Many musicians were jealous of his genius and said, “A trick is being played on the people.” So one day he was invited to the house of a famous musician to play before a number of great performers. The old musician gave him the most difficult piece he had ever written, knowing Mozart had never seen it, and to the wonder of all, he played it so splendidly they were convinced of his great genius. But as the envy of his enemies did not decrease, he was obliged to seek Italy to earn his living. At Rome he went to the Sistine Chapel to hear the celebrated “Miserere,” which, on returning home, he wrote down note by note—a feat which created a great sensation, for the singers were forbidden to transcribe the music on penalty of dismissal. So delighted was the pope with him that he presented Mozart with the Order of the Golden Spur. He played the harp, the organ, the violin, and every instrument in the orchestra. He composed many operas as well as church music and concert music. Perhaps the happiest part of his life was when he traveled with his sister and his beloved father, revealing the wonders of his musical genius to the great of the earth, not for money or fame, but for the great pleasure he gave and received from his art.
One day a stranger called on him, requesting him to compose a requiem, and offering to pay him for this in advance. Mozart worked hard at it, but when the stranger returned it was not ready, and he paid the musician some more money in advance for it. When the stranger called the third time, Mozart was dead; and the requiem still unfinished. When he died he was very poor, and the few friends he had, because it rained on the day of his funeral, left him unattended, to be carried to his grave in a potter’s field. Thus he, who had in his lifetime produced so much wonderful music, was buried unhonored and unsung, without funeral ceremony or acclaim. But to-day, not only in Germany but over all the earth, the music of his immortal name is heard, and his praise is sung.
3. OLE BULL, VIOLINIST
In the quaint little town of Bergen, in Norway, February 5, 1810, was born a boy, the eldest of ten children. His father was a chemist, and his mother a noble, intelligent woman, and they both loved music. Little Ole Bull would often crawl under the settee or sofa to listen to the music when his relatives came to his home to sing and practise, and he was often whipped, when discovered, for being so naughty. He loved music, and when he was in the field, where he often played alone, he thought he heard the music of the little bluebells swinging in the wind, as he lay among the flowers. When he was four years old his uncle gave him a yellow violin. He kissed it in his delight, and began to learn the notes at the same time that he did his letters, and although forbidden to play until after study hours, he often forgot and was punished both at home and in school. When he was eight years old a music-teacher was provided, and his father bought him a new, red violin. That night Ole could not sleep. In his night-dress he stole to the room where the violin lay, and because it was so red and so pretty, and the pearl screws smiled at him, he just pinched the strings, and when it smiled more and more, he had to try the bow, and then he forgot that it was night and everybody asleep, so he played, very softly at first, and then he kept on forgetting until suddenly—crack went his father’s whip across Ole’s back, and the little red violin fell to the floor and was broken. He said, “I wept much for it, but it did no good, for the doctor never could make it well.” But he kept on with his study, and in two years he began to compose his own music, making his violin sing with the birds and brook, the roar of the waterfall, the dripping of the rain, and the whispering of the wind. When Ole was eighteen he went to the University at Christiania, where he attracted the attention of one of the professors, who encouraged him to give concerts and later aided him with money to go to Paris. In that great city no one cared for this unknown violinist, and he could not get a chance to play. One day when he had but little money left, an old man who lived in the same house with him advised the violinist to draw all his money out of the bank, pretending that it was not safe there. Ole drew his money out, and that night the old man stole all Ole’s money and clothes, leaving him penniless in the strange city. In his distress he sought a new home in a house with a card in the window, “Furnished Rooms to Let.” He went up the steps and when the woman saw how ill and poor he looked, she said there was no room. But her little granddaughter said, “Look at him, grandmamma.” The old lady put on her glasses and saw he looked like her son who had died, and so she took Ole in and nursed him tenderly through brain fever. Later little Felice, the granddaughter, became Ole’s wife. A nobleman asked him to play at a grand concert, where he earned three hundred dollars. Then he took lessons of some great teachers and made a tour of the world on which he received great sums for his playing. In America his audiences went wild with delight. He used to visit the asylums and hospitals and play for the inmates. All through his life he tried to help others, not only with his music, but with his money. His sweet wife and his beautiful children died, and he was left alone, but he was never too sorrowful or too busy to help the most humble who came to him. He died at his beautiful home near Bergen, Norway. At his funeral the rich and great gathered to honor him, and after his body was lowered into its flower-hung grave, the poor peasants came by hundreds with their green boughs or sprigs of fern or wildflowers and filled his grave with them—because they loved him!
4. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT, AUTHOR
Louisa May Alcott was born in Germantown, Pa., November 29, 1832. Her father was a cultured school-teacher and her mother of an old aristocratic family. Louisa was the eldest of four daughters, whose happy life she pictures in “Little Women,” herself being “Jo.” She was a wild, happy-hearted, enthusiastic girl, preferring whistling and romping and boys’ games rather than girls’. Their home was frequently visited by such literary people as Emerson, Thoreau, and Hawthorne, who were her father’s friends. At eight years of age she wrote this poem of eight lines:
Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm and fear no danger;
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing, “Sweet spring is near.”