I turned out of the Strand,
which was thronged and throbbing with the news of the great advance,--it
was the first day of the battle of the Somme--and entered the Aldwych
Theatre. As if by magic, I passed from the thrilling drama of the present
into a realm
Full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing--
into a sunlit world, where the zephyrs fan your cheek like a benediction
and the brooks tinkle through the gracious landscape and melody is on every
bough and joy and peace are all about you--the idyllic world where the
marvellous child, Mozart, reigns like an enchanter. What though the tale of
_The Magic Flute_ is foolish beyond words. Who cares for the tale? Who
thinks of the tale? It is only the wand in the hand of the magician. Though
it be but a broomstick, it will open all the magic casements of earth and
heaven, it will surround us with the choirs invisible, and send us forth
into green pastures and by the cool water-brooks.
That was Mozart's vision of the world in his brief but immortal journey
through it.
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