The Green Vault I saw last time I was here, and once is enough for me; but I revisited with great interest the picture gallery.  If I lived here I would go to it every week, for there are pictures in it at the sight of which I imagine I hear music.

Thus our friend spent a week right pleasantly and not altogether unprofitably in the Saxon Athens, and spent it so busily that what with visits, dinners, soirees, operas, and other amusements, he leaving his hotel early in the morning and returning late at night, it passed away he did not know how.

Chopin, who made also a short stay in Prague—­of which visit, however, we have no account—­arrived in Vienna in the latter part of November, 1830.  His intention was to give some concerts, and to proceed in a month or two to Italy.  How the execution of this plan was prevented by various circumstances we shall see presently.  Chopin flattered himself with the belief that managers, publishers, artists, and the public in general were impatiently awaiting his coming, and ready to receive him with open arms.  This, however, was an illusion.  He overrated his success.  His playing at the two “Academies” in the dead season must have remained unnoticed by many, and was probably forgotten by not a few who did notice it.  To talk, therefore, about forging the iron while it was hot proved a misconception of the actual state of matters.  It is true his playing and compositions had made a certain impression, especially upon some of the musicians who had heard him.  But artists, even when free from hostile jealousy, are far too much occupied with their own interests to be helpful in pushing on their younger brethren.  As to publishers and managers, they care only for marketable articles, and until an article has got a reputation its marketable value is very small.  Nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand judge by names and not by intrinsic worth.  Suppose a hitherto unknown statue of Phidias, a painting of Raphael, a symphony of Beethoven, were discovered and introduced to the public as the works of unknown living artists, do you think they would receive the same universal admiration as the known works of the immortal masters?  Not at all!  By a very large majority of the connoisseurs and pretended connoisseurs they would be criticised, depreciated, or ignored.  Let, however, the real names of the authors become known, and the whole world will forthwith be thrown into ecstasy, and see in them even more beauties than they really possess.  Well, the first business of an artist, then, is to make himself a reputation, and a reputation is not made by one or two successes.  A first success, be it ever so great, and achieved under ever so favourable circumstances, is at best but the thin end of the wedge which has been got in, but which has to be driven home with much vigour and perseverance before the work is done.  “Art is a fight, not a pleasure-trip,” said the French painter Millet, one who had learnt the lesson in the