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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, PAGE THREE