BY R. DAVEY.

I am a professor of music, and was born so long ago as the last century, at Salsberg, in Germany. My father was a merchant of that city; fanatico per la musica, as the Italians say, music mad. Knowing that each of his children would inherit a fair fortune, he permitted us to somewhat neglect our other studies, so that we might dedicate more time to his beloved science. My two sisters played remarkably well on the spinet, and sang finely. Karl, my only brother, was the flautist of the family, and I devoted myself to the violin. At sixteen years of age I believed myself an adept on this difficult instrument. My violin was my constant companion. Nothing gave me more pleasure than to take my dear “Fortunato,” for so I called it, into the woods, and there, by the murmuring brook, beneath the rustling trees, improvise new airs and vary old ones, to my heart’s content.

So greatly did my father delight in displaying the talents of his children, that he organized every Thursday afternoon an amateur concert, at which at least a quarter of the town assisted—to listen to, admire, or criticise, about as much music as could possibly be crowded into a three hours’ performance. One fine Thursday afternoon in autumn, just as the first of our pieces was concluded, a very singular-looking individual entered the concert-room. He was as thin and pale as an unearthly apparition, and entirely dressed in shabby garments of light blue corduroy. His well-worn knee-breeches were blue, his jacket was blue, his vest was blue, and the huge cravat that fastened his great flapping shirt-collar was also blue. His face was the most melancholy in expression it is possible to imagine. He had a big, hooked nose, thin lantern jaws, and the only redeeming feature which he possessed, his dark and intelligent eyes, were hidden by a pair of goggle spectacles. His hair was bright red and uncut, and his beard seemed as if it had never been trimmed since it first began to grow.

He did not attempt to apologize for his intrusion into our company, but without looking to the right or to the left made straight for a vacant seat, and taking it, prepared to listen to the music with marked attention. It was my turn to play, but I was so confused, so utterly by the appearance of this strange personage, that when I struck my violin with the bow my hand trembled so much that I could not produce a sound. I tried again and again, and was about to give it up in despair when the Man in Blue rose from his seat and came directly to me. “Young man,” said he, “you have a more difficult instrument there than you think; hand it to me, I will play in your stead.” I mechanically gave him “Fortunato.” Presently he began. Never in all my life had I before heard such playing. The instrument seemed to have within its wooden frame a divine soul, capable of expressing every possible emotion—joy, grief, passionate agony, and triumphant jubilee. We were all amazed and delighted, and at the termination of his concerto such a burst of enthusiastic applause greeted the singular performer that he seemed quite overcome and confused. However, he bowed his acknowledgments, though in the most grotesque fashion.

It happened that we were on the eve of a grand annual musical festival, at which some of the greatest musicians of Germany had declared their intention of being present. My father, naturally concluding that our guest was some celebrated maestro, who had arrived incognito, hastened to thank him for the favor he had conferred upon us, and also to offer him the hospitality of his house during his stay in our town. The Man in Blue at first refused, then hesitated, and finally accepted my father’s pressing invitation.

For one week we surrounded him with every attention, and he, by his gentle manners and genius, soon won our affection and respect. But all our attempts to find out who he was and whence he came proved vain; he took no notice of our discreet hints, and not one of us dared to ask the question point-blank. He set himself to work to teach me a great many things about the violin of which I was previously ignorant, and to this curious man I owe many of my greatest triumphs. “My son,” he would say, “love music; music is the food of the soul—the only possession we have on earth which we shall retain in Heaven.”

If a stranger happened to pay us a visit, our new friend would immediately take refuge in the garden. He liked to be alone with Karl, myself, and his violin. One day a merchant named Krebbs arrived on business which he had to transact with my father, and as he entered he stumbled against the Man in Blue, who was making good his escape. The poor violinist, on perceiving merchant Krebbs, became as pale as death, tottered to a seat in the garden, and covered with confusion, hid his face in his hands.

“Well, I am sure,” said Krebbs to my father, “you are an odd man to take in that creature. Why, I thought he was in prison, or drowned, or run over.”

“You know him then?” asked my father, with ill-disguised curiosity.

“Know him—of course I do. Why, his name is BÈze; he is a carpenter by trade. But, bless you, he’s as mad as a March hare. Some time ago our church-organ was struck by lightning. BÈze came forward at once, and proposed to mend it, provided the parish furnished him the materials. As he was known for a good musician and a clever workman, our curÉ granted his request. To work went he; night and day he labored for at least six weeks. At last the organ was mended, BÈze struck a chord or so, and it appeared better than ever. The day arrived for the first public hearing of the renovated instrument; the mayor—all the village, in short, was present; and BÈze himself did not fail to appear, attired as usual in blue. Blue is his color. He made some vow or other, years ago, to the Virgin, never to wear any other but her colors—blue and white. I tell you he is crazy. But to return to the organ. When our old organist began to play upon it, not a sound would it produce—except when he pulled the new stop out. Off went the organ, whoo whee, and then it set to squeaking and whistling like mad. The girls began to laugh, the mayor to swear, and the curÉ grew furious. BÈze is a fool—BÈze is an idiot—he has ruined the organ! cried every one, and soon amid the derision of the congregation, your friend left the church. Strange to say, since that day we have never again seen the creature; but our organ is completely spoilt, and remains dumb.”

Thus spoke merchant Krebbs. I would hear no more, but hurried out to console my poor friend. I found him beneath an apple-tree, sitting all forlorn, his face turned towards the sinking sun. “Ah! my young friend,” he said, “do you see yon little cloud which obscures the splendor of the sun? So the words of a foolish man may tarnish the fame of a genius.”

“But,” I replied, “see, the little cloud has vanished already, and the light of the sun is but the brighter for the contrast.”

He smiled. “The cloud that hangs over my tarnished name will have to pass away soon, or it will be too late. That organ which I constructed has a soul within it. All my life I have labored to know how to lodge my ideal of music within the compass of a single instrument. I have done this. The soul is there. But I know not how to play upon the organ, and they, in their blind rage, will not allow me to explain to them. Oh, if I could, before I die, but find Sebastian Bach! He would call to life the soul of music that lies sleeping in my organ, and prove to the world that BÈze is neither mad nor an impostor.”

My father took no notice of what merchant Krebbs had said, and when he joined us in the garden he entreated BÈze to play for him in the open air. The Man in Blue played for us a number of national and simple melodies in such a pathetic manner that several times I saw tears in my father’s eyes; at last he said, as the musician finished, “Friend, though your organ is a failure, your violin is truly heavenly. Stay with me yet a while.”

“My organ is not a failure; it is the triumph of my life.”

“But no one can play on it.”

“One day some one will, and then——”

“Well, we will say no more about it. Come, the supper is ready.” And he led the way in.

The next morning the Man in Blue was gone. We were sorry for his disappearance; but soon forgot all about it in our anxiety over the festival which was near at hand. GlÜck had promised to come, and we were anxious to know with whom he would stay. Then Bach arrived, and soon came Graun—illustrious Graun—whose nobility of mind inspired his lovely melodies, and with him those inseparable geniuses, FÜrch and Hass. And Hamburg sent us Gasman and Teliman. Those who have never even heard the name of these great composers are yet familiar with their melodies. Many of the popular tunes now so much admired I have heard in my youth fresh from the minds of their original composers, free from the twirls and shakes clumsily added to them to disguise their true origin.

These illustrious persons were as simple and unostentatious in manners as it is possible to be. They assembled in the Hall of St. Cecilia, and I had the privilege of assisting at their rehearsals. I often passed hours listening to their long discourses on harmony, on keys, scales, and chords. One night GlÜck played, for the first time, a portion of his “Iphigenia;” and on another, Bach enchanted us by a performance of his delightful preludes. Bach, somehow or other, took a fancy to me. He had observed the marked attention with which I listened to the remarks of the different composers, and to their music. He asked me my name, and who my father was; and I in answer, growing bold, not only related all that concerned myself, but also the story of my Friend in Blue.

“An organ that no one can play upon!” exclaimed this great composer; “well, that is singular.”

“But I am sure you can.”

“Why?”

“Because I am certain that the man that made the organ is a great musician, although he cannot play upon it himself. He plays upon the violin.”

“As well as I do?” asked Graun.

I hesitated, and hung my head: I did not dare say “yes,” and yet I would not say “no”.

“Speak up, my boy; say the truth always, and shame the devil.”

“He plays better than you, sir, I think; but then he plays out in the woods, and music sounds better there than in a close room.”

“True, it does.”

“My masters,” said I at last, after some hesitation, “will any one of you, in your charity, try the organ—the village is not distant—and thus justify the poor man?”

“I will myself,” answered Bach, “on Sunday. But say nothing about it to any one. Only to your friend, if you can find him, in order to induce him to be present in the church on that morning.”

With heartfelt thanks I gave the illustrious composer my promise to obey in every particular his injunctions.

On leaving the St. Cecilia Hall that evening (it was Friday) almost the first person I met was, to my surprise, the Man in Blue. Hidden in the courtyard of the Hall, he had been listening to the music, and was in a state of nervous enthusiasm which quite alarmed me. I hesitated to inform him what Bach intended to do, but at last I did so; he received the news in a manner that I little expected. He made no demonstration of joy, but followed me in silence until we were in a lonely part of the town—a little square in the centre of which grew three or four old trees. Here he paused, and sinking on his knees, prayed earnestly. The moon shone down upon his uplifted face, and it seemed almost beautiful, so great was the expression it bore of devotion and intellect. When he had finished his prayer he embraced me in silence, and we parted.

Sunday arrived, and at an early hour I started for the church of the village. As I traversed the little field in front of it, I beheld advancing from the opposite side several of the professors, and amongst them Bach. By-and-by, as it got noised about that some of the celebrities were in the church, it filled to excess. Presently, Bach mounted the organ-loft. How my heart beat! Mass began. At the “Kyrie,” for the first time, the instrument gave forth sounds, but sounds of such heavenly sweetness that the congregation was thrilled as if by the music of the angels. As the Mass advanced the more marvellous became the harmony. The “Agnus” was so plaintive that I saw tears in the eyes of GlÜck, who stood by me; and the “Sanctus” sounded so triumphantly that it required but little imagination to believe that the cherubim and seraphim were present singing their jubilant song of praise:

“Holy, holy, is the Lord God of Sabaoth.”

And the Man in Blue, where was he?

By the altar, with his face turned towards his organ. His whole countenance was radiant, his eyes were bright, and a look ecstatic and serene passed over his features. But how ethereal he looked!

When Mass was over the congregation passed round the porch to see the great composers. “Long live Bach!” “Hail to GlÜck!” they cried as they recognized these popular men.

But Bach held aloof. “Lead me,” he said, “to that man of genius who has so wonderfully improved the king of instruments.”

“Master,” I answered, “he is in the church.” And we re-entered the sacred edifice together, followed by Graun. I led them to the Man in Blue. But what a change had come over him! The pallor of death was on his brow; he had sunk back on a bench, and when he perceived us vainly strove to rise. “Ah! excuse me, my masters. I receive you very badly; but I am not well—the joy has killed me. I am dying, gentlemen, of joy.”

They raised him between them. I ran for the priest, and to the doors, which I shut to prevent the entrance of any intruders.

“Master, whilst I confess, play to me,” he said to Bach.

Bach, seeing that mortal aid was useless, left us, and went up to the organ. Solemnly he played. He played, as he afterwards said, as he never played before or since. The priest arrived, and Graun and I knelt down whilst the Man in Blue received the last Sacraments. This pious act accomplished, we went nearer to him. He took my hand, and Graun rested the head of BÈze upon his breast. Solemnly the music stole through the silent church; solemnly the sunlight streamed through the stained windows, and the Angel of Death stood within the temple of God.

“I am very happy,” murmured the dying man, “since Bach plays to me on my organ, and Graun permits me to rest upon his bosom.”

To me he said, “God bless thee, my child—tell them I was not mad, nor an impostor. My organ had a soul.”

Graun stooped and kissed his pale brow, and with an exquisite look of gratitude the Man in Blue died, and the Angel of Death winged his way to heaven, bearing the poor carpenter’s soul to God.—Merry England.