his religious experience. “How I felt there! how I felt there!” he exclaimed, over and over again, in speaking of them. We have heard already of Naples. The father had written from Rome that the further they got into Italy the greater was the wonder of the people. The intoxicating beauty of nature mirrored in the Bay of Naples, could not but make a deep impression on the artist, who was himself destined one day to give expression in so magical a manner and in sounds so entrancing, to the charm and intoxication of the serenest joys of life. “Naples is beautiful,” he writes curtly but characteristically to his sister. Yet it may be that the immense solemnity of Rome was more in harmony with Mozart’s German nature. They were there soon again, and this time they had an opportunity to see what can be seen only in Rome--the Pope. Delighted with young Wolfgang’s playing, the Holy Father--it was the great Ganganelli, Clement XIV--granted him a private audience, and conferred on him the order of the Golden Spurs, that same order which afterwards gave us a chevalier Gluck. Mozart did not, at first, make much of this honor, and his father wrote: “You may imagine how I laugh to hear him called all the time _Signor Cavaliere_.” Later, however, they knew when a proper occasion presented itself, how to turn such a distinction to advantage. The end now aimed at by young Mozart and his father was fame and success. A step towards the attainment of these was Wolfgang’s nomination as a member of the celebrated Philharmonic Society of Bologna, which invested him, in Italy, with the title of _Cavaliere Filarmonico_. And when father and son came to Milan again in 1770, he had, so far as his rank as an artist and his position in life were concerned, attained success. At fourteen, he was _Signor Cavaliere_--Chevalier Mozart. The journey itself had done much to bring his artistic views to maturity. His technical ability was very plainly now supplemented by the pure sense of the beautiful, the result of the highest intellectual labor. He had surmounted all difficulties, and especially those purely natural ones by which the rough, lack-lustre north, with its inhospitable climate, only too frequently keeps Germans back in art. From this time forward the divine rays of ideal beauty beam brightly from Mozart’s melody, and they never became extinct. In Mozart’s art there was now no room for perfection of form. His art could be added to only by adding to the life that was in it; and we shall soon again meet with traces of that personal contact with life which matures man’s capabilities and develops them. Let us first look at the earliest decided successes of the composer, successes which, for a long time, bound him to the “land where the citron blooms.”