Till with full pockets, we,
And empty flasks—you see,
Still singing,
And blowing,
Stand on the Prager Bruck.”
Still playing, the musicians receded, the sound growing softer and fainter every moment; the moon rose above the mountains, the Moldau uttered its low mysterious murmur;—and deeply moved, Mozart rose, wished his friends a heart-felt good night, and betook himself to his chamber, where till near morning he continued playing on the piano.
THE DISTRIBUTION.
Mozart gave his concert, and reaped therefrom not only rich store of applause, but no contemptible gain. As Duscheck wished him happiness with the latter, and added—
“I know indeed, that you write more for the sake of fame than of gold—particularly in Vienna—”
“For what should I write?” muttered the master; “for fame? for gold? Certainly not! for generally I fail to get either. I write for love of Art—I would have you know!”