Alpena weekly argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1871-1893, 1885-03-04
Death OF the Old Musician.

"Poor old man, his life is nearly
over and the city missionary looked
down, with tears of pity in his eyes, upon
the wasted form outstretched upon
the bed before him. The dying man
was peacefully sleeping, oblivious alike
of the present gloom filling the small,
cheap tenement room which he had Dig
nified with the name of "hone." and
of the approaching light fastening to
usher him into Immortality.
Poor old man, indeed. His life had
been sorrowful one since the fateful
moment he left his Fatherland. A
musician, with heart and soul Bound up
in his beloved calling, he had seen be-
forc him a glorious future. But the
hatred and cunning of rival had I'M
dermined the favor which the Court
musician was deservedly winning from
the German Prince, and at last disheart-
ened and piqued the artist fled his ma
tive land to seek the American Utopia.
But misfortune followed him there. An
accident deprived him of his sight and
partially disabled his arm, SO that final
ly, after years Of itinerancy after years
of plaintive struggling against threaten
ing poverty, the old man succumbed,
and with starvation staring him in the
face gave up in despair. Wearied unto
death with the hard life struggle, he
threw his shriveled, lettering body down
upon the bed from which he was never
again to rise, and waited for the coming
of the Death Angel. Word reached a
travelling missionary who CHANGED to be
visiting the city, and he FASTENED with
friends to the old mans side. But
nothing could be done; the time was
past The long-reserved store Of
nervous energy which alone had sus-
tanned the feeble musician for the past
months had been exhausted, and life
was following close behind its only sup
porter.
Ssh. he is moving" whispered the
kind-hcarted lady who had accompa-
MED the missionary, TO offer, if possible,
some aid and comfort from her purse.
at is the last throes of death, was
the reply. Scarcely were the low words
uttered. when the dying man raised
himself painfully in the bed. His large,
sightless eyes, open now to their fullest
extent, seemed to pierce through all the
twilight darkness of the room, and in
stinctivcly the visitors drew back. us
ore does when he meets the horrible
glare of madman's eyes. But he saw
nothing, at least nothing earthly.
'AIeine violinc," he gasped, and his
hands reached convulsively out for the
beloved instrument.
They did not dare to refuse his re-
quest; the agony of tho tone, the tense
expression of the face were imperative.
Quickly the old, battered instrument
was drawn from its case and handed,
with bow, to its master. Was it n ray
of sunshine that flashed across the old
mans face as his thin, blue-veined
hands swept over the familiar stringsp
If so, it must have been the sunlight from
within, for no light of day could reach
that dark, underground cellar. He
paused but moment to place the strings
in proper harmony, and then with
nervous hand drew the bow. The visit
ors started as though the music of an
angel host had suddenly burst upon
| their ears, and in breathless awe listened,
without daring to move a fibre, to the
weird, supernatural strains that poured
out into the room. Every corner, every
nook, the walls, the ceiling, the very at
mosphcre seemed impregnatcd with har-
monious melody. Beautiful rich notes
rcsounded, now high, now low, now
soft and gentle rs the cooling of a dove,
now wild and fearful rs the roaring of a
lion, at one time gliding along in
prayerful, touching calmness, ut another
rushing in wild, tumultuous revels from
gamut to gamut. No one selection
held sway there; the grand productions
of old masters, interpreted as even their
authors had never dreamed could be in
terpreted, were mingled with the
familiar strains which the old musician
had heard whistled on the street rs he
waited for the pennies of the passer-by,
while interspersed with these were pas
sagcs which never had been set to staff,
and which never will be or can be, for
they were the work of an unseen mind
acting through this human mind as
it lowered between mortality and inn
mortality.
The rhapsody finished, u moments
pause, and then rang out the grand
opening strains of the players national
hymn. ..Wo list das Deutchcs Water
land" the words themselves seemed to
resound directly from the vibrating
strings, and notes unknown to the
printed page filled in the chords with
glorious harmony. Over the face OF
the player swept an expression of per-
feet happiness and content. The wings
of memory had carried him back, far
over the ocean. to his own dear home,
and as the visions of his native land
rushed through his heated brain, he re-
ceived new strength, and with inspired
hand drew forth from that Instrument
a living, sympathetic, soulful instru-
ment il seemcd-chord after chord of
imprisoned music. Majestically the
notes rang out, without faltcrng, to
the final strain. Then suddenly there
came sharp. uncanny snap. The +
string had broken. They rushed for
ward to the white. inanmate body lying
motionless where it had fallen, but they
were too late. The last chord lad
sounded. The thread of life had
snapped and the spirit of music had for
ever left its aged, shattered casing
Boston Journal.