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shall be. Friedemann! child of my heart ! let me not| quelled the evil spirit; I have read over my father's miss you there!"

legacy for that purpose. Would you had had such a "Father!" exclaimed the youth, and sank overpowered father, poor Theodore! What is the new year ?" at Sebastian's feet.

“Four and eighty." The old man, who knew nought of the anguish that "Four and eighty? When they numbered seven and was struggling in the bosom of his son, regarded this thirty—no more of that!" burst of feeling as merely the excess of filial emotion. Laying both hands on the head of the kneeling youth, he “I shall never reach that age; but tell me your name!" said solemnly—"God's peace be with you, my Friede He who composed that noble work," said the old mann-now and for ever!-Amen!"

man, pointing to the music, was my father.” Friedemann rose, pale and agitated. He kissed his “And have you not torn out the first leaf, that bore father's hand, and slowly withdrew from the apart- the title and name? I can learn nothing, as you know ment; but no sooner was the door closed than he rushed well, from the music. Speak, old friend, who are you?" through the hall like one frantic, down the steps and

"The Old Musician." through the streets, till he reached the

open space, when

“So call you the few who have seen you in this great he flung himself on the frozen ground, dashed his hand city, and none can give me another name for you. Tell against his burning forehead, and cursed aloud his mise- | me, yourself.” rable being.”

“Let me be silent," implored the old man; “I have The series of the “Bach family" consists of three

sworn never to reveal my name, save to one initiated, if tales; in each of them, we trace the progress of poor

I can find such." Friedemann's mental disease. “ The old musician discovers him to us in the extreme old age; the wreck of

Theodore dies suddenly; the poor old man sits all day his former self, forlorn, helpless, living in a gurret, and in the cold beside the bed where he had found his friend supported by the labors of a young artist, whom he saved dead, till taken into another room by the compassionate from suicide. None of his friends know of his existence; landlady. He then resumes his former practice of wanand his real name is unknown even to the companion of dering through the streets of Berlin, listening to music

wherever he can hear it. It was this habit which had his misery. The following extract introduces him. “ In a poor garret-room, in the Friedrichstadt at Berlin, procured him the name of “ The Old Musician.”

As he wandered one evening through the streets, he sat an old man before a 'table, engaged in reading

came unexpectedly in front of a brilliantly lighted palace, musical notes, and making observations, from time to

from which music sounded. He was going in, according time, with a pencil on the margin of the sheets.

to his wont, but the Swiss, who kept the door, rudely A few coals were faintly glimmering in the chimney, pushed him away. So he stood without and listened ; though a violent storm raged without; the flame of the | and though the night wind blew fiercely, he continued to small lamp flickered so that strange shadows were shifting stand and listen, murmuring now and then to himselfperpetually over the low walls; the sashes rattled in the

“ Excellent! Admirable!” window frames, and the weather-cock creaked upon the

A lacquey, in rich livery, came out to speak to the roof. It was a bitter night.

Swiss; when he espied the old man, he cried, “ Oh! But small heed gave the old man to the roaring of there is the Old Musician! are you alive yet, grandthe wind; to the discord around him. And though his father? It is long since I have seen you; you are weltall and once noble figure—enfeebled and stooping--and come back; but why do you stand there in the cold, his pale, furrowed and sunken cheeks showed the ravages chattering your stumps of teeth ?” of age and disease, yet his eyes still flashed a fire, as he 'Monsieur, the Swiss would not let me in," replied eagerly perused the sheets before him, that strangely | the old man. contrasted with the snow-white, scattered locks upon his "Monsieur, the Swiss is an ass! Never mind, old head.

fellow; come up with me; it is warm within, and I will It struck twelve. There was a sound in the streets give you a cup of wine to thaw your old limbs. We below, of shouting and of music, and from a neighboring have a great concert for you to-night!" He took the church floated on the blast the words—“We praise old man by the arm, and led him up the steps, saying to Thee-oh, Lord God!"

the Swiss, “ Hark ye! you must always let him pass in The old man looked up and listened; and at length | future ; he is no beggar, but the Old Musician; he comes murmured—“Again?” The door opened, and a young only to hear the music, and my lord has given orders that man entered; his eyes were bright as those of his he shall be admitted." aged companion, but his locks were dark, and his face The lacquey led the old man to a seat next the fire even paler and more attenuated.

in an ante-room, near the concert-hall, drew a table up “Welcome, fellow sufferer!" cried the old man; to him, and said, “Here, grandfather, sit down and you hear the bell strike?

keep quiet; I will set the screen before you that nobody " I heard it-it was the last."

shall see you. You can hear every thing; and I will “ Was it?"

fetch your glass of wine when I come again." “Go you to rest."

The old man sat and listened to the music; it thrilled " To sleep, mean you ? Look, I am calm. I bave his inmost heart, as the kiss of spring thrills the cold

"did

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carth. If anght can revive the wasted life in a human “What can I do for you?" asked Naumann; “oh, if heart, it is masic in its purity, as it descended from you knew what I have felt for you so long-and now, Heaven, and is revealed in the works of the great mas more than ever-admiration-love-sorrow! what can ters.

I do for you ?” Many hours had the old man sat there, when the “Nothing !" answered Friedemann. “You have done lacquey, who had paid him more than one visit in his all for me in showing me what I could and should have corner, came to him, and said, " It is time for you to go; i done. You know how I failed, wherefore nothing sucthe company will soon break up. My boy shall go with ceeded with me, not one of all my bold and glowing you to your house.

plans. But you need no warning. You walk in the That was admirable music !" said the old man, right path, securely-cheerfully; I can do nothing but drawing a deep breath.

thank you for your noble works. God's blessing be “Well, I am glad you are pleased,” replied the ser

with you, throughout your life ; for me, I feel that I vant; “the more so, as all you heard to night is the have nothing more to do on earth.”

Mozart's Don Giovanni consists of a series of scenes, work of one master, who is the guest of my lord." " What is his name me?” asked the old man quickly.

written in a style very spirited and amusing-giving “ Herr Naumann, chapel-master to the Elector of account of the first production of that opera, and the Saxony."

circumstances attending its composition and representa“ A Saxon!” exclaimed he, pleased. “Naumann? yes, the incidents ; but the character of the original compo

tion. We know not how much actual fact there is in he is a brave composer ; where does he live ?” “Here, in the house."

ser, whimsical, yet kind-hearted, is depicted to the life.

The sketch of Bellini admirably paints the susceptible “Let me speak with him." “ Most certainly. I will tell him, if you want to ask but Lyser is mistaken in the object of his passion. We

artist, who could only compose when deeply in love; something of him." " To ask ? no; I want to thank him."

do not know any authority for the supposition that he Very well, come early to-morrow morning."

loved Malibran. The story of Joseph Haydn illustrates “I will come."

his early life, and is related with considerable humor, a Naumann was not a little surprised, when the lac- quality which Lyser evidently possesses in no slight de

gree. He takes occasion to introduce several laughable quey told him, next morning of the old musician, and anecdotes of different artists, as, for instance, the one begged him not to refuse his request for an interview. mentioned by Marie Antoinette, in the tale entitled To the question, “ Who is he—what is his name?” the “Gluck in Paris,” of the famous dancing-master, Noverre, servant could answer only, “ He is the Old Musician; having gone to Gluck to abuse the Scythian dances in nobody in Berlin knows his name. He is half crazy at his Iphegenia in Tauris, upon his assertion that no dancer times, but understands music thoroughly, as several in the grand opera could dance to that music, Gluck, in a musicians have told me.”

rage, picked up the little man, danced him through the Bring him in !" said Naumann; the lacquey opened whole house, up and down stairs, singing the Scythian the door, and the old man entered. Naumann started ballets the while, till having got him out of the door at when he saw him, for, spite of bis poor apparel, his last, quite breathless with his involuntary exercise, he deportment was dignified and noble. He went to meet finished by asking him, “ Now, sir, have you the face to him, and said, “ You are welcome, sir, though I know

say there can be no dancing to my music ?" not your name. I am told you are a lover of art, and

The critical remarks embodied in these tales upon the that is enough.” He offered him a chair, and begged style of different artists are the most valuable portion him to be seated. The old man, without accepting the of the volumes. They are sometimes mixed up with a seat, replied, “ I come to thank you, sir, for the very little German philosophising; but Lyser has kept himgreat pleasure I enjoyed last evening. I was privately self more clear of that fault, in general, than might have a listener to the concert, in which your latest composi-| been expected. We should be glad to extract the crititions were performed. My name shall not remain a

cisms he has put into the mouth of Corregio, upon his secret to you; I am Friedemann Bach !"

own paintings and those of Raphael, in the beautiful tale Naumann stood as if struck with a thunderbolt of “ Corregio;" but we are obliged to content ourselves when he heard that name. Friedemann Bach !" re

with the following fragment of a conversation between peated he, in astonishment and sorrow,“ the great son Gluck and young Mehul, just before the production of of the great Sebastian! Great Heaven! only last year his Iphegenia. Mehul has just declared his intention of I visited your brother, Philip Emanuel, in Hamburg. devoting his powers to dramatic musical composition. The excellent old man mourns you as dead." “ I would be so to him to all who knew me in ear “ Prove them, young man.

Go to work boldly. Do lier days. It would pain them more to hear I was living, not deliberate long-but what is revealed to you, lay hold and how I lived, than to believe in my death. Even in on with glowing inspiration-plan, and complete it with this city, none knows that Friedemann Bach is yet in earnest heed! It will soon be shown what you can do, existence; not even Meldensolm, the friend of the great now, or in future; and if I judge you rightly, I think it Lessing, to whose kindness I owe it that I needed not to will not go wrong with you! Yes! this is the great starve, while he was living."

point, that we deviate not from the path! But it is hard

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Gluck says

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

to remain steadfast, and men and the world make it yet

Original. harder for the artist. Many, of whom better things THE PARTING-A PICTURE. might have been hoped, fall in the conflict.”

“ You remain victor!".

“Hem! Nothing is perfect on earth; and even if I have gone through life neither a fool nor a knave, I am He loved her to the last. And when they parted, not without faults. Each, for good or evil, must eat of He spoke not of farewell—but bent his brow the apple of knowledge before he can truly value the Into her hand, that lay among his hair best. To the majority, the All-Benevolent, has granted to | Which cluster'd o'er its whiteness-dark, and damp, know but little, till they are in danger of losing what | And scatter'd like the locks of one whose dreams they have or it is irremediably wasted. Happy he, who Have made his pillow like Procrustes' bed quickly apprehends and holds it fast-fast-nor lets it And his night sleepless. And her Parian hand, go-though his heart should be torn in the struggle! Vein'd like the marble that it rival'd, shook What will you say when I confess that a perception of Over his forehead, as the hand of one the highest—the only good, came late, fearfully late, to Whose spirit is o'ermastered by her tearsme! I am often astonished when I look back on my who tells you by her sobbings that within earlier days. Music was all to me from my childhood. There is a gath’ring of great shadows, all In my home, in lovely, earnest Bohemia, I heard her Unlike the shadowings of earth—a pall voice, as the voice of God, in all that surrounded me.

That dims the inmost heaven which we feel In the dense forest, the gloomy ravine, the romantic Is part of the far visions of our heart! valley, on the bold stark cliff—in the hoarse song of Her sobbings shook her--while her channel'd face stream and torrent-her voice thrilled to my inmost Was bow'd and veil'd before him. heart, like a sweet and glorious prophecy. All was

She had turn'd clear to my youthful vision. Love cominanded, and there was light! Oh, fair and golden time! Then I Away. She could not gaze—not look on him. thought there was nothing so great and godlike, that Her fancies were too fearful. She believed man, impotent man, could not achieve it. Too soon I Their parting was for ever--and her heart learned that something was impossible. The royal Wept like her eyes! She had heard whispers come eagle soars upward toward the Sun;-yet can he never

Often, at midnight, when the storm was loud, reach the orb; and how soon are clipped the wings of That told of distant seas—and whirlpools there the spirit! There come harassing doubts, false ambition, which he too soon must buffet.—Yet her lips thirst of gain, envy, disappointed vanity, worldly cares

Had scarce done quiv'ring with the virgin vow the hateful groans of earth-that cling to you and drag She made him at the altar. There was yet, you downward, when you would soar like the eagle. It seem'd, an echo of strange melody Thus it is in youth, in manhood, in old age. One, per

In the far holy of her bosom-yet haps, redeems himself from folly; discerns and appre- That chanting of the sound that dies alone ciates the right, and might create the beautiful. But When we die, and go downward ! 'Twas his voice, with folly also flies youth, its ardor and its vigor; and Low, but of music she could ne'er forget, there remains to him enthusiasm, passion for the sublime, | Like clarion's sunk in her rememb’ring ear. and—a grave!"

But they must part. His call was to a land “Oh, no-no!” cried Muhel with emotion; “much

Where his white brow might blacken with the shade more remains to you!"

Of rank disease-and hot and withering airs “ Think you so?''asked Gluck, and after a pause added,

Devour the beauty of his manliness, "well, perhaps something better, this time; for when I

And shrink those hands to talons, that now lay freed myself from all that is unworthy or base, there

Like sculpture on her own. He must go forth came to me a radiant vision, from the pure bright Gre

Where men were like the wolves that swept the land, cian age. But believe me, the work of apprehending it,

And blood was pour'd for pastime. He must go and shaping it in the external world, is my last! Melancholy it is, that a whole vigorous, blooming lifetime, | Where love must be forgotten—and the heart could not be consecrated to such a theme alone! I sub

Sink inward-silent, dungeon'd, and forlorn. mit-I could not do otherwise; and I will bear the result, whether these Parisian bawlers adjudge me fame Again he bent above her—but spake not.

She rais'd her lip and eye. -She was alone. and wealth for my work, or hiss mc down.

The hour struck for the rehearsal, etc."
We understand that an English translation of these

We ought always to deal justly, not only with those interesting tales has been prepared and may shortly be who are just to us, but likewise with those who endeavor published. We should be glad to see works of this cha

to injure us; and this, too, for fear, lest, by rendering racter become popular; a far higher knowledge than that them evil for evil, we should fall into the same vice; so merely historical may thus be conveyed, pleasingly, to the we ought likewise to have friendship, that is to say, huyouthful mind.

manity and good will, for all who are of the same nature Columbia, S. C.

with us.-Hierocles.

*

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Upon thy mossy parapet

At eve I loved to lean,
And see the sun go proudly down

In panoply serene;
Care's restless voice, and Passion's throb

Were then at once subdued,
As if thy silent spell had charmed

My heart to quietude.

“Were I to choose my lot in life, I would not be a poet, though it is possible for a poet to get through life tolerably easy; yet the chance is against him. After all, a bustling man of business, one who has not leisure to think of the ills of life, nor any great acuteness of sensibility to expose him to their attacks, such a man has the best chance of happiness."-BYRON.

Of happiness !" to eat and drink !
Upon his gains to sit and think!
Spurn those below-hate those above him,
With none to rev'rence, or to love him;
What "chance of happiness" is there
In such a life ?-what pause from care ?

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Are real pleasures strewn around ?
By him they never can be found,
He knows not they his lot might bless,
He knows not what is happiness.
How far below the pure,

refined
Enjoyment in a poet's” mind;
The “bustling world to him is nought,
His high-wrought pleasures come unsought,
From an unsullied fountain, flow
The genuine streams of joy-and woe;
And none with feelings warm and kind,
Would shun the sorrow they may find,
(By duty or affection led,)
Though mourning o'er the lost-the dead.

The poet deeply feels the woe That selfish spirits never know, And feels, creates bright pleasures,—where They only find o'erwhelming care, Has cause his " lot in life" to bless,

It teaches what is happiness. White Marsh, Pa.

VI.

And like those visions which were reared

On being's troubled stream, Thou wert an emblem to my soul Of Youth's unbroken dream;

S. W.

MY OWN GREEN ISLE.

THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG.

THE POETRY BY BERNARD BARTON - MUSIC BY MRS. WAYLETT.

ANDANTE.

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