"Why should he not! By my soul, I would place him with somebody who understands it and could teach him, if it depended on me. But it is time enough for that-as he is very little now."

"We will talk further about it," said the organist, and went on. Jobst and his wife commenced a new tune, and little Joseph again imitated his father in fiddling, and sang like the little angels in heaven, perhaps, when they join the Hallelujah of the greater

ones.

The organist came now several times a week to the house of merry Jobst, to talk with him about little Seperl; and the boy had soon a warm friend in the good-natured old man.

So passed on several years, and at length the organist said to Jobst, "Now is the right time to let me have little Seperl; I will take him home with me, and commence his lessons in what he must learn to be a brave man and a good musician."

Jobst hesitated not, for he knew how advantageous the instruction of Master Wolferl would be to his boy; and although Elschen at first objected to parting from the child, she yielded at last, when Jobst said, "the boy remains our own, even though separated from us; and if he is now our only child, more may follow."

And so he said to the organist, when he came the next time, "you may have Seperl. Keep him carefully; and remember that he is the light of our eyes." "I will treat him as my own," replied the organist, looking to heaven as if to ask a witness to his promise.

Elschen packed the few little clothes of Seperl in a bundle, gave the boy another slice of bread, with salt and a bowl of milk, blessed him, kissed him, and accompanied him to the door of the cottage, where she marked him with three crosses, and went to her small room. Jobst went more than half the road to Haimburg with him, and returned home; while Wolferl and Seperl proceeded in their walk till they reached the house of the former.

Wolferl was an old bachelor, but one of the better sort; his heart was young, although his hair was grey; and loving all his fellow creatures, he was indulgent even towards those who were un

deserving, for he knew how weak and inconsistent is the human heart. As for those who were thoroughly wicked and malicious, he hated, and kept aloof from them, avoiding any connexion with them; for, said he, "he who is depraved will probably remain so, and intercourse with the virtuous will not reform him, but, on the contrary, tend to corrupt the well-disposed." Thus he talked every day to little Joseph, while teaching him singing and playing; and Joseph understood and practised those principles, like music, all his lifetime.

What Jobst said to comfort his wife, when she gave up her first-born to the old organist, came to pass. The next year a second son was greeted by the happy parents, and baptized by the name of Michael.

Another year elapsed, and another, and Joseph began to be a skilful little musician. He had the sweet, clear voice of his mother, and played the violin as well as his father; besides, he blew the horn and beat the tymbal when Wolferl had sacred music on high festivals of the church. He was honest and faithful, and kept God always before his eyes. His disposition was lively and cheerful; he loved all mankind, and every one loved him. Old Wolferl often exclaimed, shedding tears of joy: "I tell you, in this Joseph, that God will reveal to the world, that the kingdom of Art, as well as that of Heaven, comes only to those of pure and innocent heart." The more Wolfer observed what great talent for art was in the boy, the more seriously he thought of finding a patron who might help his adopted child in his further progress. To bring him to the accomplishment of his great destiny, he felt himself not able, when he saw the eagerness with which Joseph devoted himself to his studies. It happened that Baron Von Renter, chapel-master and director of music in St. Stephen's church in Vienna, came on a visit to the deacon at Haimburg. The deacon told such things to the Baron, of Seperl, the son of the wagoner, Jobst, the adopted child and pupil of the old organist, Wolferl, that the chapel-master felt anxious to see the child. The deacon offered to send for the boy and his foster-father, but Baron Von Renter replied, smiling: "No, no! reverend sir,

the boy shall not be introduced to me; I will find him out, and if possible observe him before he sees me, and knows my intentions. For if he is what your reverence thinks, I will certainly do what I can to bring him forward." The next morning Baron Von Renter went quietly to the house of the organist, and entered, without being announced. Joseph was sitting at a chamber organ, and playing a simple but solemn choral song from an old German master. Renter stopped, much moved, at the door, and listened with pleasure. The boy was so absorbed in the music that he was not aware of the presence of a stranger, till he had finished the piece; and then he started, and looked up at him, with ingenuous surprise pictured in his large dark eyes.

"Yes, I am Seperl." "Well, go."

Joseph went and called his old master Wolferl, who came, with his little black velvet-cap in his hand, and made many deep low bows, to welcome the great chapel-master and director of music at St. Stephen's, to his humble home. The Baron praised the able execution of Joseph-inquired very particularly what the boy had learned, and examined him thoroughly.

Joseph stood the examination extremely well; Baron Von Renter's satisfaction increased with every answer he received.

After this he conversed more than an hour, very animatedly, with old Wolferl, and stayed till noon. Joseph accompanied him back, and was for that day his guest at the deacon's.

A week passed, and old Wolferl, Jobst, and Elschen, with the little Michael on her lap, were sitting rather disconsolate together, talking of the dear Seperl, who had gone the same morning to Vienna with Baron Von Renter, to take his place as choir-boy in St. Stephen's.

IT struck eight o'clock in the morning, and all was life in the Leopoldstadt! A crowd of persons thronged the bridge: baker-women and shoemaker's-boys, cake-sellers, and pedlars, elegant gentlemen on horseback, and common hackney-coaches: all were going to or from the city; and amidst all this bustle, was gliding along like an eel, the celebrated Mr. Wenzel Puderlein, hair-dresser, citizen and owner of a mansion in Leopoldstadt, (one of the suburbs of Vienna.)

Ere long he reached the road which separates the Leopoldstadt from the city; and hurried, with a quicker step, through larger and smaller streets to the Graben; the place where the aristocracy of Vienna resides, and where he had to attend every morning on his noble customers.

He stopped at one of the most considerable houses; leaped up two steps at a time, rang the bell, and when the maid had opened the door, passed on, conscious of his dignity, through the

hall, to a folding-door; here he stopped, placed his feet in a graceful position, took off his hat, and knocked three times at the door.

"Come in," said a deep bass voice. Wenzel Puderlein stepped back a little, then, taking courage, opened the door and went into the room.

A stately, elderly man, was sitting in a morning-gown, printed with large flowers, and a leathern cap on his head. He rose as he saw the hair-dresser, saying, "I am glad that you are come, Puderlein; begin your work; but be expeditious. The empress has sent for me. I must be there in half an hour." He then took his seat in an arm-chair, and Wenzel Puderlein began to dress the hair, without saying a single word; this was foreign to his habits, but he knew he must not presume to talk to the first physician of her majesty.

But it was not long that he had to endure the torment of silence. Again the door was opened-a handsome youth, sixteen or seventeen years of

the kindness shown him, and that he would look out. But where to find a home, was now the subject of his sad reflections. He asked himself, sighing, "Where, where can I go without money?" When suddenly the door opened, and Winzel Puderlein came in boldly, and with a beaming counte

nance

"To me!" answered the hair-dresser, holding out his curling-irons like a wand towards Joseph, and pressing his powder-bag sentimentally to his bosom→“To me! fatherless youth! I will be your father, your protector, your nourisher; for I have feeling for the elevated, and foresee what a genius you will become, if you are helped on. Of yourself you can do nothing, for you know not men and the world as I do. I will impart to you this knowledge; and if you learn it not in a year, you are very stupid, and I give you up!"

"Oh, my dear M. Von Puderlein!" said Haydn, astonished; "will you take care of me now, when I know not what to do? What have I done, poor lad as I am, to deserve this kindness? and how can I reward you?"

"That is not your business," answered Puderlein, shortly. "That will all come in due time! Now sit down, and move not from your seat till I permit. I will show the world what a man of genius can make, even out of an indifferent head."

66

poldstadt on the Danube, number 7. Go up stairs, knock at the door, give my compliments to my daughter, and say, that your name is Haydn, that M. Von Puderlein sent you; and if you feel hungry and thirsty, ask for something to eat, and a glass of wine, and then wait till I come and tell you my projects."

Saying this M. Von Puderlein walked out of the room. Joseph was standing in the middle of it, with his fashionable hair-dress, hardly knowing what had happened to him.

When, after a while, he recovered from his surprise, he gave thanks, with tears, to God, who had sent him such a generous benefactor in his distress. He was now relieved altogether.Then he packed his few clothes, dressed himself carefully, locked his room, and after taking leave of the rich Metastasio, went with a heart full of joy, and his head filled with new harmonies, to the house of his protector in the Leopoldstadt.

When the young Baron Von Swieten inquired half an hour later after the composer, Signor Metastasio could not give him any answer as to what had become of young Haydn. How many hours of sorrow, in consequence of the forgetfulness of the celebrated poet, was afterwards prepared for the far more celebrated artist!

After a long walk, Joseph arrived at

"No questions, but sit down!" Joseph seated himself obediently, and Winzel Puderlein dressed his hair in the newest fashion. When he had finished, he looked at him with pride, and said: "Indeed, Haydn, when I see you what you are now, and when I consider what you were before, I can, without arrogance, call you a creation of my own. But I am not proud enough, and so I tell you only, that in all your life you never had such a human face as you have received by my help. Now listen, and mind what I have to tell you. Dress yourself as well as possible, and pack together your little property, that I can send to-night for it. Then go to my house in Leo

strangely, and it seemed to him that all his courage had left him; a very natural feeling at the idea of meeting in a few minutes a young girl, whom he did not know, and talking with her-a task never easy for him, diffident and inexperienced as he was. But it must be done; and so he took heart, entered the gate, went up stairs, and knocked at the door. It was opened, and a sweet-looking girl, of eighteen or nineteen, received the bashful youth.

He stood embarrassed in her presence, and stammered his compliments and the message from M. Von Puderlein. The handsome Nancy listened with an expression in her face of pleasure, and of pity for the embarrassed situation of the young man.

AMONG the recent brilliant and soundly-written articles which have begun to appear with greater frequency than formerly in the columns of the daily press, and which give earnest of the rapid advancement in interest and character of this most important department of literature, few of our readers can have overlooked the belles-lettres contributions to the Tribune. They have been remarkable for high and cultivated thought, and for a sincere and faithfully-pursued moral aim. It is needless to say that they have been characterized by their honesty and independence, and have been very unlike the displays of ignorance, indifference, or hired puffery which have too generally marked our newspaper criticisms. The peculiarity of these papers has been their representation of the individual life of the author; the expression of her sympathies-of the necessities of her intellectual nature; and being such in proportion as that author was educated and in earnest, they have been the standards by which other minds have been directed and governed.There may have been points of disagreement fair room for difference of opinion on alleged religious and social tendencies; but apart from this, there was a broad, common ground on which all cultivated readers might meetwhere all who had "a jot of heart or hope" for the cause of American Literature, might gather new courage as its sure instincts and future prospects, no less than its present deficiencies, were commented upon with an intense hatred of cant, and an eager reverence for truth.

These papers were written by Miss S. MARGARET FULLER, to whose pen the Dial, during the four years of its existence, was indebted for many of its finest and most elaborate articles; the author, too, of the much commented upon "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," and of a unique tour to the

Western Lakes, remarkable for its intelligent spirit of observation and a rare beauty of thought.

The volume before us contains a portion of the articles from the Tribune, several papers of great interest from the Dial, others of equal value which have not been at all known to the public, and an original essay on American. Literature, the perusal of which we recommend to the candidates for the liberal prize on this text offered by Mr. Graham, of Philadelphia. It formally opens a new era of candor and plain speaking on a subject which has certainly had more than its fair share of nonsense and impertinence.

It will be impossible to follow our author through the various topics treated of in a miscellaneous volume on "Literature and Art." In despair of presenting the author's views as exhibited in each of the articles, we must confine ourselves to a survey of one or two of the leading papers," merely indicating the subjects of the remainder.

The volume opens with an introductory essay--a prelude, as it were, "On Critics," in which the different varieties of the race are accurately discriminated, and in which, in especial, there are some just remarks upon the numerous branch of the fraternity who make their own petty position and narrow horizon the sphere to which all others must conform. The relation between the Poet and Critic" is the subject of the succeeding article, in the form of a Dialogue. We then fairly enter upon the book-commencing with the section of English Literature, which contains a variety of detached papers following a general chronological arrangement. There is a study of character in a sketch of the "Two Herberts"-George Herbert, of Bemerton, the poet and saint, and his brother, the finished man of the world and philosopher, Lord Herbert, of Cherbury. Miss