ow forth. But,
while he wrote nothing that was not beautiful, his masterpieces are
based only on themes furnished by the lyrics of such poets as Goethe,
Heine, and Rilckert. It is related, in connection with his friendship
with Mayrhofer, one of his rhyming associates of these days, that he
would set the verses to music much faster than the other could compose
them.

The songs of the obscure Schubert were gradually finding their way to
favor among the exclusive circles of Viennese aristocracy. A celebrated
singer of the opera, Vogl, though then far advanced in years, was much
sought after for the drawing-room concerts so popular in Vienna, on
account of the beauty of his art. Vogl was a warm admirer of Schubert's
genius, and devoted himself assiduously to the task of interpreting
it--a friendly office of no little value. Had it not been for this, our
composer would have sunk to his early grave probably without even the
small share of reputation and monetary return actually vouchsafed
to him. The strange, dreamy unconsciousness of Schubert is very well
illustrated in a story told by Vogl after his friend's death. One day
Schubert left a new song at the singer's apartments, which, being too
high, was transposed. Vogl, a fortnight afterward, sang it in the lower
key to his friend, who remarked: "Really, that _Lied_ is not so bad; who
composed it?"

III.

Our great composer, from the peculiar constitution of his gifts, the
passionate subjectiveness of his nature, might be supposed to have been
peculiarly sensitive to the fascinations of love, for it is in this
feeling that lyric inspiration has found its most fruitful root. But
not so. Warmly susceptible to the charms of friendship, Schubert for
the most part enacted the _role_ of the woman-hater, which was not all
affected; for the Hamletlike mood is only in part a simulated madness
with souls of this type. In early youth he would sneer at the amours
of his comrades. It is true he fell a victim to the charms of Theresa
Grobe, a beautiful soprano, who afterward became the spouse of a
master-baker. But the only genuine love-sickness of Schubert was of a
far different type, and left indelible traces on his nature, as its very
direction made it of necessity unfortunate. This was his attachment to
Countess Caroline Esterhazy.

The Count Esterhazy, one of those great feudal princes still extant
among the Austrian nobility, took a traditional pride in encouraging
genius,