The interior journal. [volume] (Stanford, Ky.) 1872-1881, 1878-03-22

young man who sat beside him seem.
ed alone ovcrpowcrcd with his emo.
tons in all that vast assembly, or he
was lost in reverie, for the curtain had
fallen some time before he seemed to
he aware Of the fact. AZ last he sud-
denly reused himself, looked quickly
and furtively round upon the audience
then suddenly throwing himself into
the arms Of his friend, while he burst
into tears, he passionately exclaimed,
"Ah, the barbarians--the cold, frigid
hearts Of ice and bronze-what now
could move themY"
"Ah, never mind, my dear boy
whispered Gluck in his ear, while he
pressed him TO his breast, and his lip
now visibly quivered; "they shall do
me justice in thirty years hence. Now,
however. the commentator Of Wolf
gang Mozart is worth a world Of such
fame as they could give"
It was little Wolfgang whom the
chevalicr pressed to his heart so tend
erly, and whose opinion he now val
ued 50 highly. The visioned glories
that had danced before the mental
eyes of the fanciful boy had known
something like reality, and that, too,
at an early age. He had won the
flattery and applause Of courts and
King; he had sa { before assembled
thousands ofthe proulest and the gay
est of the worlds great peers, and he
had created for them sources Of ex-
quisiie enjoyment, which their senses
had never known before, and which
their imaginings had never conceived.
At last he sat in his own sweet home
at Vienna, revealing in melcClious har'
monte dreams, and swau.like singing
his soul away, while his mortal frape
dissolved in the fervor Of his spirit.
One day Mozart sat at his piano,
with his head inclined upon the touch.
es, and his eyes half closed. He was
weary and feeble, for his body had
yielded to his active spirit the tribute
which the physical frame ever pays to
genius. Wolfgang's cheek was pale,
and his brow was heavy-for he had
expended the rosy tints Of the one
and the glories of the other in his de-
votion to his art, and now he leaned
quietly forward upon the instrument
which slept in his sleep. Before him
also lay paper in confused piles, scraps
of unfinished sonatas and oratorios-
fragmentary symbols of the revellings
of his fancy, which by the magic Of
their power would yet create worlds
Of thought and wild Joys in sympa.
thetic souls unborn. instruments lay
scattered all arou nd the room, like a
hundred voiceless tongues, of which
this weary, feeble man was the soul
the only revelant and awakener.
Awake, Wolfgang,' said voice
in the ear of the sleeping composer,
and Mozart, raising his head from its
recun,bent position, looked calmly
and without apparent wonder in the
face of his visitor. That face, howev'
err, could not ! e very distinctly scam.
ed, for it was covered with long black
hair, and shaded by dark cloak and
broad hat.
"What do you require of me?" de-
handed the composer at last, when he
had passed his hand across his brow,
and recovered sufficient energy to
speak.
81 address myself to Wolfgang
Mozart" said the stranger, in a deer
low voice. and in tone of interroga'
tory.
"And To whom have | the honor Il
speak," replied the musician.
1 "To one who would have you com
pose a requiem before this day month
and who would pay yon amply io'
it,"
"A requiem!" said Mozart, musing
and smoothing his high polished brow
with his palm. "Come to me, then
and il shall he done"
! With all the enthusiasm of which
his ardent nature was capable, he de
voted himself to this work. Wher
his wife would hang over him, an;
beseech him to forego such close ap
plication to study, he would smile ant
exclaim, II labor for my own death.
Indeed. the fire of that composition
was supplied by the vital warmth o
his lifeblood. Death he felt was il
his cup, as he bent his noble head
over the page, which received upon
its white bosom the transfusiOns OF hi
life, and the records OF his immortali
ty; but still, with an arior that knew
no abatement, and a devotion which
partoOk of all that religious junction
of which his soul was SO full, he la
bored to leave his sublime thoughts Il
posterity, and as the swan upon it
crystal river sings as its lovely form
floats downward to It's death, so he
singing as man never sung, fnishec