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

many years ago, stranger IN Berlin,
looking from his window upon the
swarm of pleasure-seckcrs in the
streets, would have said: "'llerc is u
city given over to the pomps and vani-
ties. Behold nation of butterflies"
1t was u tctc day ia Bcrlin-thc birth
day of the cmporcr. Your Berliner is
a taciturn wight in his shop or at his
hearthstone, but at evening in the
gardens, where his beloved German
music can gladden. his heart and
copious libations of beer can loosen his
tongue, he is sociablc and merry
enough. At regularly organized
fcstivity, he appreciates his duty to
society, and is as light-hcarted as the
volatile Vicnnese when he listens to
the rythm of Strauss waltz.
From the grcy-hcadcd diplomat
with the breast of his military coat
resplcndcnt with medals and orders,
to the pale street-boy, with face shiny
from unwonted contact with soap and
water, Berlin's good people are on
gayety intent. The streets are Il mass
of gay colors, and music is waited to
the ear by every breath of wind.
1t has been said that life is so very
serious an affair that we should never
miss an opportunity to laugh, but no
maxim is needs to bring laughter to
the eyes and lips of the blonde and
buXom trawieinS and their military
swains who promenade so gaily.
Their laughter is in their hearts, made
glad by the brightness of the sunshine
and by youth and hope and love.
Giuseppe Fuselli looks from his at
tic window, and wonders if in all the
gay city he is the only one in whose
heart there is no mirth, who can dash
away tear as he gazes from his attic,
listening to the stirring music as it
fills the air. He is Il man past sixty,
whose spare form is clad in garments
that would be tattcrs but for the
clumsy mending that his own fingers
have done. He is handsome old
man, for, despite the haggard features,
there is Il meaning of granducr and
poetry in his face. His hair is white
as snow, his profile clear cut as n
cameo, and his eyes, black us night
and Lndimmed by the sorrows of long
life, show that he is no native OF Ger.
mania.
Giuseppe Fusclli plays the violin al
the royal opcra-house. 1t is only the
second violin and he makes but pit.
tancc, half of which is sent each week
to sister rs poor as himself who is AT
home in Italy. The first violinists are
among the merry-makers of the tCte
with money to spare for th" pleasures
of their swcct-hearts or wives.
There had been n time when
Giuseppc's ambition had been as
boundlcss as the realms of his art.
In youth he had said to himself:
"My name shall be written with Al
eagles quill upon the scroll of fame
beside the glorious names of Beethoven
and Mozart. My name shall live and
my works shall be immortal"
Now poor Giuseppe was very hum
BILE; he only prayed that the fatcS
might make him-a first violin.
He turned from the window to tho
chccrlcss room, dark save for the
stream of sunlight that came through
the lattice, but which seemed chary o
bcstowing itself about so unCongenia
place. The walls were fcstooned will
gossamcr tapestry that for year.
the spiders had been weaving undis
turbcd. Music-mostly manuscript
strcwn in confusion upon the floor, anc
covered the table and the piano, whicl
was the musicians one treasure.
1t was an old, old piano, yet Giu
seppe had ever found it II friend faith
full and true. Long years ago he ha,
mastered his piano, and, with his heat
thrown back, his thoughts glowing
with visions of noble future, his fin
gers would wake songs of love, o
passion, of triumph, and he said: 9Th
piano shall be my slave. | shall b
grcatn
But the years driftcd by; and now
when he was lonely-and he was S
often lonely-he would let his finger
stray over the keys, and form, as if b
their own will, a mild, sweet melody
1t sang a lament for his lost life an
his crushed aspirations, it sang gla
anthem of hope, and whispered t
Giuseppe: peace, desolate old heart
Forget the cross that thou hast born
so long. Think of the crown tina
waits thee. Heaven is very near now
and there thou and thy Ninetta shaI
be young again"
Often as he played, and the musi
spoke to his lonely old heart, the tear
would start to his eyes, he would bur
his face in his hands, and, resting hi
head upon the piano, would fall aslee
as if upon the breast of friend.
As Fuselli seated himself at the piano
and his nimble fingers glided rippling
ly over the 'ys, there was a timi
knock at the aoor, and he started fo
the sound was an unusual one. Ther
as If recollecting, he said with smile
"Ah, it is Lottchen."
He opened the door, and its frame
work enclosed pretty picture;
dainty little German maid clad
white, with knot of blue ribbon 9
her throat, and her braids of golde
hair falling over her shoulders. Th
column of sunshine fell directly upo
her, as if welcoming kindred spir
in this desolate place.
"Good morning, neister," she sale
"May l have the lesson now, please
There is fete to-day and Carl come
at eleven O'Clock to take me to the ga
dens."
"As you please, my child" said Fl
selli; and for more than an hour sh
sang to him songs he had loved /
Italy, songs he had himself writer
each one with its memory. She had
} sweet, clear voice, and from her Italia
teacher she had learned to sing froi
the heart, an art in which the German
often fail.
The lesson over, Lottchen said, wit
her face radient. "lMeister, did yo
know that Carl was trying for th
J grand prizep All! / am sure he wi
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