Welcome Musical & Home Journal from Topeka, Kansas • 6

mortal. Who would to-day know that Laura or Beatrix iad ever existed, if two great poets had not loved them? And when will she come? asks Schubert, anxiously. At this moment, two gentle taps were heard at the door. That is probably she said the singer, as he went to open the door. Schuberts whole soul seemed to pass into his eyes, and he bent forward panting with emotion.

It was not Caroline, but her footman, who came to announce coming. We cannot here relate the details of the ast interview between Schubert and her whom he oved. We can only say that the young woman (for she had been married now five years) was affectionate, without ceasing to be a high-born lady, and gave Schubert all the proofs of a sisters love. As for him, with beating heart, his face illumined by the radiant reflections of his genius, his love anl his happiness three beauties he seemed transfigured. At the end of an hour, which to the sick man seemed short as a minute, Caroline arose and gave him her hand saying Adieu, my dear master.

Adieu, Madame 1 answered Schubert, as he pressed his lips upon the beautiful hand which she yielded to him. Adieu, Franz, adieu! she repeated. And as, at the thought that she would never again see him, that he was about to die, perhaps for love of her, she felt a flood of tears filling up her eyes, now full of love or tender pity for the poor martyr, she herself pressed her hand to his lips and fled. Schubert remained silent until evening, and Vogl did not disturb his reverie. It was getting dusk, but the light of day had not altogether lefc the room of the dying composer, when he called his friend.

What do you wish? said he, hastening to his side. Help me to the piano! said Schubert; I feel something there! ho said, trying to point to his forehead. And, assisted by his friend, he arose, saying: Adieu! who knows? Then, as he sat at his piano, he grasped Vogls hand and said; I feel very happy, my friend! Then his fingers ran over the keyboard, abstractedly at first, as if asking of the ivory keys only murmurs or sighs; then his touch grew more firm, inspiration took possession of him, and he improvised the swans song, which everybody knows to-day under the name of Schuberts Adieu. Four days later, on the 19th of November, 1828, old Vogl was weeping beside a coffin, and the next day Schubert was buried, as he had wished to be, by the side of Beethoven. American Musician.

A FAMOUS DOCTORS ADVICE TO SINGERS. From a New Book hg I)r, Monel Richardson, London. Women singers should walk not less than three miles a day men not less than six, and taking cold not be dreaded if the boots are thick enough. As regards artificial stimulants for special occasions, if a man fancies that a thing does him good, it is no doubt often really beneficial to him. If he is deprived of a thing that he believes to be necessary ho will be apt to fail for that very reason.

I recommend vocalists to take whatever they suppose to be helpful to them. MblociiKuk is the new name of a musical bicycle so fashioned that the rider can kick out melodies, waltzes and reels as he travels along the road. Now, darling, will you grant me one favor before I go? Yes, George, I will, she said, dropping her eyelashes and getting her lips in shape. What is the favor I can grant you? Only a liitle song at the piano, love. I am afraid there is a dog outnide waiting for me, and I want to scare him 4 away.

much, bowed his head, to conceal from her the tears which suddenly filled his eyes, stammered out a few incoherent words of excuse and regret, and left the salon with tottering footsteps and a broken heart. From that day, the intercourse of the two young people became very different from what it had been before; a ceremonious politeness took the place of Carolines affectionate familiarity she ceased taking her lessons regularly, as if they had become painful or disagreeable, and carefully avoided being alone with her poetical but poor lover, who, reminded of the humbleness of his station by the legitimate coldness of the Counts daughter, and attributing it to disdain, endeavored upon his side to keep within himself the fire which consumed him. lie became more eccentric and taciturn than ever, his rambles over the country became more frequent and protracted, and from that time were manifested the first symptoms of the disease of which he died a few years later. It will readily be understood that, under these circumstances, and notwithstanding the material advantages furnished by his employment and by the kindness of Count Esterhazy, Schubert felt the need of recovering his freedom. This he did as soon as they had returned to Vienna.

He hoped that distance, absence, hard work, the love of his art, and his dreams of glory would soon free him from a passion which he recognized as foolish. But it was otherwise. The heart of a poet is of wax to receive impressions, but of adamant to keep them. It was in vain, therefore, that he harkened to the songs of birds, that he opened his soul to every breath of inspiration, that he poured over Schiller and Goethe, and imparted to their thoughts a charm which the poetry of words cannot rfender it was in vain that he wrote nearly 1,000 compositions, of which GOO are songs, or Lieder that he composed the Magic Harp Rosamond, Fie r-a-Bras (considered as his masterpiece in that line), and twelve other operas that he set to music Klopstocks famous Hallelujah, and immortalized himself in his celebrated symphony in major nothing could cure him of the love which bore him away upon its fatal breath, even as the last blast of lingering winter bears to the grave in its cold embrace the too early rose of the first days of May, which it has wantonly broken from its parent stem. Notwithstanding the number and excellence of his works, Schubert remained poor, and, but for Vogls devoted friendship, he would probably have remained unknown through life.

This celebrated singer was already aged when he became acquainted with the composer, but the hearts of artists never grow old, they say, and a devoted friendship soon united these two choice souls. Therefore Vogl, the singer most appreciated in all the salons of the Viennese aristocracy, understood and rendered better than any one else the Lieder composed by the friend whose genius and whose heart he knew so well for Schubert told him all his thoughts. It was through the popularity which the old artist then enjoyed that Schubert was enabled to hear the first flattering murmurs, which were the forerunners of the opinion which to-day places him by the side of Beethoven. Ten years elapsed, and Schubert reached the close of his short career, without having forgotten for a single day the beloved one of whom he had made an idol, the personification of all his poetical dreamB, the muse who inspire! him, the divinity of whom all his thoughts were and to whom they were all dedicated. But though his love remained strong and his thought fruitful, because it was like a fervent prayer the more fervent, indeed, because it came from a bruised heart his body was worn out the trenchant blade destroyed its sheath and in the month of November, 1828, consumption, which for ten years had undermined his constitution, had reached in him its last stages.

At the beginning of this month he was already unable to leave his easy chair without the assistance of his old friend Vogl, with whom ho talked over his life, so full and yetjso short, bo glorious in its abors, so sorrowful through his love, and so troubled jy the blind and stupid goddess we call Fortune. And yet he talked almost gaily of the days when ho was hungry, and of those when he had no paper upon which to write his compositions but when he spoke of the time he had spent near her, the tears came to his eyes, or he kept a silence whose bitterness his friend well understood. Oh, if I could see her, speak to her once more, touch her hand, kiss the hem of her dress, before dying, I should go happy and without regret he would sometimes say, when he awoke from those silent reveries. And thus the days went by; Vogl no longer sang in the world of art, whenever musicians or poets met they said Do you know Schubert is going to die! And the sick man heard again the voices of his childhood murmur vague melodies which he could neither remember nor repeat, but which he still loved to hear. And this echo of the angelic concerts, recalling to him her of whom he had sung in all his songs, deified in his heart, and whom he was nevermore to see, his thin face would grow sorrowful, and two tears would run Oown his cheeks, withered by a ten years martyrdom.

At these times Vogl would grasp his hand, and SchubeH would cast upon his faithful friend a woful look and then try to smile, but his smile was sadder still than the tears which had preceded it. You know how consumptives die they retain their senses to the last their death is usually devoid of suffering, and preceded by a noticeable improvement; the patient becomes hopeful, and those who surround him, especially those who love him, share in his illusion. On the 15th of November, Schubert entered upon this deceitful and final phase of the disease which carried him away. Although it was very cold, the weather was fine, and Schubert, seated by the window, was eagerly looking outside. His attention was divided between the bustle of the street and the play of the sunshine on the one hand, and on the other by the peculiar behavior of his old friend Vogl, who, with a caie and skill worthy of the best of housekeepers, was setting to rights his friends chamber.

What the deil are you doing? said Schubert, at last, much mystified for this care was not in keeping with the habits of the singer, who had all the proverbial carelessness of the artist. Why, I mu straightening things up a little around here, he said with just a shade of embarrassment; and, almost immediately, he added For with your papers, books, scores instruments, there is scarcely a vacant chai, and, if any one should come to see you Why, who should come to see me, unless it should be some comrade whom you will shock with all your care, and who Who knows? interrupted Vogl, with a smile, which he meant to make enigmatical, but which, on the contrary, was so expressive that Schubert looked at him in veritable stupor. Well, yeBl gaid Vogl, being no longer able to resist the desire to tell the sick man the pleasure he had prepared for him. You saw her you asked her you dared Oh, my God! continued he, clasping his hands and closing his eyes as if the prospect of so much bliss dazzled him and his lips framed some inaudible words. Did I dare? cried Vogl, happy and proud of his friends joy.

Why, I should have kidnapped her if she had not consented to come. Havent you told me a hundted times that you wished to And she deigned to promise? she will be so good as Come, now, interrupted Vogl again, with a sort of impatience, you are altogether too modest I Wha, is the daughter of Count Esterhazy A wealthy and noble young woman, like a hundred others at Court, who would be forgotten by every one in less than twenty years if your love were not to make her im- ().