Leaving the church we passed through a square, called the Residence Place, where there is a striking white marble fountain, which dates from about 1656. A well-formed sea-god casts the water high over his head, when it falls into two great muscles, and afterwards in a basin below, over the heads of four prancing sea-horses, which also scatter the water from their nostrils and mouths. On the east side stands the Residence, a spacious edifice, formerly the dwellingplace of Archbishop Marcus Sitticus, and containing a collection of portraits of the archbishops; while directly opposite to it is the new Residence, whose tower contains a celebrated musical clock. This clock, contrived by one of the native artists, Jeremiah Santer, in 1703, plays a fine melody three times a day, changing the air every month. A narrow street leads thence to the cathedral, a majestic structure, of white marble, in the Italian style, with two lofty towers, connected by a broad middle wall and ornamented gable, and adorned with statues of the Evangelists. The interior is worthy of the exterior, and the more impressive because of the absence of those masses of gold and silver, and those glaring colors, which mar the simplicity and dignity of so many of the churches in Europe. In this respect, it resembles the cathedral at Florence, whose lofty and naked columns are far more imposing than the frescoed walls and gilt tracery of the churches of Genoa and Venice. This cathedral, however, is not destitute of paintings and sculptures, for it contains several pictures by Mascagni, Schönfeldt, etc., and the tombs of eleven archbishops, whose bones rest beneath its floors. In the Domplatz, directly in front of the entrance to the cathedral, is a graceful bronze statue, erected "in honor of the immaculate conception of Mary, the mother of God," representing the Virgin as standing on the Globe, in an attitude of blessing, while two angels uphold the sphere, one of whom has stricken down Satan by a flash of lightning.

The

whole rests upon a pedestal of white marble, with a metal figure at each of the four corners, typifying the church, wisdom, an inviting cherub, and the aforesaid Beelzebub smitten to the earth. It is a work that one lingers over, and stops to look at anew, every time that he passes..

A few minutes' walk brings us next to

the church and cloister of St. Peter, which is a curious pile in itself, but more interesting to us for the monument which it contains of Michael Haydn, a brother of the Haydn. He was only less celebrated as a musician, in his day, than the composer of the "Creation" and the "Seasons." But the world-wide fame of the latter has since overshadowed his renown. The monument, erected by a few friends, is in a retired nook of the church, and consists of a cross planted on a rock; at the foot stands an urn (which contains his head), and a broken lyre leaning against it, having no inscription but the words, "Michael Haydn, born Sept. 14, 1737, and died August 10, 1806." Not far from it is a memorial of another musical celebrity, Madame Von Sonnenberg, the sister of Mozart, the "little Nannerl" of his letters, who, in her more youthful days shared with him the plaudits of Europe. Salzberg appears to have been a musical region, for the Mozarts and Neukomm were born there; and Carl Maria Von Weber, as well as the Haydns, made it for a time their residence.

It was impossible to gaze at the tomb of Madame Von Sonnenberg without being reminded that we had not yet seen the statue and house of Mozart, and accordingly we repaired at once to St. Michael Place, where the former is erected.

It is the work of Schwanthaler, whose genius has illustrated so many parts of Germany, and was built by contributions collected from all the nations of Europe. The figure, as well as the pedestal, is of bronze, and represents the great artist, "the Raphael of music," standing erect, in his coat, with the left foot slightly advanced, and a graceful mantle hanging over the left shoulder. His right hand grasps a style, while his head is a little thrown up, as if he had just caught from the celestial spheres some of those immortal melodies which have made his name immortal. The expression of the face is full of genius and character, as we may easily conceive it to have looked in one of those inspired moments when, as he himself says in that characteristic letter to Baron Von, "the thoughts came streaming down upon me, without my knowing whence or how they

came."

On three sides of the pedestal are reliefs, representing, allegorically, the several styles of musical art in

which he was preeminent, and on the other side the all-sufficient inscription, "Mozart." It was a singular and touching coincidence-one, however, as we saw upon reflection, that must often happen-that while we were looking at the monument, the old clock of the Residenz-platz pealed forth a delicious air from one of Mozart's own operas, the Magic Flute-"Es klingelt so herrlich, es klingelt so schön," which is better known from the Italian version, as the "O dolce concerto."

From the statue we went to Mozart's house, in the University Place, where he was born and passed his childhood's years. It was easily distinguishable by a harp surrounded with laurel, which ornaments the building. We did not gain access to it, but it was agreeable to see even the outside, to walk through the streets in which he walked, and to admire the beautiful nature which must have impressed his young sensibilities. Few of the great names of history weave themselves into the affections with a more irresistible power than the name of Mozart. He is familiar to us, both as a child and as a man, and always as the same gentle, affectionate, disinterested, and gifted creature. The life

of his youth, passed in this house, is especially interesting to us. We can still see the little flaxen-haired fellow, full of intelligence and vivacity, listening with rapture to his father's violin, or, equally full of tenderness, asking, those about him, ten times a day, if they loved him, and when they jestingly answered in the negative, melting into tears. We can see him, when only six years old, bending over a bit of paper, on which he has scribbled a wilderness of musical notes-so blotted, too, by his fingers, that the notes can scarcely be seen-and we can hear the good father's laugh as he takes up the scroll, supposing it a jest of the boy, suddenly turned into a gush of joyful tears, when he finds there "an original and difficult concerto, with all the orchestral accompaniments, even to the trumpets and drums."

Nothing is more delightful in the life of Mozart, than the playful and affectionate letters which he wrote to his sister and mother during the hight of his celebrity-when he was the pet of Emperors and Princesses, and the wonder and admiration of Europe. He does not appear to have been conscious VOL. V.-33

of his prodigious accomplishments, and none of his successes-the verses written about him, the rich gifts sent him, the plaudits of the crowd-could turn his head or divert his heart from the dear friends at home.

"One morning, during the journey," writes his father, "Wolfgangerl, on awaking, began to cry. I asked him what was the matter He said he was so sorry that he could not see his friends Wagenauer, Weurl, Reible," etc., etc. -the good little soul-musicians in the chapel at Salzburg. But he was generally in exuberant spirits, and his letters are often a whimsical mixture of English, Italian, French, and a strange German patois, discovering not only irrepressible vivacity and boyish drollery, but much dramatic force and shrewdness of observation. He appears to have learned everything almost instinctively arithmetic, languages, games, horses, instruments, and poetry, as well as music.

It is not often that the prodigious boy becomes the prodigious man, and a great many of Mozart's friends-among the rest, Baron Grimm-predicted that his extraordinary career as a virtuoso would close in disappointment. But the feats of his boyhood were nothing to his maturer achievements; and the precocity, which had been simply a wonder, grew into the deepest and noblest talent of his or any day. His rich prematurity was followed by a richer maturity. At the theatres, when he first began to visit them as a young man, the performers laughed at his appear"because I am so little and young," said he, "they think nothing great and old can be in me; but they shall soon see." This was the consciousness of genius prefiguring its future. But Mozart attained his fame, like many another great genius before him, only by the saddest experiences. He trod the rough brakes and thorny paths which seem to be the sole appointed way of the most exalted merit. The princely archbishop of his native place

ance:

he that inhabited these magnificent palaces we have just seen-tasked his best services at a miserable stipend, insulted him by his arrogance, and set him to eat at the same table with his valets and cooks. At the court of the imperial Joseph of Austria, he was complimented and flattered, but almost left to starve. Wretched Italian adventur

ers-crosses of the artist and the mountebank-intrigued against him, and stole his music and prevented the recognition of his merit. While he saw persons of not a tithe of his ability showered with princely rewards, and raised to comfortable appointments by court favor, he was forced to waste his fine talent in procuring the mere necessities of life in the drudgery of music-teaching, concert-playing, and compositions (but such compositions!) for the public gardens. It is true, his career was not without its gleams of sunshine-in the noble friendship and appreciation of Haydn-in the love of a most indulgent wife in the plaudits of the concert room, and the theatre-and in the deep free expression of himself in a symphony, a concerto, a mass, or a Don Giovanni. But whether in sunshine or shade, he was ever the same kindly, magnanimous, hard-working, lovable, and wonderful creature. He never cringed to the great, in his deepest distresses, and he never forgot his humble friends in his highest prosperity. When, at last, his real position was beginning to be recognized-when the Figaro, the Don Giovanni, the Zauberflöte, and the Clemenza di Tito were about to convince the world of what Joseph Haydn had long before said, that "he was the greatest composer that had ever lived," the recognition came too late. The hard struggle with misfortune had already reacted into excesses of indulgence-into those snares which pleasure baits for the too weary sons of toil and despair and the seeds of disease blossomed into the lilies of death. He was carried off in the thirty-sixth year of his age. The "Requiem," his last work, so strangely ordered, was performed at his own funeral.

Posterity has avenged the neglect of Mozart's contemporaries, by assigning him his true place in the ranks of fame. For fertility of invention, for wealth of melody, for piquant chromatic harmonies, for flexibility and brilliancy of expression, for refinement and delicacy of sentiment, for spontaneous grace and beauty, for deep, sad, sweet, pathetic tenderness, for original and exhaustless inspiration,-it has decreed that Mozart is thus far without a rival,-the master of the lyric drama,-incomparably in advance of all the composers in that style that had preceded him, and only equaled in more modern times by one

or two, at most. For sixty years now his operas have been the delight of every stage of the civilized world, while his minor pieces have penetrated to every music-hall and garden, and palace and cottage. Oh! to what millions of men his genius has given hours of the purest and most rapturous delight! What a perennial freshness and charm in his works! What a delicious fragrance is breathed from this atmosphere which he once breathed, and how the thought of what he was and did kindles the heart into a warm and holy glow! Yet in recalling his history he seems hardly a man,-rather a divine impersonation of art,-an embodied tone, or fountain of tones,—whose life was not upon earth, but amid the etherealities of the creative sphere. Salzburg seems a fitting material type of the grace and beauty and brilliancy in which his spirit lived.

There seems to me great fitness in the comparison between Mozart and Raphael. They were alike in the character of their genius, in personal temperament, and in destiny. The same youthful ripeness, the same easy, almost unconscious command of the deepest secrets of their arts, the same freehearted gaiety, the same deep love and tenderness, the same wild animal enjoyment in the midst of a simple child-like piety, the same unapproachable grace in whatever they touched, and the same sad early death. It might be easy to select out of the pictures of Raphael and the compositions of Mozart, a series of companion-pieces, in which these eminent masters have expressed, each in his way, the same lofty and noble sentiments; while in the St. Cecilia of the former, in which he poured forth his whole conception of the world of harmony and sound, he seems to have foreshadowed the mysterious depth and wondrous richness of the magic art of the latter. It brings before us, in visible shape, the total activity of Mozart's life, a ravishing sentiment of beauty and devotion, bursting forth into song, which the whole earth (represented by the figures of St. Paul, the Magdalene, etc.) reverberates and echoes, and a chorus of child-like angels in the clouds, carries off to the dazzling unisons of Heaven. Nor are the broken and scattered instruments of the foreground without their significance, in the disappointed hopes and thwarted aims of the poor earthly life of the artist.

In the afternoon we visited the Mirabel Palace-one of the former pleasurehouses of Wolf Dietrich, and also of the late King Ludwig, of Bavaria—an exceedingly neat and graceful structure, in one of the prettiest squares that can be imagined. We also ascended the Capuchin Hill, on the same side of the river, where the cloisters and gardens of the Capuchin monks are built, giving a glorious out-look over both town and country. In returning, about half way down we stopped at the Church of St. John, which is chiefly remarkable for the fact that the place in which it stands was once visited by John the Baptist and St. John the Evangelist themselves. In the year 1487 these illustrious personages came to the gate of Salzburg and demanded admission; but the warder and burgomaster were not quite satisfied with their appearance. They were shabbily dressed, and the one gave himself out as a stone-mason of Nazareth, and the other as a torch-maker of Galilee. The burgomaster, saying that there were plenty of that sort in Salzburg already, drove them away; but a servant of the warder, who had heard their story, took pity on them, and promised them shelter in a little hut he proposed to build on the hill. Thereupon the wanderers dropped their beggar clothes, and revealed to the astonished gaze of the servant the glorified forms of the two Johns. They blessed him and disappeared, and afterwards the Church was erected on the spot on which the hut was to have been raised, to commemorate the holy apparition.

Not far off is another church of some interest, called St. Sebastian's Church, in whose cemetery the bones of Paracelsus repose. It is doubted by some whether this distinguished alchemist and philosopher died in Salzburg, though

the inhabitants point out the very house in which the event is said to have occurred, and it is very sure that a white marble monument in the vestibule of this church has this inscription in Latin: "Reader! Under this pyramid lies PHILIP THEOPHRASTUS, celebrated for his chemical science and the so-called Philosopher's Stone; his bones, at the building of the new church, in 1752, were dug up and deposited here, to remain until the resurrection shall again clothe them with the flesh!" The little bound guide-book is quite indignant that History should have recorded Paracelsus as a mere charlatan and quack, and not as one of the great minds and beneficent characters of his day. I quite share in the feeling. It is true that he participated in the superstitions of his contemporaries-that he was misled by the scientific errors of the 16th century that he sought the Philosopher's Stone, and even gave out that he had discovered it-that he believed in the influence of the stars upon human destiny, and was a devotee of magic; but he was an aspiring, noble soul, notwithstanding all that a genuine pioneer in the cause of the natural sciences, and a genial as well as sagacious philosopher.

Modern science, or, at least, its most illustrious teachers Comte, Liebig, Faraday, etc. are beginning to do justice to the historical importance of the alchemists and their researches. Though they sought for truth in a wrong direction, their labors were incidentally valuable to the progress of knowledge, and were inspired by a fine instinct. Indeed, the curious phenomena of chemistry, called allotropism, isomerism, and isomorphism, almost persuade one that the transmutation of the common metals into gold was not an impossible hope.