The St. Charles herald. [volume] (Hahnville, La.) 1873-1993, 1885-01-24
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
nitied with the name of "home," 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-
fore him 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 dsheart-
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, tottering 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 hastened 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-hearted lady who had accompa-
MED the missionary, to offer if possible,
some aid and comfort from her purse.
''It 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
stinctivelv the visitors drew back, as
one does when he meets the horrible
glare of a madman's eyes. But he saw
nothing, at least nothing earthly.
"Meine violine," he gasped, and his
hands reached convulsively out for the
beloved instrument.
They did not dare to refuse his re-
quest the agony of the 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 ray
of sunshine that flashed across the old
mans face as his thin, blue eined
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
mosphere seemed impregnated with har-
monious melody. Beautiful rich notes
resounded, now high, now low, now
soft and gentle as the cooling of dove,
now wild and fearful as the roaring of a
lion, at one time gliding along in
prayerful, touching calmness, at another
rushing in wild, tumultuous reyels 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 as he
waited for the pennies of the passer-by,
while interspersed with these were pas.
sages which never had been set to staff,
and which never will be or can be, fol
they were the work of an unseen mine
acting through this human mind az
it lowered between mortality and i'm
mortality.
The rhapsody finished, moments
pause, and then rang out the CRANE
opening strains of the players nationa
hymn. "Wo ist das Deutches Water
land" the words themselves seemed t.
resound directly from the vibrating
strings, and notes unknown to thu
printed page filled in the chords will
glorious harmony. Over the face o
the player swept an expression of per
feet happiness and content. The wing
of memory had carried him back, ia
over the ocean. to his own dear home
and as the visions of his native LANE
rushed through his heated brain, he re
ceived new strength, and with inspired
hand drew forth from that instrumen
a living, sympathetic, soulful instru
Inent it seemed-chord after chord 0
impassioned music. Maiestically tn
notes rang out, without faltering, t,
the final strain. Then suddenly Their
came a sharp. uncanny snap. The ]
string had broken. They rushed for
ward to the white, inanimate body lyin,
motionless where it had fallen, but the
were too late. The last chord ha'
sounded. The thread of life har
snapped and the spirit of music had for
ever left its aged, shattered casing
Boston Journal.