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“I do not often relate stories,” he said; “but I have a German story in mind, the lesson of which has been helpful to my experience. It is a legend and a superstition, and one that is not as generally familiar to the readers of popular books as are many that have been told at these meetings. I think you will like it, and that you will not soon forget it.”
“TO-MORROW.”
Once – many years, perhaps centuries ago – a young German student, named Lek, was travelling from Leipsig to the Middle Rhine. His journey was made on foot, and a part of it lay through the Thuringian Forest.
He rested one night at the old walled town of Saalfeld, visited the ruins of Sorenburg, and entered one of the ancient roads then greatly frequented, but less used now, on account of the shorter and swifter avenues of travel.
Towards evening he ascended a hill, and, looking down, was surprised to discover a quaint town at the foot, of which he had never heard.
It was summer; the red sun was going down, and the tree-tops of the vast forests, moved by a gentle wind, seemed like the waves of the wide sea. Lek was a lover of the beautiful expressions of Nature, of the poetry of the forests, hills, and streams; and he sat down on a rock, under a spreading tree, to see the sunset flame and fade, and the far horizons sink into the shadows and disappear.
“I have made a good journey to-day,” he said, “and whatever the strange town below me may be, it will be safe for me to spend the night there. I see that it has a church and an inn.”
Lek had travelled much over Germany, but he had never before seen a town like the one below him. It wore an air of strange antiquity, – as a town might look that had remained unchanged for many hundred years. An old banner hung out from a quaint steepled building; but it was unlike any of modern times, national or provincial.
The fires of sunset died away; clouds, like smoke, rose above them, and a deep shadow overspread the forests. Lek gathered up his bundles, and descended the hill towards the town. As he was hurrying onward he met a strange-looking man in a primitive habit, – evidently a villager. Lek asked him the name of the place.
The stranger looked at him sadly and with surprise, and answered in a dialect that he did not wholly understand; but he guessed at the last words, and rightly.
“Why do you wish to know?”
“I am a traveller,” answered Lek, “and I must remain there until to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” said the man, throwing up his hands. “To-morrow! For us,” pointing to himself, “there is no to-morrow. I must hurry on.”
He strode away towards a faded cottage on the outskirts of the town, leaving Lek to wonder what his mysterious answer could mean.
Lek entered the town. The people were strange to him; every one seemed to be in a hurry. Men and women were talking rapidly, like travellers when taking leave of their friends for a long journey. Indeed, so earnest were their words that they seemed hardly to notice him at all.
He presently met an old woman on a crutch, hurrying along the shadowy street.
“Is this the way to the inn?” he asked.
The old one hobbled on. He followed her.
“Is this the way to the inn? I wish to remain there until to-morrow.”
The cripple turned on her crutch.
“To-morrow!” she said. “Who are you that talk of to-morrow? All the gold of the mountains could not buy a to-morrow. Go back to your own, young man! they may have to-morrows; but my time is short, – I must hurry on.”
Away hobbled the dame; and Lek, wondering at her answer, entered what seemed to him the principal street.
He came at length to the inn; a faded structure, and antique, like a picture of the times of old. There men were drinking and talking; men in gold lace, and with long purses filled with ancient coin.
The landlord was evidently a rich old fellow; he had a girdle of jewels, and was otherwise habited much like a king.
He stared at Lek; so did his jovial comrades.
“Can you give a stranger hospitality until to-morrow?” asked the young student, bowing.
“Until TO-MORROW! Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the innkeeper. “He asks for hospitality until to-morrow!” he added to his six jolly companions.
“To-morrow – ha, ha, ha!” echoed one.
“Ha, ha, ha!” repeated another.
“Ha, ha, ha!” chorused the others, slapping their hands on their knees. “To-morrow!”
Then a solemn look came into the landlord’s face.
“Young man,” said he, “don’t you know, have you not heard? We have no to-morrows; our nights are long, long slumbers; each one is a hundred years.”
The six men were talking now, and the landlord turned from Lek and joined in the conversation eagerly.
The shadows of the long twilight deepened. Men and women ran to and fro in the streets. Every one seemed in a hurry, as though much must be said and done in a brief time.
Presently a great bell sounded in a steeple. The hurrying people paused. Each one uplifted his or her hands, waved them in a circle, and cried, —
“Alas! To-morrow! Hurry, good men, all, good women, all, hurry!”
What did it mean? “Have I gone mad?” asked Lek. “Am I dreaming?”
Near the inn was a green, parched and faded. In the centre was a withered tree; under it was a maiden. She was very fair; her dress was of silk and jewels, and on her arms were heavy bracelets of gold. Unlike the other people, she did not seem hurried and anxious. She appeared to take little interest in the strangely stimulated activities around her.
Lek went to her.
“Pardon a poor student seeking information,” he said. “Your people all treat me rudely and strangely; they will not listen to me. I am a traveller, and I came here civilly, and only asked for food and lodging until to-morrow.”
“To-morrow! The word is a terror to most of them; it is no terror to me. I care not for to-morrows, – they are days of disappointments; I had them once, – I am glad they do not come oftener to me. I shall go to sleep at midnight, here where I was deserted. You are a stranger, I see. You belong to the world; every day has its to-morrow. Go away, away to your own people, and to your own life of to-morrows. This is no place for you here.”
Again the bell sounded. The hurrying people stopped again in the street, and waved their hands wildly, and cried, —
“Haste, haste, good men, all, good women, all. The hour is near. Good men, all, good women, all, hurry!”
It was night now; but the full moon rose over the long line of hills, and behind it appeared a black cloud, from which darted tongues of red flame, followed by mutterings of thunder.
The moon ascended the clear sky like a chariot, and the cloud seemed to follow her like an army, – an awful spectacle that riveted Lek’s gaze and made him apprehensive.
“A storm is coming,” he said. “I must stay here. Tell me, good maiden, where can I find food and shelter?”
“Have you a true heart?”
“I have a true heart. I have always been true to myself; and he who is true to himself is never unfaithful to God or his fellow-men.”
“Then you will be saved when the hour comes. They only go down with us who are untrue. All true hearts have to-morrows.”
The moon ascended higher, and her light, more resplendent, heightened the effect of the blackness of the rising cloud. The lightnings became more vivid, the thunder more distinct.
“You are sure that your heart is true?” said the maiden.
“By the Cross, it is true.”
“Then I have a duty to do. Follow me.”
She rose and walked towards the hill from which Lek had come. Lek followed her. As he passed out of the town the bell sounded: it was the hour of eleven.
The people stopped in the streets as before, waving their hands, and crying, —
“Good men, all, good women, all, hurry! The hour is near. Good men, all, good women, all, hurry!”
The maiden ascended the hill to the very rock from which the student had first seen the town, and under which he had rested.
“Sit you here,” she said, “and do not leave the place until the cocks crow for morning. A true heart never perished with the untrue. My duty is done. Farewell!”
“But the tempest?” said the student. “This is no place of shelter. Let me return with you, only until to-morrow.”
There burst upon the hill a terrific thunder-gust. The maiden was gone, the black cloud swept over the moon, and Lek could no longer discern the town in the valley. Everything around him grew dark. The air seemed to turn into a thick inky darkness.
Fearful flashes of lightning and terrific thunder followed. The wind bent the forest before it; but not a drop of rain fell.
There was a moment’s silence. The bell in the mysterious steeple smote upon the air. It was midnight.
Another hush, as though Nature had ceased to breathe. Then a thunder-crash shook the hills, and seemed to cleave open the very earth.
Lek crossed himself and fell upon his knees. The cloud passed swiftly. The moon came out again, revealing the lovely valley. The village was gone.
In the morning a cowherd came up the hill at the rising of the sun.
“Good morrow,” said Lek. “That was a fearful tempest that we had at midnight.”
“I never heard such thunder,” said the cowherd. “I almost thought that the final day had come. You may well say it was a fearful night, my boy.”
“But what has become of the village that was in the valley yesterday?” asked Lek.
“There is no village in the valley,” said the cowherd. “There never was but one. That was sunk hundreds of years ago; if you saw any village there yesterday it was that: it comes up only once in a hundred years, and then it remains for only a single day. Woe betide the traveller that stops there that day. Unless he have a true heart, he goes down with the town at midnight. The town was cursed because it waxed rich, and became so wicked that there was found in it but one heart that was true.”
“Tell me about this strange village,” said Lek, in fear and awe, recalling his adventure. “I never before heard of a thing so mysterious.”
“It is a sorry story. I will tell it as I have heard it.
“The hills of Reichmanndorf used to abound with gold, and the people of the old town all became rich; but their riches did not make them happy and contented. It made them untrue.
“The more their wealth increased, the more unfaithful they became, until the men met in the market-place daily to defraud each other, and the women’s only purpose in life was to display their vanity.
“At the inn were nightly carousals. The young men thought only of their gains and dissipations. Men were untrue to their families, and lovers to their vows.
“The Sabbath was not kept. The old priest, Van Ness, said masses to the empty aisles.
“In those evil days lived one Frederic Wollin. He was a brave man, and his soul was true.
“It was the custom of this good man to instruct the people in the market-place. But at last none came to hear him.
“One day, near Christmas, the council met. Wine flowed; rude jests went round. The question was discussed as to how these days of selfish delights might be made perpetual.
“A great cry arose: —
“‘Banish the holy days: then all our to-morrows will be as to-day!’
“Then Wollin arose and faced the people. His appearance was met by a tumult, and his words increased the hatred long felt against him.
“‘The days of evil have no to-morrows.’ he said. ‘He that liveth to himself is dead.’
“‘Give him a holy day once in a hundred years!’ cried one.
“The voice was hailed with cheers. The council voted that all future days should be as that day, except that Wollin and the old priest, Van Ness, should have a holy day once in a hundred years.
“Christmas came. No bell was rung; no chant was heard. Easter brought flowers to the woods, but none to the altar. Purple Pentecost filled the forest villages with joy; but here no one cared to recall the descent of the celestial fire except the old priest and Wollin.
“It was such a night as last night when Van Ness and Wollin came out of the church for the last time. The people were drinking at the inn, and dancing upon the green. Spring was changing into deep summer; the land was filled with blooms.
“A party of young men who had been carousing, on seeing Wollin come from the church, set upon him, and compelled him to leave the town. He came up this hill. When he had reached the top, he paused and lifted his face towards heaven, and stretched out his hand. As he did so, a sharp sound rent the valley, and caused the hills to tremble. He looked down. The village had disappeared. Only Van Ness was standing by his side.
“But as the villagers had promised Wollin a holy day once in a hundred years, so once in a hundred years these people are permitted to rise with their village into the light of the sun for a single day. If on that day a stranger visits them whose heart is untrue he disappears with them at midnight. Such is the story. You will hardly believe it true.”
The student crossed himself, and went on his journey towards the Rhine.
“They have one day in a hundred years,” he said. “How precious must that one day be to them! If I enter the ways of evil, and my heart becomes untrue, shall I have one day in one hundred years when life is ended and my account to Heaven is rendered?”
He thought. He read the holy books. He tried to find a single hope for an untrue soul; but he could discover none.
Then he said, —
“The days of evil have no to-morrows, – no, not once in a hundred years. Only good deeds have to-morrows. I will be true: so shall to-morrows open and close like golden doors until time is lost in the eternal.” And his heart remained true.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SONGS OF THE RHINE
The Watchman’s Song. – The Wild Hunt of Lützow. – The Author of the Erl King. – Beethoven’s Boyhood. – The Organ-Tempest of Lucerne
RHINELAND is the land of song. It is the wings of song that have given it its fame. Every town on the Rhine has its own songs; every mountain, hill, and river.
America has few local songs, – few songs of the people. The singers who give voices to rivers, lakes, mountains, and valleys have not yet appeared. The local poets and singers of America are yet to come.
In England, Germany, and some of the provinces of France, every temple, stream, and grove has had its sweet singer.
Go to Basle, and you may hear the clubs singing the heroic songs of Alsace and Lorraine.
Go to Heidelberg, and you may listen to student-songs through which breathe the national spirit of hundreds of years.
The bands tell the story, legend, or romance of such towns at night, wherever they may play.
In one of the public grounds to which the Class went for an evening rest, one of the bands was playing the Fremersberg.
It related an old romance of the region of Baden-Baden: how that a nobleman was once wandering with his dogs in the mountains, and was overtaken by a storm; how he was about to perish when he heard the distant sounds of a monastery bell; how, following the direction of the sound, he heard a chant of priests; and how, at last, he was saved.
The piece was full of melody. The wind, the rain, the horns, the bells, the chant, while they told a story, were all delightfully melodious.
The ballad is almost banished from the intellectual American concert-rooms. In Germany a ballad is a gem, and is so valued. It is the best expression of national life and feeling.
The Class went to hear one of Germany’s greatest singers. She sang an heroic selection, and was recalled. Her first words on the recall hushed the audience: it was a ballad of the four stages of life. It began with an incident of a child dreaming under a rosebush: —
“Sweetly it sleeps and on dream wings flies
To play with the angels in Paradise,
And the years glide by.”
as an English translation gives it.
In the last stanza, the child having passed through the stages of life, was represented as again sleeping under a rosebush. The withered leaves fall upon his grave.
“Withered and dead they fall to the ground,
And silently cover a new-made mound,
And the years glide by.”
These last lines were rendered so softly, yet distinctly, that they seemed like tremulous sounds in the air. The singer’s face hardly appeared to move; every listener was like a statue. The silence was almost painful and impressive. One could but feel this was indeed art, and not a pretentious affectation of it.
The reign of the organ as the monarch of musical instruments began with Charlemagne, and nearly all of the towns on the Rhine have historic organs. Many of the organ pieces are local compositions and imitative. On the great organs at Basle and Frieburg the imitation of storms is sometimes produced.
None of these storm-pieces, however, equal that which is daily played in summer on the organ of Lucerne. This organ tempest more greatly excited the Class than any music that they heard during their journeys; and Master Beal made a record of it in verse, which we give at the close of the chapter.
The children of Germany learn to read music at the same age that they learn to read books. Music is a part of their primary school – Kindergarten – education. The poorest children are taught to sing.
The consequence is that the Germans are a nation of singers. The organ is a power in the church, the military band at the festival, and the ballad in the concert-room and the home.
These ballad-loving people are familiar with the best music. To them music is a language. Says Mayhew, in his elaborate work on the Rhine, in speaking of the free education in music in Germany: “To tickle the gustatory nerves with either dainty food or drink costs some money; but to be able to reproduce the harmonious combinations of a Beethoven or a Weber, or to make the air tremble melodiously with some sweet and simple ballad, or even to recall the sonorous solemnities of some prayerful chorus or fine thanksgiving in an oratorio, is not only to fill the heart and brain with affections too deep for words, but it is to be able to taste as high a pleasure as the soul is capable of knowing, and yet one that may be had positively for nothing.”
It is to be regretted that so much of the good music of Germany is performed in the beer-gardens. The too free use of the glass and the pipe cannot tend to make the nation strong for the future; and one cannot long be charmed with the music and mirth of such places without fearing for the losses that may follow.
All trades and occupations have their own songs, even the humblest. Take for example the pleasing Miller’s Song, which catches the spirit of his somewhat poetic yet homely calling: —
“To wander is the miller’s joy,
To wander!
What kind of miller must he be,
Who ne’er hath yearned to wander free?
To wander!
“From water we have learned it, yes,
From water!
It knows no rest by night or day,
But wanders ever on its way,
Does water.
“We see it by the mill-wheels, too,
The mill-wheels!
They ne’er repose, nor brook delay,
They weary not the livelong day,
The mill-wheels.
“The stones, too, heavy though they be,
The stones, too,
Round in the giddy circle dance,
Ee’n fain more quickly would advance,
The stones would.
“To wander, wander, my delight,
To wander!
O master, mistress, on my way
Let me in peace depart to-day,
And wander!”
Wilhelm Müller.
The watchman, too, has his peculiar songs. One of these is very solemn and stately. A favorite translation of it begins: —
“Hark ye, neighbors, and hear me tell
Eight now strikes the loud church bell.”
An almost literal translation thus reproduces the grand themes which were made to remind the old guardians of the night in their ghostly vigils: —
THE WATCHMAN’S SONG
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of eight, good sirs, has struck.
Eight souls alone from death were kept,
When God the earth with deluge swept:
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of nine, good sirs, has struck.
Nine lepers cleansed returned not; —
Be not thy blessings, man, forgot!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of ten, good sirs, has struck.
Ten precepts show God’s holy will; —
Oh, may we prove obedient still!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour eleven, good sirs, has struck.
Eleven apostles remained true; —
May we be like that faithful few!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of twelve, good sirs, has struck.
Twelve is of Time the boundary; —
Man, think upon eternity!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of one, good sirs, has struck.
One God alone reigns over all;
Nought can without his will befall:
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of two, good sirs, has struck.
Two ways to walk has man been given:
Teach me the right, – the path to heaven!
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of three, good sirs, has struck.
Three Gods in one, exalted most,
The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
Man wakes and watches all in vain.
Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!
Hark, while I sing! our village clock
The hour of four, good sirs, has struck.
Four seasons crown the farmer’s care; —
Thy heart with equal toil prepare!
Up, up! awake, nor slumber on!
The morn approaches, night is gone!
Thank God, who by his power and might
Has watched and kept us through this night!
The Class devoted an autumn evening to singing the songs of the Rhine; the “Watch on the Rhine,” the “Loreley,” the student-songs, folk-songs, and some of the chorals of Luther. The song that proved most inspiring was the “Wild Chase of Lützow.” Master Beal awakened a deep interest in this song before it was sung, by relating its history.
“THE WILD HUNT OF LÜTZOW.”
All musical ears are familiar with the refrain: “Yes, ’tis the hunt of Lützow the free and the bold,” – if not with these exact words, with other words of the same meaning. The music of C. M. Von Weber has carried the “hunt” of Lützow over the world. The song and music alike catch the spirit and the movement of a corps of cavalry bent on the destruction of an enemy. One sees the flying horsemen in the poem, and hears them in the music. It was one of the few martial compositions that starts one to one’s feet, and stirs one’s blood with the memory of heroic achievements.
I will give you one of the most vigorous translations. Longfellow has adopted it in his “Poems of Places.” It catches the spirit of the original, and very nearly reproduces the original thought.
LÜTZOW’S WILD CHASE
What gleams from yon wood in the bright sunshine?
Hark! nearer and nearer ’tis sounding;
It hurries along, black line upon line,
And the shrill-voiced horns in the wild chase join,
The soul with dark horror confounding:
And if the black troopers’ name you’d know,
’Tis Lützow’s wild Jäger, – a-hunting they go!
From hill to hill, through the dark wood they hie,
And warrior to warrior is calling;
Behind the thick bushes in ambush they lie,
The rifle is heard, and the loud war-cry,
In rows the Frank minions are falling:
And if the black troopers’ name you’d know,
’Tis Lützow’s wild Jäger, – a-hunting they go!
Where the bright grapes glow, and the Rhine rolls wide,
He weened they would follow him never;
But the pursuit came like the storm in its pride,
With sinewy arms they parted the tide,
And reached the far shore of the river;
And if the dark swimmers’ name you’d know,
’Tis Lützow’s wild Jäger, – a-hunting they go!
How roars in the valley the angry fight;
Hark! how the keen swords are clashing!
High-hearted Ritter are fighting the fight,
The spark of Freedom awakens bright,
And in crimson flames it is flashing:
And if the dark Ritters’ name you’d know,
’Tis Lützow’s wild Jäger, – a-hunting they go!
Who gurgle in death, ’mid the groans of the foe,
No more the bright sunlight seeing?
The writhings of death on their face they show,
But no terror the hearts of the freemen know.
For the Franzmen are routed and fleeing;
And if the dark heroes’ name you’d know,
’Tis Lützow’s wild Jäger, – a-hunting they go!
The chase of the German, the chase of the free,
In hounding the tyrant we strained it!
Ye friends, that love us, look up with glee!
The night is scattered, the dawn we see,
Though we with our life-blood have gained it!
And from sire to son the tale shall go:
’Twas Lützow’s wild Jäger that routed the foe!
Lützow, the cavalry hero of Prussia, in the German war for freedom against the rule of Napoleon, was born in 1782. He was a famous hunter, and when Europe arose against Bonaparte in 1813, he called for volunteers of adventurous spirit for cavalry service: “hunters” of the enemy, who should hang about the French army, and, with the destructive vigilance of birds or beasts of prey, give the enemy no rest on the German side of the Rhine.
The boldest young men of Germany rushed to Lützow; noblemen, students, foresters. His corps of cavalry became the terror of the French army. The enemy could never tell where they would be found.
Among the young volunteers was Körner, the young German poet. He was a slender young man; but he had an heroic soul, and the cavalry corps of the fiery Lützow seemed to him the place for it. He joined the “wild hunters” in 1813.
“Germany rises,” he said. “The Prussian eagle beats her wings; there is hope of freedom.
“I know what happiness can fruit for me in life; I know that the star of fortune shines upon me; but a mighty feeling and conviction animates me: no sacrifice can be too great for my country’s freedom!”
The words glow.
He added, —
“I must forth, – I must oppose my breast to the storm. Can I celebrate the deeds of others in song, and not dare with them the danger?”
Körner’s battle-songs became firebrands. He consecrated himself to his country in the village church near Zobten. He wrote the battle-hymn for the occasion, which was a service for the departing volunteers.
“We swore,” he said, “the oath of fidelity to our cause. I fell upon my knees and implored God’s blessing. The oath was repeated by all, and the officers swore it on their swords. Then Martin Luther’s ‘A Mighty Fortress is our God’ concluded the ceremony.”
He wrote a thrilling war-song on the morning of the battle of Danneberg, May 12, 1813. It ended with these words: —
“Hark! hear ye the shouts and the thunders before ye?
On, brothers, on, to death and to glory!
We’ll meet in another, a happier sphere!”
On May 28, 1813, Major Von Lützow determined to set out on an expedition towards Thuringia, with his young cavalry and with Cossacks. Körner begged to accompany him. Lützow commissioned him as an officer. He was wounded, and left for a time helpless in a wood, on the 17th of June. In this condition he wrote his famous “Farewell to Life.”
“My deep wound burns,” &c.
Körner recovered, but was suddenly killed in an engagement on August 26th.
The “Sword Song” of Körner which Von Weber’s music has made famous, was written a few hours before his death. It was an inspiration to the German cause.
“Lützow’s Wild Chase” thrilled Prussia. Like the “Watch on the Rhine” in the recent war, it was the word that fired the national pride, and nerved men to deeds that crowned the cause with glory.
“The Rhine! the Rhine!” shouted the young German heroes at last, looking down on the river.
“Is there a battle?” asked the officers, dashing on in the direction of the shout.
“No, the enemy has gone over the Rhine,” was the answer. “The Rhine! the Rhine!”
Mr. Beal introduced a number of selections from German composers, the loved tone-poets, with interesting stories and anecdotes. We reproduce a part of these musical incidents, as they properly belong to the history of the river of song.
Taking up a selection from Schubert’s famous symphony, he spoke feelingly of the author, and then gave some pictures of the lives of Beethoven and Bach.
THE AUTHOR OF THE ERL KING
Poor Schubert! The composer of what operas, symphonies, overtures, choruses, masses, cantatas, sonatas, fantasias, arias! What tenderness was in his soul! – Listen to the “Last Greeting;” what fancy and emotion! listen to the “Fisher Maiden” and “Post Horn;” what refinement! listen to the “Serenade;” what devotion! hear the “Ave Maria”!
Dead at the age of thirty-one; dead after a life of neglect, leaving all these musical riches behind him!
Franz Schubert was born at Himmelpfortgrand, in 1797. His father was a musician, but a poor man. Franz was placed at the age of eleven among the choir-boys of the Court Chapel, where he remained five years, absorbed in musical studies, and making himself the master of the leading instruments of the orchestra.
To compose music was his life. His restless genius was ever at work; always seeking to produce something new, something better. The old masters, and especially Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, were his sources of study and inspiration. Music became his world, and all outside of it was strange and unexplored. All of his moods found expression in music: his love, his hopes, his wit, his sadness, and his dreams.
He seems to have composed his best works for the pure love of his art, with little thought of money or fame. Many of his best works he never heard performed. He left his manuscript scores scattered about his rooms, and so they were found in confusion after his decease.
A monument was erected to his memory. On it is the following simple but touching inscription: —
“The art of music buried here a rich possession, but yet far fairer hopes. Franz Schubert lies here. Born on the 30th of January, 1797, died on the 19th of November, 1828, thirty-one years old.”
