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Дата написания1970-01-01
Язык книгиen
Возрастное ограничение12+

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If Mozart had not been engaged to compose the carnival opera for Milan, he might have written that for Bologna, Rome, or Naples, as at these three cities offers were made to him, a proof of what his genius had effected in Italy.

The epoch at which Mozart's genius was ripe may be dated from his twentieth year; constant study and practice had given him ease in composition, and ideas came thicker with his early manhood—the fire, the melodiousness, the boldness of harmony, the inexhaustible invention which characterize his works, were at this time apparent; he began to think in a manner entirely independent, and to perform what he had promised as a regenerator of the musical art. The situation of his father as Kapell-meister, in Salzburg, indeed gave Mozart some opportunities of writing church music, but not such as he most coveted, the sacred musical services of the court being restricted to a given duration, and the orchestra but poorly supplied with singers; it was therefore his earnest desire to get some permanent appointment in which he could exercise freely his talent for composition, and reckon on a sufficient income. When childhood and boyhood had passed away, his quondam patrons ceased to wonder at, or feel interest in, his genius, and Mozart, whose early years had been spent in familiar intercourse with the principal nobility of Europe, who had been from court to court, and received distinctions and caresses unparalleled in the history of musicians, up to the period of his death gained no situation worthy his acceptance, but earned his fame in the midst of worldly cares and annoyances, in alternate abundance and poverty, deceived by pretended friendship, or persecuted by open enmity. The obstacles which Mozart surmounted in establishing the immortality of his muse, leave those without excuse who plead other occupations and the necessity of gaining a livelihood as an excuse for want of success in the art. Where the creative faculty has been bestowed, it will not be repressed by circumstances.

In the exterior of Mozart there was nothing remarkable; he was small in person, and had a very agreeable countenance, but it did not discover the greatness of his genius at the first glance. His eyes were tolerably large and well shaped, more heavy than fiery in the expression; when he was thin they were rather prominent. His sight was always quick and strong; he had an unsteady abstracted look, except when seated at the piano-forte, when the whole form of his visage was changed. His hands were small and beautiful, and he used them so softly and naturally upon the piano-forte, that the eye was no less delighted than the ear. It was surprising that he could grasp so much as he did in the bass. His head was too large in proportion to his body, but his hands and feet were in perfect symmetry, of which he was rather vain. The stunted growth of Mozart's body may have arisen from the early efforts of his mind; not, as some suppose, from want of exercise in childhood—for then he had much exercise—though at a later period the want of it may have been hurtful to him. Sophia, a sister-in-law of Mozart, who is still living, relates: "he was always good-humoured, but very abstracted, and in answering questions seemed always to be thinking of something else. Even in the morning when he washed his hands, he never stood still, but would walk up and down the room, sometimes striking one heel against the other; at dinner he would frequently make the ends of his napkin fast, and draw it backwards and forwards under his nose, seeming lost in meditation, and not in the least aware of what he did." He was fond of animals, and in his amusements delighted with any thing new; at one time of his life with riding, at another with billiards.

The Selector; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

A PORTRAIT, BY MISS LANDON

FROM "THE VENETIAN BRACELET, AND OTHER POEMS," (JUST PUBLISHED)

"O No, sweet Lady, not to thee That set and chilling tone, By which the feelings on themselves So utterly are thrown, For mine has sprung upon my lips, Impatient to express The haunting charm of thy sweet voice And gentlest loveliness. A very fairy queen thou art, Whose only spells are on the heart. The garden it has many a flower, But only one for thee— The early graced of Grecian song, The fragant myrtle tree; For it doth speak of happy love, The delicate, the true. If its pearl buds are fair like thee, They seem as fragile too; Likeness, not omens; for love's power Will watch his own most precious flower. Thou art not of that wilder race Upon the mountain side, Able alike the summer sun And winter blast to bide; But thou art of that gentle growth Which asks some loving eye To keep it in sweet guardianship, Or it must droop and die; Requiring equal love and care, Even more delicate than fair. I cannot paint to thee the charm Which thou hast wrought on me; Thy laugh, so like the wild bird's song In the first bloom-touch'd tree. You spoke of lovely Italy, And of its thousand flowers; Your lips had caught the music breath Amid its summer bow'rs. And can it be a form like thine Has braved the stormy Apennine? I'm standing now with one white rose Where silver waters glide I've flung that white rose on the stream— How light it breasts the tide! The clear waves seem as if they loved So beautiful a thing; And fondly to the scented leaves The laughing sunbeams cling. A summer voyage—fairy freight;— And such, sweet Lady, be thy fate!"

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