have some hope, nevertheless, that even the dunces among them may find something to admire.  Besides, I have been careful not to neglect le premier coup d’archet; and that is sufficient.  All the wiseacres here make such a fuss on that point!  Deuce take me if I can see any difference!  Their orchestra begins all at one stroke, just as in other places.  It is too laughable!  Raaff told me a story of Abaco on this subject.  He was asked by a Frenchman, in Munich or elsewhere,—­“Monsieur, vous avez ete a Paris?” “Oui.”  “Est-ce que vous etiez au Concert Spirituel?” “Oui.”  “Que dites-vous du premier coup d’archet? avez-vous entendu le premier coup d’archet?” “Oui, j’ai entendu le premier et le dernier.”  “Comment le dernier? que veut dire cela?” “Mais oui, le premier et le dernier; et le dernier meme m’a donne plus de plaisir.” [Footnote:  The imposing impression produced by the first grand crash of a numerous orchestra, commencing with precision, in tutti, gave rise to this pleasantry.] A few days afterwards his kind mother was taken ill.  Even in her letters from Mannheim she often complained of various ailments, and in Paris also she was still exposed to the discomfort of cold dark lodgings, which she was obliged to submit to for the sake of economy; so her illness soon assumed the worst aspect, and Mozart experienced the first severe trial of his life.  The following letter is addressed to his beloved and faithful friend, Abbe Bullinger, tutor in Count Lodron’s family in Salzburg.

(Private.) 106.

Paris, July 3, 1778.

My very dear friend,—­

Mourn with me!  This has been the most melancholy day of my life; I am now writing at two o’clock in the morning.  I must tell you that my mother, my darling mother, is no more.  God has called her to Himself; I clearly see that it was His will to take her from us, and I must learn to submit to the will of God.  The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.  Only think of all the distress, anxiety, and care I have endured for the last fourteen days.  She died quite unconscious, and her life went out like a light.  She confessed three days before, took the sacrament, and received extreme unction.  The last three days, however, she was constantly delirious, and to-day, at twenty minutes past five o’clock, her features became distorted, and she lost all feeling and perception.  I pressed her hand, I spoke to her, but she did not see me, she did not hear me, and all feeling was gone.  She lay thus till the moment of her death, five hours after, at twenty minutes past ten at night.  There was no one present but myself, Herr Heiner, a kind friend whom my father knows, and the nurse.  It is quite impossible for me to describe the whole course of the illness to-day.  I am firmly convinced that she must have died, and that God had so ordained it.  All I would ask of you at present is to act the part of a true friend, by preparing my father by degrees for