Weekly Chillicothe crisis. (Chillicothe, Livingston Co., Mo.) 1878-19??, 1884-09-04

The time hung heavily upon the
watchers hands, and rs he looked
about him he saw Carl's manuscripts
upon the table inviting the inspection
of n brother musician. He looked
them through with critical eye
songs, caprices, morccaur dc Saton, the
score Of Carl's treasured "Abclard and
Hcloisc," and most important of all,
the unfinished symphony of which the
young man had such high hopes. He
glanced over the neatly written pages
and turned with pitying look toward
the bed where the sufferer lay, uncOn-
scious, but with his palld face illum-
incd by n smile, us if even now, he
was dreaming OF the triumph that
was to be his.
"Ah! my poor boy muttcrcd Giu-
scppe. at will be too late. There is
but Il week before the judges must de-
clare the victor, and you must lie here
long after the decision is given. Even
were it finished, this would not win.
My brave lad there are older heads
than yours and some famous names
among the competitors for the medal
and the purse.
He paused, looked long ut the young
man upon the bed. Suddenly his face
lit up as if with an inspiration. Seat
ing himself ut the table, he drew
toward him the score of Carl's work
and the sheets of barred paper that lay
invitingly with it. He worked all that
day and far into the night. The sun
rise of the next morning found him
still at the table, his pen travelling rap
idly over the paper, us the ideas of
melody and harmony came to the
brain faster than the hand could regis
ter them
That morning there was soft tap
at the door, and when Giuseppe
opened it, there stood Lottchcn.
MY Carl! My brave Carl!' she
cried "Oh, meiSter! why did YOU
keep this from mcP'
The musician silcnccd her with n
gesture and pointed to the bed. With
little gasp of fright, the young girl
knclt beside her wounded and uncon-
scious lover.
"Hc does not know mc-his Lott
chen, who loves him so much!' she
sobbcd. "Oh, Fusclli will he die?
Tell me that he will soon be well and
strong again-my own Citrl!"
NO. said the old man, "he will not
die. The worst is over now and we
shall soon give him back to you
again
"Thank the dear God for thatr' said
the girl piously. "And the prizes
that Carl so surely would have won
All! now it will be too late. How
gricycd he will be! We must wait now
for another ycnr-Carl and )"
"Do not fear. will send the score
to the judges. There is but page or
two to add, and it shall be sent in am-
pie time, | promise you"
"iIow good you are, dear FuSclli!
Carl and | will always bless you and
| will remember you in my praycrs;'
and with Il parting kiss upon her be-
trothal's pale face, Lottchen departed.
Her heart was light and her face smi-
ing and happy, for was not Carl to be
well soon and his symphony to be lin
ished tooP All! that would surely
win.
Another day and evening the old
man watched his patient and worked
at his labor Of love and gratitude.
Then he laid down his pen and said
softly; There, my Carl; your SYM
phony is finished in time in ample
time
He went to the piano and played the
beautiful work through to the end.
When its last strains died away, he
was tempted sOrcly to break his rcsO-
luton and TO try for the prize in his
own behalf; but the thought flashed
only an instant through his mind and
was banished by II weak voice which
asked: "What- what -music-is thatP
What deyinc composition!"
at is your own. my boy;' answered
Fuselli, "Your 'Sicgfricd' symphony.
| was just about 10 send it to the
Judges. May you have the fortune to
winI'
"Ah! | remember said Carl; and
he really thought the music his own,
half forgotten in his fever and de-
lirium.
But few days had passed when Il
packet with portcntiouS seals and i'm
posing exterior, was left for Herr
Carl Wcrthcr. 1t was Il letter telling
him that his "Sicgfriedn symphony
was the composition to which the
Judges unanimously awarded the
grand prize-thc medal and the purse.
The Emperor had heard the symphony
and was enthusiastic in its praise. The
art world of Berlin talked of nothing
but the triumph of the new aspirant.
"a German undoubtedly; and yet
the music of Sicgfricd' is thoroughly
Italian.
So said u brother musician to Giu-
scppc. But the old man kept his Sc
crct, looking at Lottchen and Carl in
their new found happiness, and say
ing to himself, at is for their sakes.
l am content"
One morning there came a knock at
the strcct-door of Giuscppc's lodging,
and letter was handed to the good
dame who responded.
"For Giuseppe Fusclli," said the
messenger.
"Ah! | will take it to him. eXclam-
ed Lottchcn, who had come to take
her morning lesson, and she bounded
lightly up the stairs, hoping that she
might be the bearer of good news.
She knocked twice. There was nc
answer. So she entered the poor little
room.
Fuselli was reclining over his piano,
his face buried in his hands. She
touched him gently on the shoulder
There was no response. One hand
fell limp and heavy by his side, dis.
: closing his face, and the young Cir
knew that she stood in the presence
= of death. He who had aspired Sc
! grandly, whose talents the world had
refused to own was far from strife fol
fame, which with him had beer
, changed to n struggle for existence
Lottchen tore open the envelope
! The letter was brief one, and it wa
, signed by the Herr Director of thu
Royal Opera House. 1t read:
"Giuseppi Fusell; Wcrther has re
, signed because of the success of hi
work. Your playing has always beel
| eoticfoniorv oud thia 10 IN inform yol