perception of character, is, doubtless, the greatest triumph of American Art in power and subtilty of treatment. His drawing is accurate and refined to a high degree, and his perception of individual character most admirable. To compare him with any other artist would be unjust, since he is utterly unlike any other of whom we know anything. In our point of view, Darley demonstrates the vitality of the new school, in having attained, by his own perception, the very qualities in which the European academies endeavor to educate their pupils. It would not be strange to find an artist like Mount awake to all the peculiarities of the people, and, therefore, entirely national in his subjects; but Mount is not in a high degree pessessed of technical excellence; his treatment is palpable as might be expected from the youth of Art; for the technics of painting are supposed, and not without some reason, to be gained by training and study of that kind which men do not find alone, and for which they go to Düsseldorf, Munich and Rome. It is easy enough for a man who uses his senses properly, to find what to paint, but to learn how to paint it, which is all that is involved in the technics of painting, we think we must go to the great masters. Yet, here is an artist who, without the slightest aid from European teachers, has given his pictures a higher degree of excellence in drawing, light and shade, and composition, than any other in his line of art in America, and, if our judgment is good for anything, as high as any modern European artist. This, if true, is of great use to us, because, if the fallacy of a necessity that our students of art should go abroad can be entirely exploded, we shall at once fall back on our own undeveloped resources, and, by keeping them, at home, prevent their national feeling for subjects from being corrupted, as it must be, by studying foreign material. This would be a great point gained towards the foundation of a national school.

We may make this clearer by dividing art into its two great elements-subject, or what to represent, and treatment, or how to represent. But as we have before distinguished the old from the new school, by making the former to be based on treatment, and the latter on subject, it follows at once that the subdivisions of the new school must be

marked by their nationality of subject, since treatment is the same always, or differing only by superficial qualities. This, which was, to a slight extent, true in landscape, is strongly so when we come to the representation of character. It is true, that none but an Englishman can understand an Englishman, and, of course, none other can paint one; and so the painters of our national character must be "to the manor born;" and how shall they understand Americans if their lives are passed among Frenchmen or Italians? But the only object to be gained by foreign study is, to learn the technics of Art; and if it can be shown that these may be cultivated as well here as abroad, there exists no pretext for destroying the nationality of our Art. We are aware that there is a great "ideal" school, which, recognizing no necessity for individuality in its subject, makes its greatness to consist in its grand method; but this, be it in sculpture or in painting, is but the rear guard of the school of the past, which at present we ignore. The de votees of this find themselves at home in Rome and Paris, because it matters not to them what or who they study, since the "grand style" is a cloak which they may throw over a manikin if they please. We may be narrow-minded, but we should prefer one of the vignette drawings, by Darley, in the present exhibition, to any picture we have ever seen sent home from Italy.

Portraiture has not with us, or indeed with any modern school, the elevation of grand Art. We paint likenesses, but there we stop-the idea of making a portrait a work of Art, as well as a likeness, does not seem to be widely entertained. The aim, then, is subject to the exclusion of method, not so dangerous, but quite as false a condition as its reverse. We must not forget that there is a best way of telling any truth. We paint a likeness of our subject, and then stop, rubbing in a back-ground, and furnishing draperies as cheap as possible. All accessories are paint-nothing more. Gray's "Portrait of a Child" is the only exception in the exhibition; but Gray is an old-school man, as far as is possible to be, in portraiture. As an example of that school, this picture is admirable; but the method is too apparent, and throws the picture out of our present range. Hicks and Baker have, in their full-length portraits, made bold

ward for his services in converting him to Christianity, and Rupert built a convent on one of the hights, since named the Monchsberg. He also constructed a church, St. Peter's Kirche, and a chapel and a cloister for nuns, and thus laid the foundations of the modern town. Salzburg afterwards became a free ecclesiastical domain, the residence of a succession of archbishops, who also enjoyed the dignity of Princes of the Empire, exercising the jurisdiction of magistrates, maintaining armies, and at times exchanging the mitre and crosier for the sword. During the stormiest times of the middle ages they took a personal share in the wars of Austria and of Bavaria, and after the Reformation were among the bloodiest of the persecutors who sought to extirpate the new doctrines by fire and flame. Under the single reign of Archbishop Leopold von Firmian, no less than twenty-five thousand of the industrious inhabitants of the district were driven into exile, and their property confiscated, or, as a German writer has it, Firmian "nahm ihnen Weib, Kinder, Hab und Gut, und trieb sie aus dem Lande." In 1802 the archbishopric was secularized, and converted into an electorate for the Archduke Ferdinand.

The

Without waiting to breakfast, even, we hurried to the top of Monchsberg, to get a view of the country. ascent, by means of paths and steps cut in the rock, was not difficult; but had it been as difficult as the ascent of Mont Blanc, the view would have well rewarded us. In every direction, like the billows of a stupendous but motionless sea, the sunny ridges of the mountains rolled up one after another; between them lay the cultivated pastures and green meadows; the Salzach wound like a belt of white ribbon through the valleys; convents or castles, overgrown with ivy, crowned the lesser hights; while immediately under our feet rose the spires and pinnacles of the still shaded city. Our heads fairly reeled with an intoxication of delight, as, at every step, some new object, some new combination of mingled beauty and grandeur, met the eye.

A rough path led us to another hight, called the Schlossberg, on which the fortress of Hohensalzburg is erected. It is near the site of the Roman Castrum Juvaviense, and was formerly occupied by the archbishops as a place

of retreat and defense, in their wars with their enemies as well as with the people of the towns, their subjects, when they revolted. It is a massive and seemingly impregnable structure, commanding every access to the city, as well as every house in it, and though in the irregular style of the feudal ages, is vastly imposing. It is now somewhat dilapidated, and the once magnificent apartments of the priests are unfurnished and converted into barracks; but enough of the ancient decorations remain to show in what splendor the princely archbishops lived. Only three of the chambers are shown, but these, with their rich inlaid cabinets and lofty ceilings, ornamented in gold and ultramarine, serve to give you an idea of their former state. In a square tower, at one of the angles of the castle, is the torture chamber-an indispensable apartment, it would appear, in those times-and the rock on which captives were raised to the wall and allowed to fall with weights on their limbs, still witnesses to the Christian charity of its old owners. Looking down upon Monchsberg, we saw that the whole summit was laid out in pleasure gardens, while the sides of the rock were escarped, and cut into vaults and cells. In the latter the monks probably performed their macerations, while they made amends for any excess of suffering they might inflict on themselves in the wholesome viands which they raised in the former. If tradition does them no wrong, the monks were good livers as well as very pious men.

At the foot of the castle-hill is the Nonnenberg, where a temple to Mercury stood in the days of the Romans, but which is now occupied by a small church of Benedictine nuns. "Christian hymns and prayers are now heard," says the local guide-book-an excellent one, by the way "where the priests of Jupiter formerly celebrated their pagan rites." The little church, built in the ancient German style, has been somewhat injured by frequent renovations and restorations, but the showy and wellpreserved glass-painting, behind the main altar, is an admirable specimen of the art of the fifteenth century. Images of the Virgin and of the original abbess, St. Ehrentrude, and statues of St. Rupert and St. Henry, adorn the entrance portal, which is an exquisite piece of architecture.

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 preëminent, 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 appearance: "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

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