The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 394, October 17, 1829

The ceremonies of the day were still far from their conclusion. The historical painter of Altenötting was in attendance in the arcade, bearing the votive picture which was to perpetuate the latest miracle of the Black Lady; and as far as I could observe or ascertain of the sacerdotal hangman of the consecrated gallery, the oldest and most weather-stained of the pictures was made to yield precedence to the new comer. Having profited by a stranger's privilege, and the English garb, which is held as sacred as a herald's tabard in many a foreign land, to unite myself to the little group, and address some casual inquiries to its frank and overjoyous members—old Philipp Stroer himself, the hero of the day, deigned to take the picture from the hands of the sacristan, and to ciceronize for my especial edification. I trust his restored vision was not yet sufficiently acute to admit of his noting the smile which, in spite of my better will, stole over my face, as I contemplated the phenomenon of bad taste, and worse execution, which he thrust upon my observation. It represented his worthy but very unpicturesque self in the hands of an oculist, and the endurance of a cataract. The eyes of his surrounding family were fixed with eager interest upon the event of the operation. "And what," said I, anxious to make some sympathy in this domestic crisis—"and what is the name of the surgeon whose efforts have been blessed by the protection of the Black Lady?"

"The surgeon!"

"Yes; the oculist who is represented in the picture."

"That, sir, is no oculist, no surgeon; it is my Karl, sir, my beloved son!" I shall never forget the voice, struggling with emotion, in which the old man pronounced the words "mein sohn!"

The story of that son was one of deep, though humble interest. Trained in the agricultural habits of his forefathers, and destined to succeed to the laborious honours of the Stroerische farm, young Karl, to whom his gray-haired father was an object of the fondest and most reverential affection, beheld with horror the gradual advances of the disease which was about to render the remaining years of life a burden to the sightless man. With the fractiousness of advancing age and growing infirmity, old Philipp obstinately refused to seek the assistance of any learned leech of the country round. Brannau and Burchhausen boasted each of a chirurgic wonder, but Stroer misdoubted or defied their skill. "His frail body," he said, "was in the hands of a heavenly Providence, to which, as might best beseem, he bequeathed its guidance." Meanwhile, the perilous uncertainty of his footing, and the growing isolation of his existence, became more and more perceptible, when one day, just as an acknowledgement of "total eclipse" had fallen from his quivering lips, the prop and stay of his household, his beloved son Karl was missing from the farm! The first moment of uncertainty touching his destinies was a trying one, but it was also brief. A few days brought a letter from Munich, in which the absconded son implored his father's forgiveness, forbearance, and patience, during some ensuing months. Time, he wrote, might alone explain the motives of duty which had caused his apparent error.

Patience is a difficult virtue to the sick and the unhappy. The blind man, pining for his absent Karl, had need of all his trust in the excellence of his favourite child: at times, misdoubtings naturally arose; for the few months lengthened into seven, eight—eleven—a whole year, and the wanderer came not again.

At length, one autumn evening, a general shriek from the little household apprized Philipp Stroer of some unwonted occurrence, and straightway a voice demanded his blessing, and warm tears were wept upon his hand, and he knew that his son was at his feet! The story of Karl's absence was briefly and feelingly explained. Moved by his father's obstinate aversion to place himself in the hands of a strange practitioner, he had resolved to qualify himself for so precious a charge; and having interested an eminent surgeon of Munich by the detail of his affecting anxieties sufficiently to insure his instructions in the single branch of surgery requisite for his purpose, Karl had passed his days in infirmaries and hospitals, denying himself the common sustenance of nature, in order to maintain the respectability of garb necessary for his admittance to the lectures of his scientific preceptor. At length, his ardent endeavours were rewarded by a certificate of expertness; and a patent of nobility would have afforded him a far less gratifying excitement. Nor did Heaven withhold its blessing from a cause thus hallowed by filial devotion; the operation, which quickly followed his arrival at the farm, was attended with perfect success. For some days, indeed, the old man still maintained his resistance; but when he was assured that Karl had preceded his departure for Munich by a pilgrimage to Altenötting, and that the especial favour of the Black Lady had sanctified his undertaking, he became more passive—the result was a perfect restoration to sight.

"And where," I exclaimed, "is this excellent, this worthy Karl of yours at present?"

"By your side," replied a chorus of voices; and following their indication, I turned towards a young man of sturdy appearance, who acknowledged my salute with prompt and open frankness. He wore the common peasant costume of the country, and laughed away my honest praises as a mere exaggeration. "I had nothing to fear from my absence," said he, looking towards a very beautiful girl who stood beside him, "for I was secure of the good faith of my Hannchen, and I knew that the Black Lady would bless my enterprise!"

I could not presume to despise this strange union of intelligence and bigotry; nay, so intimately is the remembrance of the family of Stroer connected in my mind with that of the miraculous idol, that I must acknowledge some sort of lingering superstitious reverence towards the shrine of the Black Virgin of Altenötting.—New Monthly Magazine.

THE RIVER

 
River, River, little River,
Bright you sparkle on your way,
O'er the yellow pebbles dancing,
Through the flowers and foliage glancing,
Like a child at play.
 
 
River, River, swelling River,
On you rush o'er rough and smooth—
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping,
Like impetuous youth.
 
 
River, River, brimming River,
Broad and deep and still as Time,
Seeming still—yet still in motion,
Tending onward to the ocean,
Just like mortal prime.
 
 
River, River, rapid River,
Swifter now you slip away;
Swift and silent as an arrow,
Through a channel dark and narrow,
Like life's closing day.
 
 
River, River, headlong River,
Down you dash into the sea;
Sea, that line hath never sounded,
Sea, that voyage hath never rounded,
Like eternity.
 

Blackwood's Magazine.

The Anecdote Gallery

YOUTH OF MOZART

Abridged from the Foreign Quarterly Review

When we bring into one view all the qualifications of Mozart as a composer and practical musician, the result is astounding. The same man, under the age of thirty-six, is at the head of dramatic, sinfonia, and piano-forte music—is eminent in the church style—and equally at his ease in every variety, from the concerto to the country dance or baby song: he puts forth about 800 compositions, including masses, motetts, operas, and fragments of various kinds; at the same time supporting himself by teaching and giving public performances, at which he executes concertos on the piano-forte, the violin, or the organ, or plays extempore. But when we learn that the infant Mozart, at four years of age, began to compose, and by an instinct perception of beauty to make correct basses to melodies; and also that he became a great performer on two instruments, without the usual labour of practice, we cease to be surprised at the mechanical dexterity of his fingers in after-life, when composition and other pursuits had engrossed the time usually employed in preserving the power of execution.

The father of Mozart held the situation of Vice Kapell-meister and violinist in the chapel of the archbishop of Salzburg. In the service of this haughty and ignorant nobleman, (who appears to have been a complete feudal tyrant, and to have represented all the pride and insolence for which the then beggarly-princes of Germany were remarkable), he was so ill paid, that notwithstanding his utmost exertions as an instructor, it was with difficulty he supported a wife and family. Anna Maria,³ born August 29, 1751, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born January 27, 1756, were the only two of seven children who survived. The sister made such progress on the harpsichord, that in the first journeys which the father took in order to display the talents of his children, she divided the public attention with her brother. Wolfgang, however, not only profited as a player, from the careful instruction which both the children received from their parent, but began then to exhibit the extraordinary precocity of his musical mind; the minuets and other little movements which he composed from the age of four to seven show a consistency of thought and a symmetry of design which promised a maturity of the highest genius. Of the first expedition of Leopold Mozart with his son and daughter, in January, 1762, little account is preserved, further than that they visited Munich, and played concertos on the harpsichord before the royal family. In the following autumn, (Wolfgang being then in his seventh year), the father proceeded in the same company to Vienna; the journey was made by water, and the family gave concerts at the principal towns they passed, as occasion served. Leopold Mozart writes, "On Tuesday we arrived at Ips, where two Minorites and a Benedictine who accompanied us said mass,⁴ during which our little Wolfgang tumbled about upon the organ and played so well, that the Franciscan fathers, who were just sitting down to dinner with some guests, left the table, and ran with all their company into the choir, where they were filled with wonder." A little before, he says, "the children are as merry as when they were at home. The boy is friendly with every body, but particularly with military officers, as though he had known them all his life. He is the admiration of all." At the Court of Vienna the family was received with great favour, the Emperor Francis I. being mightily pleased with "the little magician," as he used playfully to call young Mozart. "There is nothing wonderful," said the emperor one day, joking with him, "in playing with all the fingers, but to play with one finger and with the keys covered, would really be surprising." Upon which the child instantly performed in this manner with as much neatness and certainty as if he had long practised it. The father writes, "you will scarcely believe me when I tell you how graciously we have been received. The empress took Wolfgang on her lap, and kissed him heartily."⁵ It was at this time that Mozart began to display the feeling of a great artist; just before he commenced a concerto, seeing himself surrounded by people of the Court, he asked the emperor—"is not M. Wagenseil here? he understands these things." Wagenseil was called forward to the harpsichord; "I am going to play one of your concertos," said the boy, "will you turn over for me?"

As yet Mozart had only played on keyed instruments, but on his return to Salzburg he practised privately on a little violin which he had purchased in Vienna, and, to the surprise of his father and some friends who had met to play over some new trios, he performed the second violin part, and then the first, with correctness, though without method. His horror of the sound of the trumpet in childhood, and the early passion he displayed for arithmetic, are well known; to the last he was fond of figures, and was extremely clever in making calculations; though very improvident in his pecuniary affairs. The peculiar delicacy of Mozart's organization is displayed in the fine sense of hearing which he evinced at a tender age. Schachtner, a trumpeter, who used to visit his father, had a violin that Wolfgang was fond of playing upon, which he used to praise extremely for its soft tone, calling it the "butter fiddle." On one occasion, as the boy was amusing himself on his own little violin, he said to Schachtner, "if you have left your violin tuned as it was when I last played upon it, it must be full half-a-quarter of a note flatter than mine." Those present laughed at a nicety of distinction, upon which the most critical ear could hardly pronounce; but the father, who had many proofs of the extraordinary memory and exquisite feeling of his son, sent for the instrument, and it was found to be as the boy had said. Although he daily gave fresh instances of his extraordinary endowments, he did not become proud or conceited, but was always an amiable and tractable child. The affection and sweetness which characterize his airs were inherent in his disposition, and the following anecdote accounts for the prevalence of those delightful qualities in his vein of melody:—"Mozart loved his parents, particularly his father, so tenderly, that every night before going to bed he used to sing a little air that he had composed on purpose, his father having placed him standing in a chair, and singing the second to him. During the singing he often kissed his father on the top of the nose, (the epicurism of childish fondness), and as soon as this solemnity was over, he was laid in bed, perfectly contented and happy."