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SOJIL PAGES TRO Pl PIT SCRAP ROOK
DYING WITH A SONG ON HIS LIPS.
The Fate of Nicholls Crouch, Author
of “Kathleen Mavourneen.”
Baltimore, March 25. —Tn an humble
house on a retired street in this city
an old man is dying, whose life is
a romance from its first chapter to
its fast approaching end. They say—
those who watch him —that at times
in his illness his mind wanders and
he hums and thrums the old songs.
There is infinite sadness in this, for
the songs this old man sings are the
songs he wrote years ago; songs which
men and women on every continent
have sung and will sing, doubtless,
for decades to come.
The song which the dying old man
repeats most often is “Kathleen Mav
oureen,” and the singer and the au
thor is Frederick Nicholls Crouch. It
is not extravagant praise to class
him as a genius. He is 84 now, and
the world has forgotten him; but at
50 he was in the prime of a career
which had been continuously honora
ble and notable, and which bade fair
to bring forth even better triumphs.
In those days Professor Nicholls
Crouch was one of the famous musi
cians and composers of the world.
Twenty years later, by a strange suc
cession of vicissitudes, he had fallen
into obscurity and poverty, and was a
day laborer at wages hardly sufficient
to feed his numerous family.
His Strange Daughter.
In one respect he had long been pe
culiarly sensitive, though at the cost
of censure, for in his action was in
volved the question of a famous wo
man’s paternity. That woman was
Cora Pearl. No greater demi-mondaine
ever lived than this once queen of Par
isian badness. According to her own
statement, made in her published me
moirs, Frederick Nicholls Crouch was
her father. She told the story of her
birth so circumstantially as to con
vince all who read it of its truth, but
from Crouch there was no confirma
tion, though he never uttered an ex
plicit denial. He simply went back
into his hermitage, and there he is
dying.
Cora Pearl would not now need men
tion but for the memories awakened
by the sad condition of the man she
called father. He has deserved bet
ter luck, surely. Not only Irishmen
the world over, but every person who
loves graceful music and has a soft
spot in his heart, will regret to hear
that the man who wrote “Kathleen
Mavourneen” is passing away. He was
the friend and companion of the writ
er of “Home, Sweet Home”; of Sheri
dan Knowles, the dramatist; of Mrs.
Hernans, that sweet and gentle poet
ess, and of Mrs. Crawford. It was
Mrs. Crawford’s pen that gave to
Crouch the inspiration for his best
song, for the words of “Kathleen Mav
ourneen” are hers:
Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy
slumbers,
The blue mountains glow in the
sun’s golden light;
Ah! where is the spell that once hung
on my numbers?
Arise, in thy beauty, thou star of my
night!
Crouch a Born Musician.
Nicholls Crouch was a born musi
cian. His grandfather was an organ
ist, and at 9 the grandson played the
bass in a theater orchestra. At 21
he was violincellist before Rossini and
WATSON’S WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN.
a little later he was at the Drury Lane
in London, famous and accomplished.
There he wrote his first songs—“ Zep
hyrs of Love,” for Miss Annie Tree,
and “The Swiss Song of Meeting,” for
the celebrated Mme. Balibran. There,
too, he formed his friendship with
John Howard Payne, and when that
equally unfortunate genius produced
his opera, “Glari, the Maid of Milan,”
at the Drury Lane, Crouch directed
the orchestra. In that opera, “Home,
Sweet Home” was sung for the first
time on any . stage. It was years af
terward that Crouch composed “Kath
leen Mavourneen.” Mrs. Crawford had
sent the words to him. The melody,
he once said, came to him as by an
inspiration while he was riding on
horseback along the banks of the Ta
mar river in England. He sang the
ballad in Plymouth, and its success
was instantaneous. Then followed
from his pen the songs, “Would I Were
with Thee,” “Sing to Me, Nora,” “We
Parted in Silence,” and others. All of
them save the first named are for
gotten. All of them have been re
published in this country. “Kathleen
Mavourneen,” is believed to have made
nearly $75,000 for those who have sold
it, yet not a cent of compensation w r as
ever received by Crouch himself.
BEETHOVEN’S MOONLIGHT
SONATA.
It happened at Bonn. One moon
light winter’s evening I called upon
Beethoven, for I wanted him to take
a walk, and afterward sup with me.
In passing through some dark, nar
row street, he paused suddenly.
“Hush!” he said —“what sound is that?
It is from my sonata in F!” he said,
eagerly. “Hark! how well it is play
ed!”
It was a little, mean dwelling, and
we paused outside and listened. The
player went on; but in the midst of
the finale there was a sudden break,
then the voice of sobbing. “I can not
play any more. It is so beautiful, it
is utterly beyond my pow r er to do it
justice. Oh, what would I not give to
go to the concert at Cologne!”
“Ah, my sister,” said her companion,
“why create regrets, when there is no
remedy? We can scarcely pay our
rent.”
“You are right; and yet I wish for
once in my life to hear some really
good music. But it is of no use.”
Beethoven looked at me. “Let us go
in,” he said.
“Go in!” I exclaimed. “What can
we go in for?’'
“I will play to her,” he said, in an
excited tone. “Here is feeling—genius
—understanding. I will play to her,
and she will understand it.” And, be
fore I could prevent him, his hand was
upon the door.
A pale young man was siting by the
table, making shoes; and near him,
leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fash
ioned harpsichord, sat a young girl,
with a profusion of light hair falling
over her bent face. Both were clean
ly but very poorly dressed, and both
started and turned toward us as we
entered.
“Pardon me,” said Beethoven, “but
I heard music, and was tempted to
enter. I am a musician.”
The girl blushed, and the young man
looked grave—somewhat annoyed.
“I —I also overheard something of
what you said,” continued my friend.
“You wish to hear —that is, you would
like —that is—Shall I play for you?"
“Thank you!” said the shoemaker;
“but our harpsichord is so wretched,
and we have no music.”
“No music!” echoed my friend.
“How, then, does the Fraulein —”
He paused, and colored up, for the
girl looked full at him, and he saw
that she was blind.
“I —I entreat your pardon! ”he stam
mered. “But I had not perceived be
fore. Then you play by ear?”
“Entirely.”
“And where do you hear the music,
since you frequent no concerts?”
“I used to hear a lady practicing
near us, when we lived in Bruhl two
years ago. During the summer even
ings her windows were generally open,
and I walked to and fro outside to
listen to her.”
She seemed shy; so Beethoven said
no more, but seated himself quietly
before the piano, ami began to play.
He had no sooner struck the first
chord than I knew what would follow
—how grand he would be that night.
And I was not mistaken. Never, du
ring all the years I knew him, did I
hear him play as he then played to
that blind girl and her brother. He
■was inspired; and from the instant
when his fingers began to wander
along the keys, the very tone of the
instrument began to grow sweeter and
more equal.
The brother and sister were silent
with wonder and rapture. The foim
er laid aside his work; the latter, with
her head bent slightly forward, and
her hands pressed tightly over her
breast, crouched down near the end of
the harpischord, as if fearful lest even
the beating of her heart should break
the flow of those magical, sweet
sounds. It was as if we were all
bound in a strange dream, and only
feared to wake.
Suddenly the flame of the single
candle wavered, sank, flickered, and
went out. Beethoven paused, and 1
threw open the shutters, admitting a
flood of brilliant moonlight. The room
was almost as light as before, and
the illumination fell strongest upon
the piano and player. But the chain
of hi* ideas seemed to have been
broken by the accident. His head
dropped upon his breast; his hands
rested upon his knees; he seemed
absorbed in meditation. It was thus
for some time.
At length the young shoemaker
rose, and approached him eagerly, yet
reverently. “Wonderful man!” he
said, in a low tone. “Who and what
are you?”
The composer smiled as he only
could smile, benevolently, indulgent
ly, kingly. “Listen!” he said, and he
played the opening bars of the sonata
in F.
A cry of delight and recognition
burst from them both, and exclaiming
“Then you are Beethoven!” they cov
ered his hands with tears and kisses.
He rase to go, but we held aim back
with enreaties.
“Play to us once more--only once
more!”
He suffered himself to be led oack
to the instrument. The moon shone
brightly in through the window and
lit up his glorious, rugged head and
massive figure. “I will improvise a
sonata to the moonlight!” looking up
thoughtfully to the sky and stars.
Then his hands dropped on the keys,
and he began playing a sad and li>fin
itely lovely movement, which crept
gently over the instrument like the
calm flow of moonlight over the dark
earth.
This was followed by a wild, el
fin passage in triple time —a sort of
grotesque interlude, like the dance
of sprites upon the sward. Then came
a swift agitato finale —a breathless,
hurrying, trembling movement, de
scriptive of flight and uncertainty,
and vague, impulsive terror, which
carried us away on its rustling wings,
and left us all in emotion and wonder.
“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven,
pushing back his chair and turning to
ward the door —“farewell to you!”
“You will come again?” asked they,
in one breath.
He paused, and looked compassion
ately, almost tenderly, at the face of
the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said, hur
riedly, “I will come again, and give
the Fraulein some lessons. Farewell!
1 will soon come again!”
They followed us in silence more
'eloquent than words, and stood at
their door till we were out of sight
and hearing.
“Let us make haste back,” said
Beethoven, “that I amy write out that
sonata while I can remember it.”
We did so, and he sat over it till
long past dawn. And this was the
origin of that moonlight sonata with
which we are all so fondly acquainted.
THE LAST MAN.
All wordly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality.
I naw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to weep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mold,
That shall Creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare;
The Earth with age was wan;
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth’s cities had no sound or tread,
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb.
Yet p.’ophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sear leaves from the
wood,
As if a storm passed by,
Saying: “We are twins in death, proud
Sun;
Thy face is cold, thy race is run;
’Tis Mercy bids thee go;
For thou, ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
•<
i i
“This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory.
And took the sting from Death!
“Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature’s awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup
Os grief that man shall taste —
Go, tell the Night that hides thy face,
Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race.
On Earth’s sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!”
—Thomas Campbell,
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