Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1883-04-07
the xroLlN,s VOICE.
The Pathetic story of a Musician
and a Dying Child.
From Belgrava.)


From Belgrava.)
The dark angel of death was STAN
ding outside the musicians door,
for little Annita, Maestro Narditti's
child, was fading away no tears,
no prayers could avail, not even
Christmas lovely voice.
Christmas voice was hushed
now the Maestro had no heart to
take up his dearly loved violin aud
play 10 soothe his sorrow, as he had
done many years ago, when his
wife died and left this little one be-
hind.
Heaven had given him the di-
vine gift of genius and had hidden
him call aloud to the world. So
Carissima and he had played to-
gether through sickness and sorrow
and success, and through all the
| changing scenes of life they had
been faithful friends.
They had just come back from
the crowded hall the people said
that never before had maestro play
ed so beautifully and that never be-
fore had the violin's sounded so
mournful and pathetic.
Well, you see, they did not know
the reason; but we do, for both
were thinking of the little dying
girl, and how could their thoughts
be anything but sorrowful or the
| outward expression of those
thoughts beanything but mournful ?
The father Was weeping by his
child's bedside. But she said
.tDo not weep-sing to messing
me to sleep, for / am so weary,
dear father, and the evening has
been so long without thee"
Then he rose and played to her,
and she closed her eyes and listened
happily to Christmas voice. 1t
sang a song without words-the
music alone told the tale-of a pure
young life, too pure for earth, and,
therefore, to be taken away to that
fair land where only the good and
pure and true dwell. Yet it
was hard to leave the earth, har-
der still to leave the dear ones be-
hind and to know that they would
be desclate, and here the viOlin's
voice sobbed and tremblnd as if
from sorrow, and the melody be-
came sadder and softer, as if desert
bling the very parting which was
soon to take place; then the linger-
ing notes died away, and the macs
trO's hand was still.
as that alp murmured the
child "Oh, play again."
Once more he raised his bow on
high, and the air resounded with a
psalm of triumph-the same melody
but not no longer soft or sad, for the
to-, e hn f,afr
wide, and amid the jubilant strain
angel Of death.
"That gladstone song was for thee,
my child" sObbed the maestro, as
he kissed the lips which were yet
warm, and fondled the little hands
which could never more be stretch
ed out lovingly toward him. "What
is my portion ON earth? am
alone, uncared for; all joy has gone
from my lite. Oh, child, child!
would that l might join thee, would
that thou cOuld'st come to me! But
alas all tears are in vain and yet L
weep, and must forever weep"
But as he was weeping some gen.
tie strains seemed to reach his ears,
and he listened and ceased his
mourning.
For the soft strains came from his
dearly loved violin, and distinctly
though gently he heard Carissima
say:
"Oh, Maestro! / have loved thee
all these years, L have been thy
friend and faithful companion, and
l have soothed thy cares for thee. |
cti hxy cir
thou sayest thou art alone, when |
am nigh, to be to thee what have
ever been before, and more now
since thou hast but me. And thou
canst pass me by when claim some
kind word from thee! Hast thou
none? Did | not love the child as
thou hast loved her? Am | not part
of thine own soul and Lille. Have l
not heart like thine? Maestro,
through all these years | have re-
sponded to thy touch, and have
answered thee in love and affection /;
answer thou now to me"
He listened as if in a dream.
"ThOu art right, dear one, and |
am wrong. Little Anita has gone
away from us, and loved her very
tenderly. But | am not alone.
Heaven has taken all else from me
except my genius, which shall be
with me forever. The things of the |
earth shall pass away, and wealth
shall vanish together with fame,
honor and happiness; yet genius,
the soul of man, is immortal. Thou |
art my soul, Carissima thou hast |
reproached me once, but never shalt |
thou do SO more, for l feel and |
know that thou wilt be my COM
fort and my never-failing peace. |
Come, thou, soothe me, for little |
Anita lieth dead. She loved thee
sing to her once more. She will |
smile down on us and thank us for
our sweet music"
The night sped on, and the moon
shOne brightly into the room of
death, lighting up the face of the
dead and the face of the living, be-
deWed with tears, while the sweet
voice of Carissima was answering
as of old to her masters touch and
comforting him in his grief.
If, dear friends, you were to ask
me how it was possible for the vio-
lin to speak, I should remind you
that Art and Nature have voices
for all those who care to listen.
Does not a beautiful picture actu-
ally tell you its own tale, and does
not fine piece of architecture or
bring to your mind the
genius, and patience and loving
labor bestowed on it? If you pick
up a shell on the sea-shOre, does it
not cOnfide to you all about itself
and about the sea which has cast it
out? And what a history has not
the wave-worn pebble to relate
When you hear any lovely music,
does it not thrill through you, awak-
ening all your best thoughts and
speaking to you like any human
voice?
Thus it was that the violin spoke
to the musician a language which
he could understand, because it was
the language of music. And if you
love music, as hope you do, you
will find that it will speak to you {
and sooth you when other powers
are naught. And when other pleas s
ures are passing away, remember {
that the pleasures and advantage
which the cultivation of an art or
Of any lofty subject brings, whether
it be the Arr of Music, or Painting,
Or Poetry, or the study of Nature,
all eternal, ever fresh, ever varied,
~