ad been looking forward to this
moment all through the latter part of his journey. His father had told
him how jealously guarded this music was; it could never be performed
in any other place, and the singers could never take their parts out
of the chapel. He was intensely eager to hear this work. And indeed it
would be difficult to imagine anything more beautiful and impressive
than the singing of the Miserere, which means "Have Mercy." It follows
the solemn service called Tenebrae, (Darkness) during which the six
tall candles on the altar are extinguished one by one,--till but one
is left, which is removed to a space behind the altar. Then in almost
complete darkness the Miserere begins. A single voice is heard singing
the antiphon, or short introduction,--and then comes silence, a
silence so profound that the listener scarcely dares to breathe
for fear of disturbing it. At length the first sad notes of the
supplication are heard, like the softest wailing of an anguished
spirit; they gradually gain force till the whole building seems to
throb with the thrilling intensity of the music.

The young musician was profoundly moved; the father too was much
affected by the solemn service. Neither spoke as they left the chapel
and sought their lodgings. After they had retired the boy could not
sleep; his thoughts were filled with the wonderful music he had heard.
He arose, lit the lamp, and got out pens and music paper. He worked
industriously the long night through. When morning dawned the boy sat
with his beautiful head upon his folded arms, asleep, while before him
on the table lay a score of the Miserere of Allegri, entirely written
from memory.

The next day, Good Friday, the Miserere was performed for the second
time. Wolfgang, the boy of fourteen, who had performed the wonderful
feat of writing this work out after one hearing, again attended the
service, keeping the score in his hat, and found his work was nearly
perfect, needing but a couple of trifling corrections.

The news of this startling feat gained for the young musician a
cordial welcome into the houses of the great in Rome; during their
stay father and son were feted to their hearts' content.

At Naples, their next stopping place, Wolfgang played before a
brilliant company, and excited so much astonishment, that people
declared his power in playing came from a ring he wore on his finger.
"He wears a charm," they cried. Mozart smiled, took off the ring and