the rough and little frequented path to the temple of FAME, that we become curious and anxious to be more intimately acquainted with the history of his career.

It is a fact beyond all doubt that Liszt's reputation is now universal. Unlike many of those gifted with genius, he is not contented with having merely acquired celebrity-he is not satisfied with the gaze and applause which are too frequently the meed also of indolence and profligacy, he endeavours to justify the universal notice of his merits, by continual exertions and indefatigable study. Who is there so indifferent to the passing events of the day, as to have had no ear for the echoes of Liszt's triumphal marches through England, France, Italy, and Germany? But the deep observer, the profound philosopher, is not contented with the light, glory, and enthusiasm he beholds around him, but he takes also a retrospective view of those times when the sounds of envy and jealousy alone assailed his ears, and he silently blesses the strong resolution, the believing hope, which led the artist courageously to hold on his career, notwithstanding every difficulty in his way.

Liszt resembles Mazeppa, that awfully sublime pattern of genius, sung by Byron and Victor Hugo, and on whom Liszt himself has composed an étude, full of romance and sublime ideas. After much struggling, difficulty, and exhaustion, in his fatiguing career, he has arrived at the summit of his ambition, not by favour or fortune, but solely by the greatness of his own genius, aided by unremitting industry and unwearied perseverance. This is indeed happiness which falls to the lot of a few men of eminence.

FRANZ LISZT was born Oct. 22, 1811, at Reiding, a village near Oedenburg, in Hungary. That year was remarkable for the appearance of a comet-a circumstance that made a deep impression on the mind of Adam Liszt, the father of the future musician. He regarded the phenomenon as a symbol of a peculiar fate awaiting his infant son. We ought to look upon this superstitious and romantic turn of mind with sympathy and pity, since it is a weakness common among the best and greatest men of all countries. Even Goethe, whose worldly wisdom and experience were so great-whose philosophy was so profoundbegins the confession in his Dichtung und Wahrheit with the occurrence of an earthquake, which he views with more feeling and ominous presentiment than might be expected from so sceptical a mind.

Adam Liszt, who was in the service of Prince Esterhazy, was so excellent a musician that he might have passed for a virtuoso in the eyes of all competent judges. The piano was his favourite instrument also; and had he travelled, so brilliant was his execution, that great fame would no doubt have been the result. But he courted a retired life, dedicated his time and attention to study, and centered all his hopes and ambition in his

child, destining him, from the moment of his birth, to be the future glory of his house. Frequently, after having played for a while to his child on a moonlight evening, he took the little Franz (who ever listened in silent devotion and deep admiration), and placing him on his knee, whispered in his the following memorable words :-" My child! thou art chosen to accomplish that artistical ideal of which I have vainly dreamt in my youth. My dormant genius will rise in thee and become fruitful by thee; in thee I shall grow young, and live again, long after I am no more."

In reading these prophetic words, we are involuntarily reminded of that poor woman in Genoa, who, taking her son in her arms, said to him-" Nicolo, an angel has appeared to me in a dream this night, assuring me that thou shouldst become one Reader! that boy Was of the greatest virtuosos of thy time." PAGANINI! Surely, parental prophecies have been fulfilled in Paganini and Liszt! Perhaps those inspirations, like many others, addressed to ardent and enthusiastic temperaments, carried in themselves assurance of fulfilment. Self-conceit is usually conbined with inability, and produces, most justly, mortification and disappointment; but self-confidence is a grand and necessary ingredient in all great, or truly valuable, undertakings; the one is produced by ignorance of ourselves, the other by true and accurate self-knowledge.

Genius, before it shines forth in its full lustre, shows itself generally at rare intervals. A casual word—an earnest glance,these betray it to the attentive father, the anxious mother, long ere it is visible to any other eye; and they sketch in their mind's eye the future greatness and celebrity of their offspring from these slow and insignificant indications. With truly parental joy, Adam Liszt contemplated the first seeds of talent in his child. He himself held the child to the piano, placed the small fingers on the keys, and struck first single notes, and then melodies with them. His movements were easily imitated, and, behold! all went to his heart's wish. These exercises were begun with the little Franz when he was but six years old, and at the age of nine he played for the first time in public at Oedenburg. His performance was a concerto in E major, by Ries, and at the conclusion, a free fantasia. The boy extemporized with ease the most striking rythms, the most surprising modulations; and the audience, almost beside themselves with admiration and sympathy, were not surprised to see the happy father shed tears of joy. So great was the general rapture, that the boy was nearly stifled in the embraces of his admiring listeners, who pressed him repeatedly to their hearts, shaking hands with the weeping parent, and congratulating him on the rising star of his house, while Prince Esterhazy put 50 ducats in the small hand of the youthful musician, and recommended him with the zeal and warmth of a true Macænas to all the magnates of Hungary. It was Liszt's first step in public life,

and was of such a character as to preclude for ever the possibility of retreating, or even of remaining stationary.

Far, however, from becoming vain of such praises, and unfeigned marks of admiration, the child of genius regarded them merely in the light of stimulus and encouragement, pointing him onward to the very high and yet remote summit to which he must reach before he could dare to attach to those demonstrations a more flattering signification. He felt in the highest degree that noble ambition to excel, which is so characteristic of noble minds. The soarings of his soul debilitated his body, and his ardent course of study was interrupted by frequent attacks of illness. These brought on that morbid sensibility and nervous excitement which ever render the patient so susceptible of all possible impressions, and are so apt to turn the mind from the study of the real and practical world to the contemplation of the ideal and the visionary.

Vague religious feeling, tinted with the gloomy colours of fanaticism, instead of the mild and cheerful rays of true Christianity, now frequently seized him: he divided his time between study and prayer, became addicted to the mysterious doctrines of Jacob Böhme, and suffered his mind dreamily to wander among the apocalyptic visions of the Scriptures. He found, however, that this solemn turn of mind inspired him with more vigour and energy in the prosecution of his art, as well as with deeper and more sublime feelings in the appreciation of its wonders.

This remarkable state of mind, which continued from his tenth to his twelfth year, has been attended with remarkable effect in the after-life of the artist. It was necessary to dwell upon it, in order that we might duly enter into the peculiarities of Liszt, not merely as a performer, but as a composer. For this purpose we shall dwell still longer on our reminiscences of his early days, when the bright halo of poetic fervour illuminated his entrance into life.

Immediately after the before-named concert, Adam Liszt removed, with his son, to Presburg. The result was still more favourable, the Counts Amaden and Zapary having settled on him a pension of 600 florins annually, to defray the expenses of the education of young Liszt. This stipulated sum enabled them to travel to Vienna, and reside there for the better development of the talents of the youthful artist. There the celebrated Carl Czerny was entrusted with the important task. No better instructor, indeed, could have been chosen, as far as the technical part of the art was concerned, and we have but to recall to memory the number of great and fine professors the school of Czerny has produced, and to consider that Liszt was one of his pupils, to estimate the merits of that great and practical musician.

Besides his studies with Czerny, Liszt gave assiduous attention to the difficult exercises in counterpoint, church-music, and thorough-bass, under the guidance of Salieri, for the space of

eighteen months. The enthusiast, therefore, will not be greatly astonished to find Franz Liszt so completely lost in the depths of his art, as frequently to make him forget the distinction between day and night. Throughout his whole career, indeed, he set a noble example to the youthful student in every branch of art or science; conquering, by presevering industry, the most tedious and complicated tasks set him by his masters, pleased if he could thus win from them an applauding smile, yet never resting satisfied with his own progress. He carried his devotion to study almost to the verge of obstinacy, and, in order to recruit his health and spirits after such intense application, his father frequently set on foot public concerts, in which the fruits of Franz's study delighted both the eye and ear of the musical public.

At one of these concerts the whole nobility of Vienna were present, together with the élite of the worshippers of Terpsichore, and among them the great Beethoven himself. While listening to the young artist, Beethoven forgot for a moment his gloomy and morose turn of mind, and gave his applause to Liszt in his own peculiar way, saying to him, "Mind, my lad, thou dost not break thy neck in attempting to descend the ladder of the art. The earth lies already too deep for thee to reach it without peril.” How happy would that great man have felt could he have lived to see that lad become, not merely the greatest admirer (nay, adorer) of the wonderful genius whose festival has so recently been celebrated, but also the truest and best interpreter of his sublime ideas.

Indeed, the almost religious veneration Liszt now began to evince for Beethoven's works is, in itself, a proof of the grandeur and depth of his own musical ideas. It is a truth, confirmed by the history of all ages and nations, that the great man can be appreciated only by a kindred mind. This early veneration is, with Liszt, a characteristic feature of the highest importance; it at once ennobles him in his art. There is scarcely one artist in our days whose love and veneration for a high model have not rendered him a slavish imitator rather than a free adapter of its spirit. Liszt alone, while striving to interpret the ideas of Beethoven, has guarded himself from degenerating into mannerism.

Soon after this the father and son left Salieri and Vienna, and hastened to Paris. It might have been supposed that the Conservatoire would have received such a genius with open arms, and even have deemed it an honour to number him among its pupils. But Franz Liszt was a stranger, a foreigner. Cherubini (the president) alleged this circumstanee as an excuse for refusing to receive Liszt into their charmed circle. An excuse like this must have sounded rather strangely from the mouth of Cherubini, himself both foreigner and stranger! But while the Conservatoire shut its doors against the young genius, the salons of Paris enthusiastically opened theirs to the wonderful boy. Fêtes were

formed for him; everywhere he was caressed and flattered; and there were even quarrels as to who should first receive the fairhaird lad, whose noble forehead already was marked with the stamp of genius. He played in the Palais Royal before the Duke of Orleans, and became the fashion, the lion of the day! The gallant bark of the young artist was now threatened with dangers that have caused destruction to many a goodly craft— the strong gale of popular favour has dashed many a promising vessel on the rock of indolence, or sunk it among the quicksands of self-conceit; but the steady eye and firm heart of our young helmsman aided him in passing safely through all these trials, though the great and noble, and gifted of the land, vied with each other in rendering him homage.

The proud and spirited boy became the idol of the French capital; his rising genius was everywhere honoured; no soirée could take place without his presence; no private concert be perfect without his assistance. Happily for Franz, he gave more attention to the warning counsels of his father than to the flatteries of the seductive world: he felt that his path to fame had been paved by his own exertions, not by the helping hand even of the Conservatoire, and he pursued his career with unremitting zeal. After a year's residence in Paris, a journey was made to London, where equal admiration and enthusiasm met him at every step.

In 1824 we find the two Liszts again sojourners in the French capital, and the active mind of Franz was then devoted to the compositon of an opera, Don Sancho; or, the Castle of Love, which was played in 1825 with great applause, in the Academie Royale de Musique. Our artist was then 14 years old. After the fall of the curtain, Nourrit led him forth on the stage, amidst the deafening plaudits of the audience. Rudolph Kreutzer, the then musical director of that grand establishment, embraced him publicly with tears in his eyes.

After these professional exertions, religion again engrossed for some time the mind of our young enthusiast. In truth, we should not designate his thoughts as religious, they were deeply tinged with superstition, and its results soon became visible in increased melancholy and declining health. In order to amuse him with change of scene, his father resolved on little excursions into the provinces, and a tour of some extent through England; but as the boy's health was evidently worse, recourse was had to seabathing at Boulogne. There the father died and Franz was left alone to the guidance of his wonderful genius. Such an event could not, of course, fail to exercise the most gloomy influence on the orphan's mind. His former inclination for sombre musings and melancholy reverie now returned with double force, and his soul and heart wandered amidst the various branches of philosophy, theology, and general literature, searching for some peaceful spot wherever he might take rest, and finding