صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

His Iago was much like mine, likewise his stage direction; But what cared Ed what critics said, since I made no objection?

Ah me! that day is past; the play has lost its honored station;

Who reads aright rage, sorrow, fright, or tragic desolation? Aye, who can reach to Hamlet's speech, "To be or not to be?" Or wild Macbeth's cry, "Never shake thy gory locks at me!"

Or Lear's appeal: "Oh, let me not be mad, sweet Heavens, not mad!"

Or Shylock's rage: "I'll have me bond!" Ah me! it makes me sad

To think it all, and then recall the drama of me youth, When there were two who read lines true; and the other one was Booth.

-New York Sun.

LANGLEY LANE.-ROBERT BUCHANAN.

In all the land, range up, range down,

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet
As Langley Lane in London town,

Just out of the bustle of square and street?
Little white cottages all in a row,

Gardens where bachelor's-buttons grow,

Swallows' nests in roof and wall,

And up above the still blue sky

Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by,-
I seem to be able to see it all!

For now, in summer, I take my chair,

And sit outside in the sun, and hear

The distant murmur of street and square,

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near;
And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running many a time each day,

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind;
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek,
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak,—
For Fanny is dumb, and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear;
And I am older by summers three.

Why should we hold one another so dear?

Because she cannot utter a word,
Nor hear the music of bee or bird,

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call; Because I have never seen the sky,

Nor the little singers that hum and fly,
Yet know she is gazing upon them all.

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low;
And I hear the water-cart go by,

With its cool splash-splash, down the dusty row:
And the little one close at my side perceives
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,

Where birds are chirping in summer shine,
And I hear, though I cannot look; and she,
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see;
And the little soft fingers flutter in mine!
Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,
When it stirs on my palm for the love of me?
Do I not know she is pretty and young?
Hath not my soul an eye to see?

'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,

That I only hear as they pass around;
And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,

And Iam happy to keep God's sound.

Why, I know her face, though I am blind;
I made it of music long ago,-

Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow;
And when I sit by my little one,
And hold her hand, and talk in the sun,
And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,

And guessing how gentle my voice must be,
And seeing the music upon my face.

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer (I know the fancy is only vain),

I should pray just once, when the weather is fair.
To see little Fanny, and Langley Lane;

Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear,

The song of the birds, the hum of the street,-
It is better to be as we have been,

Each keeping up something unheard, unseen,

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet.

Ah, life is pleasant in Langley Lane!

There is always something sweet to hear,-
Chirping of birds, or patter of rain,

And Fanny, my little one, always near.
And though I am weakly and can't live long,
And Fanny my darling is far from strong,
And though we can never married be,
What then, since we hold one another so dear
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,
And the pleasure that only one can see?

BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.

It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called on Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing through some dark narrow street he suddenly paused. "Hush!” he said, "what sound is that? It is from my symphony in F," he said eagerly. "Hark, how well it is played!"

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 a voice sobbing: "I can not play any more-it is so beautiful, it is so utterly beyond my power 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 before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door.

A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly 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?"

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.

"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."

66

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 stammered; "but I had not perceived before. Then you play from ear?" "Entirely."

"And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?"

I used to hear a lady practising near us, when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings 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, and 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, during 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 that 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 former 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 harpsichord 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, sunk, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I 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 his 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, indulgently, kindly. "Listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony in F.

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "Then you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties: "Play to us once more, only once more!"

He suffered himself to be led back 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

« السابقةمتابعة »