teer corps of St. Pancras, wherein he served, and on various other scraps, on which his ink could scarcely be made to retain the impression of his thoughts; yet most of them crowded on both sides, and much interlined."

Hazlitt's pet book was Rousseau's "Confessions." He confesses the intense delight he derived from its perusal at an early age. Swift's Tale of a Tub was the singular choice of Cobbett. He gives the following account of his first meeting with it:

"When only eleven years old, with three pence in my pocket-my whole fortune, I perceived, at Richmond, in a book-seller's window, this little book, marked * price three pence.' Its odd title excited my curiosity; I bought it in place of my supper. So impatient was I to examine it, that I got over into a field at the upper corner of Kew Gardens, and sat down to read on the shady side of a hay-stack.The book was so different from any thing I had read before-it was something so new to my mind, that, though I could not at all understand some parts of it, still it delighted me beyond measure, and produced, what I have always considered, a sort of birth of intellect. I read on till it was dark, without any thought of supper or bed. When I could see no longer, I put it into my pocket and fell asleep beside of the stack, till the birds awaked me in the morning; and then I started off, still reading my little book. I could relish nothing beside; I carried it about with me wherever I went, till when about twenty years old, I lost it in a box that fell overboard in the bay of Fundy."

Thompson's Seas was Bloomfield's favorite selection: it was also Clare's; and even the celebrated bibliographer, Dr. Dibdin, admits that he enjoyed many quiet readings while seated in the deepening glooms of Bagley Wood, or near the magnificent expanse of water at Blenheim. He designates the "Castle of Indolence" as one of the most enchanting poems in the language, although it has not yet acquired that reputation it deserves. Lord Byron's greatest favorites were Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, D'Israeli's Illustrations of the Literary Character, and Scott's novels. The first work, he says, contains more solid information than any twenty other works ever compiled in the English language; the second, he says, he read perhaps oftener than any, and that it had often been to him a consolation and a pleasure; of the last named, Scott's novels, he tells us-" I never travel without them; they are a perfect library in themselves-a perfect literary treasure; I could read them once a year with new pleasure." Johnson confessed that Old Burton was the first book that ever compelled him to rise from his bed earlier than he otherwise would have wished. How many, like Lord Oxford, have enjoyed the delicious humor of "Don Quixotte?" and some may even have, also, coveted the acquisition of the pure Castilian to ensure its keener relish.

Among the pleasures of the pen, may therefore be classed the love of study, and a passion for reading. Says Burton on this head : "Looking about this world of books, I could even live and die among such meditations, and take more delight and true comfort of mind in them, than in all wealth or sport. There is a sweetness, which, as Circe's cup, bewitcheth a student: he cannot leave off, as well may witness those many laborious hours, days and nights, spent in their voluminous treatises. So sweet is the delight of study. The last day is prioris discipulus. From the time that Cicero poured forth his feelings in his oration for the poet Archias, innumerable are the testimonies of men of letters, of the pleasurable delirium of their researches. Richard de Bury, of Durham, was so enamoured of his literary collections, that he gave utterance, it will be remembered, to his love of books, under the title of his "Philobiblion."

(To be Continued.)

DON GIOVANNI.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

THE ARRIVAL.

A LIGHT travelling carriage stopped at the hotel of the Three Lions in the Kohlmarkt at Prague. The whole army of servants hurried out of the house; one of them opened the carriage door, and offered his hand to a pretty young woman; she alighted, and a young gentleman followed her, humming a cheerful tune.

"Saint Nepumuk!" exclaimed the landlord, who had just stepped out of the door-" do I see aright? Herr Von Mozart!"

"You see I keep my promise," replied Mozart, bowing politely to him. Here I am again! and you may keep me the whole season! That I may not be too wild, I have brought my wife along with me.” The landlord bowed low to the lady, and taking breath for a solemn speech, began:

"Most respected Madame Von Mozart"

Mozart interrupted him with-"let all that alone now, and show us our rooms; let us have some refreshment, and send word to Guardasoni that I have arrived." He offered his arm to his wife, the landlord obediently followed; and the gang of butlers and servants came loaded with trunks and boxes, which they had taken out of the carriage.

A handsome young man, who was passing through the market when he heard from a waiter the name of the newly arrived, hastened up stairs into Mozart's room, and threw himself into his arms with exclama tions of joy.

"Is the deuce in this wild bird ?" cried Mozart; you almost frightened me!" and turning to his wife, he introduced the young man to her. "Well, how do you like him? It is he-Luigi Bassi, I mean."

THE LIBRETTO.

"I sing this evening the part of the Count, in your Opera of Figaro, Master Mozart," said Bassi.

Well," replied Mozart, "what do the people of Prague say to the opera?"

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Come this evening to the theatre and you will hear; it is the twelfth representation in sixteen days, and we give it to-night, because Duke Antoin of Saxony asked for it."

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Ho! ho! and what does Strobach say?"

"Strobach and the whole orchestra say every night after the representation, that they would like to play it over again, although it was a hard piece of work."

Mozart rubbed his hands cheerfully, and said to his wife, "did I not tell you the good citizens of Prague would soon drive away all my fretting-Well, for that piece of kindness, I will write them such an opera as is not to be seen every day. I have an excellent Libretto, Bassi,-a bold, mad thing, full of spirit and fire! Du Pont composed it He said he would not have done it for any body else, because none else had courage for it; to me it was welcome. I have had the

for me.

music for it a long while in my head, only I knew not how to bring it forth, for no poetry would suit it! You may find some of the tones in Figaro and Idomeneco, but they were not the right stuff. It was as if spring had to come, and longed to come, but would not; on the bushes and trees were myriads of birds-but they were closed; then comes the storm, the thunder rolls, the blossoms burst out, the warm, May rain pours down, and suddenly the flowers bloom in surprising magnificence! By my soul, just so I felt when the little Abbate brought me that libretto ! You shall take the principal part, and the deuce take you!"

Bassi wanted to hear more about the opera, but Mozart was pleased to be mysterious, and smilingly bade his friend be patient.

FIN CHAN DAL VINO.

When Mozart appeared the same evening at the theatre, in the box of the Count of Thurn, he was received by the assembled audience with enthusiastic applause; and during the representation of his Figaro, he was greeted in the same manner after every performance. For Mozart this result was the more gratifying, that his Figaro did not please at Vienna. Through the unworthy manœuvres of Saliers, the parts had not been divided well, and were played badly, so that Mozart declared he never again would write an opera for the Viennese.

Loud vivats followed the composer's carriage, as he drove home. He found there his friends, Duschuk, the chapel-master Strobach, and the Impressario of the Opera Guardasoni, who had arranged a splendid supper. Afterwards came Bassi Bondino with his wife, and the handsome spirited Saporetti. There was much interesting discourse about music; and many pleasant jokes seasoned the entertainments, and enhanced the pleasure of the guests. At the end of the supper, when the champaign corks were flying about the room, Mozart was not so reserved on the subject alluded to in the morning. He was even induced to show Bassi the sketch of the opera, of which three airs were already finished.

"Very well, Maestro Amadeo," said Bassi, "but these songs are rather insignificant for me!"

"How?" said Mozart, and looked very smilingly at him.

"I mean," replied Bassi, "there are no difficulties-all is by far too easy."

"You think so?"

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Yes; and I hope you, Maestro, will compose a difficult song for me. If you have none ready, you will soon."

"No, my dear Bassi," replied Mozart, with a singular smile; "I will not do that." Bassi's face was getting visibly long, but Mozart continued kindly: "Look you, friend! that the airs are not long, is the truth; but they are just as long as they ought to be. But respecting the too great facility of which you complain, you will have enough to do if you sing them as they ought to be sung."

"How?" said Bassi.

"For instance-sing this air, Fin chan dal Vino !"

He went to the piano, and Bassi followed him a little vexed; hardly looking at the music, he began hastily, and without much expression. "Hush, hush," exclaimed Mozart, laughing, and stopping him after the first bars; not so confurio over stone and rock! you think, perhaps, you will not have done soon enough with my music? And have you no regard for the piano and forte! Who is it sings there? a drunken servant, or a dissipated cavalier, who is thinking of his sweetheart!

Drink a glass of champaign-think of your lady-love, and observe, when it begins to sound in your ears, in the lightest airy time, piano, piano! crescendo forte piano! till all burst forth in a crash of exultation-that is what I mean!"

And Bassi, fired by the enthusiasm of the great master, tossed off a glass of wine, stole a kiss from the lips of Saporetti, and sang the air again; this time in such a manner, that the whole company was electrified, and called with acclamations for its repetition.

"There!" said Mozart, smiling, after Bassi had repeated it three times, -"there, did I not say it was pretty good?" Before he could prevent, Bassi seized his hand, kissed it, and said modestly, "I will do all I can to have you satisfied with me."

HERR VON NEPOMUK.

Duschuk's pressing invitations prevailed on Mozart to leave his residence in the city, and he removed to Kosohirz, on the plantation of his friend. It was a beautiful morning of September, when he arrived there. Duschuk had secretly arranged a little festival, and Mozart was surprised and rejoiced at the same time, to find his dearest friends and acquaintances assembled to welcome him to his new abode. It increased his joy when Duschuk, in the name of the most distinguished inhabitants of Prague, requested that he would soon give a concert. The theatre was offered for his use, and Count John of Suvr offered himself to

pay all the expenses. Mozart consented cheerfully, and observed, "nobody would have done that for me in Vienna.”

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"It seems to all my friends," said Duschuk, as if the good people, as you call them at Vienna, do not know what they possess in you, or what they should do with you! May the Emperor be forgiven that he gives you no appointment, and promoted meanwhile the hypocrite Saliers to be chapel-master, although he knows what you are, and what he is! And the Viennese put up with it-shame on them!"

"No, no!" said Mozart, conciliatingly, "think of it not too seriously. His majesty has more important business than to think of me; and then you know he has his counsellors, in whom he trusts, and who know how to manage him. I repeat, the people of Vienna are good. When I came from Saltsburg, where the prince bishop treated me like a dog, my reception was so kind in Vienna, that I thought myself passing from purgatory to heaven-never will I forget that. It is true, they are sometimes a little singular, and always like to hear that they are connoisseurs of art, and of a generous spirit, and he who tells them that, pleases them; and they give him whatever he wants, and pet him into the bargain. But I am not able to do it. I always thought meanly of a flatterer; and will never become one. Saliers does not care, or thinks it not wrong, for he is an Italian, and they always flatter each other. Let the Viennese prefer him to me, and feed him with confectionary; give me a glass of Burgundy." Before Duschuk could ask for it, a tall, stout man, with glowing face, bland smile and respectful bow, presented to the Maestro a large cup filled with dark, red wine.

Mozart took the glass, and looking at the colossal Ganymede, drank the health of John Von Nepomuk.

"The chapel-master remembers me still?" asked he; and Mozart replied, laughing, "how could I forget my honest trumpeter, Nepomuk Stradetzky?" "Herr Von Nepomuk," suggested the trumpeter, in an

offended tone; but added instantly, with a softer voice and humble gesture: Please, Herr Von Mozart, do not omit that Von!" Mozart, kindly nodding, offered him his hand.

When the company were seated at night on the vine shaded hill-side, a chorus of the musicians of Prague was heard. They played pieces from the marriage of Figaro. Mozart listened complacently to their remarkably correct performance, and thanked them civilly when they had finished. "But will you give me a still greater pleasure," asked he; "play for me that old beautiful air of the musicians of Prague. You know which I mean!"

And honored and rejoiced, the honest artists commenced that old popular song, and returned home as they played the conclusion.

Still more distant, more sweet, the music died away; the moon rose over the mountains; the Moldau murmured its faint melody; and with a heart full of emotion, Mozart wished his kind friends good night, and retired to his room, where he played almost the whole night on his piano,

THE DISTRIBUTION.

Mozart gave his concert, and earned not only rich store of applause, but treasure also. When Duschuk congratulated him on account of the last, adding, however, "I know you work for glory rather than for money," Mozart retorted, grumbling, "for what should I compose? I seldom get either glory or gain? I labor for the sake of art."

Meanwhile Mozart continued his Don Giovanni, and on the fourth of October, of the year 1787, he informed the Impressario, that the opera was ready, except some of the parts of the orchestra and the overture. Guardasoni received the news with delight, and paid to the Maestro the stipulated hundred ducats. When next Mozart began to speak about the distribution of the parts, the poor Impressario confessed that he had dreaded this business for more than four weeks, as there was a great emulation among the singers of the opera, and every one desired to act a principal part. "Thank heaven, my people are none of the worst," concluded he," and Bassi is very good natured-but they are troublesome in many points; and the beautiful Saporetti and the little Bondini are unmanageable in some of their caprices."

"Do not show them your fears," replied Mozart-" they like me, I know; and I will try to manage them."

"Between us," observed Guardasoni, smiling archly-"I expect from Saporetti the most compliance; for with all her pride, she likes you not only very well, but perhaps a little more than very well."

"I wish it were so!" exclaimed Mozart, rubbing his hands gleefully. Although he loved and respected his wife, he liked a little flirtation now and then.

Guardasoni continued, "it is as I tell you. Not long ago she said to me: I could fall in love with Signor Mozart, for he is a great man, and I do not mind his insignificant figure!'"

Mozart was crest-fallen. It mortified his pride, that the beautiful Saporetti should mention his little plain figure, and the more, to such a tall and good looking man as Guardasoni.

"Send them all to me, Signor Guardasoni," he said, coloring a little. "I will give them such a lecture, that it will make them sing."

Guardasoni left him, and the next day assembled all his ladies and gentleman singers in the conversation room of the theatre.

Mozart appeared among them, in a rich furred cloak, a military looking