But, unfortunately, he was soon forced to the conviction, that, even in Frankfort, there was not much for him to do. In a letter of the 30th of September, 1790, to his wife, he says: “I am exceedingly glad to go back to you again. If people could only look into my heart I would be almost forced to blush. I am so cold, so icy cold to everything. If you were with me, perhaps I would find more pleasure in the kind treatment I receive from people; but, as it is, my heart is empty.” On his journey home, he visited Mayence where Tischbein, Goethe’s friend, painted his picture. He was going to Mannheim. “O the golden days of a heart’s first love!” What thoughts must have possessed him at this time! For, did not all Vienna know how happily he lived with his Constance, while the unhappy relations of Aloysia with her husband were matter of discussion in the public press? But why was it that the man who, at that time, gave promise of such a career of happiness, was now obliged to travel about the world in search of his daily bread? The thought of this filled his soul with bitterness, at the very time that he was invited to Munich, on account of the King of Naples, to a concert at court. He writes: “A pretty honor for the court of Vienna that the King has to hear me in a strange country!” And, indeed, the court’s neglect of him was the chief cause of the sad plight he was in. His journey had cheered and strengthened him, but it had not improved his pecuniary condition. He could, in consequence, redeem only a portion of the silver-ware he had pledged, and the rest of it was lost entirely through his too great confidence in a Masonic friend. At this time, one of the directors of a London concert company, J. P. Salomon, had come to Vienna to take Haydn--his old patron prince Esterhazy having died--to London. Mozart was to follow after. His parting with the “old papa” was touching in the extreme. We saw above how deep his feeling of affection was for Mozart. The latter, with tears in his eyes, and at a time when he might well have thought rather of his own death, said to Haydn who was so much older: “This is probably our last good-bye, in this life.” He divined only too well. Haydn shed bitter tears of sorrow when he heard of Mozart’s premature death a year later, in London. He now wrote: “Posterity will have to wait a hundred years for another like him;” and again, many years afterwards: “Pardon me, but I must always weep when I hear my dear Mozart’s name.”