“Well, fellow, when do you go?” snarlingly asked this prince spiritual, and he then proceeded, in a single breath, to tell him that he was a dissipated fellow, that no one used him so badly, and that he would stop his pay. We scarcely believe our ears when we hear a prince-bishop call our artist a scamp, a young blackguard, an idiot! Wolfgang’s blood became too hot at last, and he asked whether his illustrious grace was not satisfied with him. “What? Threats? You idiot! There’s the door! I will have nothing more to do with such a miserable villain.” “Nor I with you.” “Then go!” Such was the dialogue between a prince and an artist of the past century! It tells us something of its culture and civilization. Mozart’s account of this scene concludes: “I will hear no more of Salzburg. I hate the archbishop even to madness.” But this was not the worst. “I did not know,” says Mozart, “that I was a _valet de chambre_; that overcame me entirely; and my father should be glad that he has not a man dishonored for his son.” But now sycophantic flunkies began to busy themselves with the affair. They knew that the archbishop did not like to lose an artist whom such efforts had been made, before his eyes, to retain in Vienna. The master of the household, Count Arco, therefore, did everything that in him lay to quiet the matter. He refused, “from lack of courage and a love of adulation,” to accept Mozart’s petition for dismissal. But when the latter insisted on it, with a brutality not unworthy of his master, Arco threw the noble artist out the door--with a kick! After his personal audience with the archbishop, Mozart’s blood boiled; he trembled from head to foot and reeled on the street like a drunken man. Now he assures us that, when he meets the count, he will pay him back the compliment he received from him. In the ante-chamber he did not, like Arco himself, wish “to lose his respect for the prince’s apartments,” but then he was determined that “the hungry donkey should get an answer from him that he would feel,” even if it were twenty years before a suitable occasion presented itself to give it. And when his father recoiled at the boldness of such an attempt, our young artist gave expression to a sentiment which lifted him high above all that environed him, and stamps him one of the noblest representatives of human nature. We have chosen that sentiment as the motto of this his biography: “The heart is man’s title to nobility!” More painful than all these insults to the manly honor of our young artist were the heart-aches caused him by the very person who should have understood him best, by his own father.