Inscription On A Door.
Written By Theodulphus,
Bishop Of Orleans, A.D. 820.
Pauperibus pateat, Praesul, tua janua semper,
Cum miseris Christus intrat et ipse simul.
Deque tuis epulis pascatur pauper egenus,
Ut conviva queas lectus adesse Deo.
Translation.
Set wide thy portals ever to the poor,
So Christ shall enter with them at thy door.
And let the poor be feasted from thy board,
So mayest thou, blessed, banquet with thy Lord.
C. E. B.
"Poor Mara!"
The celebrated Rosenthal, in Germany, was the retreat where Goethe passed so many hours of leisure when a student. It was indeed a valley of roses, especially in early summer, when flowers are most abundant, and the tender green of the rich foliage is freshest and brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but not sultry; a large awning was spread for temporary use; and just in the shade of a group of trees was set out a table with refreshments. A dozen seats were arranged round it, evidently for a small and select company. Ere long, carriages drove up, and some ladies alighted, and began to arrange the collation. Two of them were the wife and daughter of Doles, the musician; they brought flowers which they had gathered, and decorated the table, placing a wreath of roses and laurels over the seat destined to be occupied by their honored guest, no less a person than Mozart, who had come to give his last concert in Leipsic. The rest of the company soon joined them; and it would be interesting, had we space, to relate the conversation that formed the most delightful part of their entertainment. They were a few choice spirits, met to enjoy the society of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship. There was no lack of humor and mirth; indeed, the composer would have acted at variance with his character had he not beguiled even the gravest by his amusing sallies; but the themes of their discourse were the musical masters of the world, and the state and prospect of their art.
"Oh! could we only entice you to live here," said one of the company to the great composer.
"No; the atmosphere does not suit me," replied Mozart; "the reserve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love of those who suffer me to do as I please. Some other time, perhaps, I may come to Leipsic; just now Vienna is the place for me. By the way, what think you of Bonn?"
"You cannot think of Bonn for a residence?"
"Not I. Had you asked me where art had the least chance of spreading her wings for a bold flight—where she was most securely chained down and forbidden to soar, I should have answered, 'Bonn.' But that unpromising city has produced one of the greatest geniuses of our day."