by transcribing Mozart's score, to pass it off as his
own composition--and this he actually did after the composer's death.
Poor Mozart, in the weak state of health in which he now was, with
nerves unstrung and over-excited brain, was strangely impressed by
this visit, and soon the fancy took firm possession of him that the
messenger had arrived with a mandate from the unseen world, and that
the "Requiem" he was to write was for himself. Not the less did he
ardently set to work on it. Hardly, however, was it commenced than he
was compelled to write another opera, "La Clemenza di Tito," for which
a commission had been given him by the Bohemian Estates, for
production on the occasion of the Emperor Leopold's coronation in
their capital. This was accomplished in the short space of eighteen
days, and though it does not contain the best music, yet the overture
and several of the numbers are full of a piquant beauty and liveliness
well suiting the festival of a people's rejoicing. But a far greater
work, the "Zauberfloete," was produced in Vienna shortly afterward. It
did not take very well at first, but subsequent performances went
better.

[Illustration: Mozart Singing his Requiem.]

His labors in bringing out the "Zauberfloete" over, Mozart returned to
the "Requiem" he had already commenced, but while writing he often had
to sink back in his chair, being seized with short swoons. Too plainly
was his strength exhausted, but he persisted in his solemn work. One
bright November morning he was walking with Constanze in the Prater,
and sadly pointing out to her the falling leaves, and speaking of
death, with tears in his eyes, he added; "I well know I am writing
this 'Requiem' for myself. My own feelings tell me that I shall not
last long. No doubt some one has given me poison--I cannot get rid of
this thought." With these gloomy fancies haunting his mind, he rapidly
grew worse, and soon could not leave his room. The performances of the
"Zauberfloete" were still going on, and extraordinarily successful. He
took the greatest interest in hearing of them, and at night would take
out his watch and note the time--"Now the first act is over, now is
the time for the great Queen of Night." The day before his death he
said to his wife, "Oh, that I could only once more hear my 'Flauto
Magico!'" humming, in scarcely audible voice, the lively bird-catcher
song. The same day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, he called his
friends togethe