet this writer was so absorbed in his meditations
on the means of being eloquent, that once, at 'Montmo-
rency, when his footman brought him the horse on which
he usually rode out, he offered the animal a pinch of snuff.
Raphael Mengs also, in the present age, was remarkable
for absence, yet he is only a painter of the third order ;‘
while Guido, who Was always at the gaming table, and
who; towards the conclusion of his life, painted as many as
three pictures in a day, to pay the debts of the night, has
left behind him works, the least valuable of which is more
pleasing than the best of Mengs, or of Carlo Maratti,
both of them men of great application.
It was in this state of mind that he composed the Zauber
Pose, the Clernen.za di Tito, the Rquiem, and some other
pieces of less celebrity. It was while he was writing the
music of the first of these operas, that lie was seized with
the fitinting fits we have mentioned. He was very partial
to the Zmilier Pole, though lie was not quite satisfied with
some parts of it, to which the public had taken a fancy,
and which were incessantly applauded. The opera was
performed many times, but the weak state in which Mozart
then was, did not permit him to direct the orchestra, except
(luring nine or ten of the first representations. When he
was no longer able to attend the theatre, he used to place
his watch by his side,and seemed to follow the orchestra in
his thoughts. " Now the first act is over," he would say—
" now they are singing such an air," &c.; then, the idea
would strike him afresh, that he must soon bid adieu to all
this for ever.

The effect of this fatal tendency of mind was accelerated
by a very singular circumstance. I beg leave to be per-
nutted to relate it in detail, because we are indebted to it
for the famous Requiem, which is justly considered one of,
Mozart's best productions.
One day, when he was plunged in a profound reverie,he
heard a carriage stop at his door. A stranger was an-
nounced, who requested to speak to him. A person was
!introduced, handsomely dressed, of dignified and impres-
sive manners. " I have been commissioned, Sir, by a roan
of iconsiderable importance to call upon you." " Who is
he?" interrupted Mozart. "He does not wish to be
known." " Well, what does he want ?" "He has just
lost a person whom he tenderly loved, and whose memory
will be eternally dear to him. He is desirous of annually
commemorating: this mournful event by a solemn service,
for which he requests you to c( adipose a Requiem." Mozart
was forcibly struck by his discourse, by the glare manner
in which it was uttered, and by the air of mystery in which
the whole was involved. He engaged to write the Requiem.
The stranger continued, " Employ all your genius on this
work ;it is destined for a connoisseur. "So much the
better." " What time do you require ?" "A month."
" Very well : in a month's time I shall return. IVhat
price do you set on your work ?" " A hundred ducats."
fhe stranger counted them on the table, and disappeared.
Mozart remained lost in thought for some time ; he then
suddenly called for pen, ink, and paper, and, in spite of
his wife s entreaties, began to write. This rage • for com-
position continued several days; he wrote day and night,'
with an ardour which seemed continually to increase; but
his constitution, already in a state of great debility, was un-
able to support this enthusiasm: one morning, he fell
senseless, mid was obliged to suspend his work. Two or
three days after, when his wife sought to divert his mind
from the gloomy presages which occupied it, he said to her
abruptly : "It is certain that lam writing this Requiem
for myself; it will serve for my funeral service." Nothing
could remove this impression from his mind.
As lie went on he felt his strength diminish from day to
day, and the score advanced slowly. The month which
he had fixed being expired, the stranger again made his
appearance. " I have found it impossible," said Mozart,
"to keep my word." "Do not give yourself any uneasi-
ness," replied the stranger ; " what further time do you
require ?" " Another month. 'lire work has interested
me more than I expected, and I have extended it much
beyond what lat first designed." "In that case, it is but
just to increase the premium ; here are fifty ducats more."
" Sir," said Mozart, with incressing astonishment, " who
then, are you ?" " That is nothing to the purpose; in a
month's time I shall return."

Mozart immediately called one of his servants, and or-
dered him to follow this extraordinary personage, and find
out who lie was ; hut the man failed for want of skill, and
returned without being able to trace him.
Poor Mozart was then persuaded that be was no ordinary
being; that he had a connexion with the other world, and
was sent to announce to him his approaching end. He ap-
plied himself with the mere ardour to his Requiem, which
he regarded as the most durable monument of his genius.
While thus employed, he was seized with the most alarm-
ing fainting fits, hut the work was at length completed be.
fore the expiration of the month. At the tinio appoinbed,
the stranger retnrred, but Mozart was no more.
His career was as brilliant as it was short. He died
before he bad completed his thirty-sixth year ; but in this
short space of tine he has acquired a name which will
ni.rer perish, so long as feeling hearts are to be found.