Chapter XI: The Mountains Whence Help Cometh (5)

Moreover, in those early ages kingdoms were less known than nations. The ancients spoke of "Persians," "Romans," "Jews," "Egyptians," rather than of the countries in which they were supposed to dwell; while in our day, on the contrary, the explorations of geography have rendered the regions far more definite than the nations which inhabit them. For this reason, what would be comparatively a safe guide to any given locality in modern usage, would be far less reliable in writings of a thousand years ago. Thus we may well dismiss whatever doubts this seeming disagreement at first sight throws around the post-scriptural account of this apostle, or at least hold it in abeyance, to be obliterated if subsequent investigations should disclose sufficient evidence of the toils and triumphs of St. Thomas in the vast empires of oriental Asia.

It is in this _generic_ sense of the terms that "India" and "the Indies" are employed by the author of this legend, and under the singular as well as under the plural name are included many kingdoms through which the apostle travelled, from that in which he preached the Gospel at the nuptials of a king to that in which he found the mountain of his martyrdom. Each of these seems to have had its own court and king, and to have been so far independent of the others that the same religion which was maintained and promulgated by the state in one, was persecuted and condemned by the rulers of the other. It is not, therefore, to these names that we can look with any confidence of finding such vestiges of the apostle's footsteps as shall afford us a definite clue to the countries or the nations which enjoyed the fruits of his laborious love.

Such, however, is not the case with the name of King Gondaphorus to whom particularly, according to the legend, the mission of St. Thomas was directed. Until within a few years, the age, the residence, even the existence of this personage has been matter of serious controversy. The opinion most commonly received among the learned was, that "Gondaphorus" was a corruption of "Gun dishavor" or "Gondisapor," a city built by Artaxerxes, and deriving its name from Sapor or Schavor, the son and successor of its founder. [Footnote 150] As the city could have acquired this title only in the fourth century, this, among other reasons, has generally led historians to deny the substantial authenticity of the legend itself, and to regard it as the fabrication of some later age.

[Footnote 150: Gundisapor was the episcopal and metropolitan
city of the province of Sarac, situated on the Tigris, six
leagues from Susa. It is said to have been built by
Hormisdas, the contemporary of the Emperor Constantine, and
to have been called by the name of Sapor, his son, by whom it
was afterward immensely enriched and beautified with the
treasures which he ravished from the Roman empire.]

Recent investigations among Indian antiquities have thrown new light upon this subject, and, in this particular, at least, seem to have cleared the legend from all suspicions of fraud. Among the many coins and medals lately discovered in the East are those of the Indo-Scythian kings who ruled in the valley of the Indus about the beginning of our present era. One of these kings bore the name of "Gondaphorus," and pieces of his coinage are now said to be preserved in different collections of Paris and the East. [Footnote 151] This striking corroboration, in the nineteenth century, of a tradition which, in one shape or another, has been current in the Christian world for eighteen hundred years, can hardly fail to satisfy the most critical examiner that the legend ascribed to Abdias is, in its grand outline, entitled to a far higher degree of credit than it has been accustomed lately to receive.

[Footnote 151: Vide _Le Christianisme en Chine_, etc.,
par M, Huc. Paris, 1857, p. 28, etc.]

{516}

The course of the apostle and his companion toward the east, so far as this tradition and its modern limitations have defined it, may thus be traced. Leaving Jerusalem, they journeyed by the usual route to the Red Sea, and thence along the coasts of Arabia Petraea and Arabia Felix to Aden, then, as now, a city of much commercial importance, on account of its excellent harbor and commanding situation. Here they remained for a considerable period of time, the apostle preaching the Gospel and laying foundations on which other men might build. Embarking thence, they sailed around the southern borders of the Arabian peninsula, and, crossing the Gulf of Oman, landed at one of the then flourishing cities near the mouths of the Indus. After some delay, of which St. Thomas made good use in the service of the Gospel, they pushed north-easterly into the interior to the immediate province of King Gondaphorus, where, after the labors of two years, the apostle brought the monarch and his family under obedience to the yoke of Christ. His special work thus accomplished, St. Thomas travelled into many other kingdoms on the same divine errand, and terminated his devoted and fruitful life by holy martyrdom. Thus far, the legend; and that it agrees with and is in fact the interpreter of all other traditions of St. Thomas, as well as of those various monuments which, until recently, have been unknown as teachers of Christian history, will shortly be made manifest.

The holy apostle, having once established Christianity in those parts of India which lie nearest to Jerusalem, would naturally extend his journey into more distant regions, rather than retrace his steps, and occupy, as his field of labor, a territory to which the Gospel would, without his intervention, probably be soon proclaimed. For, having in himself powers plenipotentiary for the organization and perpetuation of the church, wherever he might plant it, and being assured, as a Christian and disciple, that the zeal and perseverance of his fellow-workers might safely be entrusted with the conversion of the nations adjacent to the centres of Christian doctrine, it was simply manlike, simply apostolic, for him to set his face steadfastly toward those who, but for him, might not in many generations obtain the light of faith. If, therefore, the footsteps which we have already traced be genuine, we may with reason look for traces of the same unwearied feet in other and still more unknown lands.

And herein also, the traditions of the early ages will not disappoint us. Still reckoning by nations, rather than by kingdoms, the ancient writers tell us that St. Thomas preached the Gospel to the Parthians, Medes, Persians, Hyrcanians, Bactrians, Germanians, Seres, Indians, and Scythians. Thus in a fragment of St. Dorotheus, (A.D. 254,) "The apostle Thomas, having announced the Gospel to the Parthians, Medes, Persians, Germanians, Bactrians, and Mages, suffered martyrdom at Calamila, a city of India." Theodoret, speaking of the universality of the preaching of the apostles, says, "They have caused, not only the Romans, and those who inhabit the Roman empire, but the Scythians, ... the Indians, ... the Persians, the Seres, and the Hyrcanians to receive from them the law of the Crucified." Origen, and from him Eusebius, relates that St. Thomas received Parthia as his allotted sphere; and Sophronius mentions that he planted the faith among the Medes, Persians, Carmanians, (Germanians,) Hyrcanians, Bactrians, and other nations of the extreme east. Both the latter and St. Gaudentius declare that he suffered at Calamina in India.

{517}

The same traditions are faithfully preserved among the Christians of India. In the breviary of the Church of Malabar, it is stated that St. Thomas converted the Indians, Chinese, and Ethiopians, and that these different nations, together with the Persians, offer their adorations to God in commemoration of this devoted apostle, from whom their forefathers received the truth of Christ. The presumption of fact, which arises out of such a mass of testimony as these and other witnesses which might be quoted offer us, existing for so many ages and in countries so widely separated from each other, is surely sufficient to justify a careful study of the localities to which these different nations belonged, as indicative of the later and more extended missionary labors of St. Thomas.

According to the best authorities on the subjects of ancient geography and ethnology, all the various territories which were inhabited by the nations whose conversion has been attributed to St. Thomas lie east of the Euphrates, and, with the single exception of the Scythians, below the fortieth parallel of latitude. The Medes occupied the districts between the Caspian and Persian seas. The Hyrcanians lay on the south-east of the Caspian, the Parthians and the Bactrians lying east of them; and all three being included in the present Turkistan. The Persians held the northeastern borders of the Persian Gulf, next to the kingdom of the Medes; the Germanians, or Carmanians, lying next on the south-east, in part of what is now known as Beloochistan, and the lower corner of modern Persia. The "Seres" was a name given to the Chinese in the earliest historic ages, and embraced the vast and cultivated people who dwell beyond the Emodi, or Himalaya, mountains, and east of the sources of the Indus. The Indians and Scythians--the former occupying from the Indian Ocean and the latter from the Arctic zone--met together between the Bactrians and the Seres, and formed the Indo-Scythian races of the ante-Christian age. Calamila, or Calamina, the city near which the apostle finally rested from his labors, is on the eastern coast of Hindostan, a short distance from Madras, and has been known, at different periods, by the names of Meliapour, Beit-Thoma, and St. Thomas.

The connection of these ancient nations and countries with, and their successive propinquity to, each other enables us to form a tolerably correct idea of the course of the apostle's missionary work, from the baptism of Gondaphorus to the close of his own career. For although our guide is simply the intrinsic probability which grows out of the nature of the workman and the work God had appointed him to do, yet, to whoever takes the map of the various regions which we have described as the scenes of the apostolic life and death, it will appear that one of two courses must have been adopted. The first starts from the valley of the Indus, and, leading westward, reaches in turn the Germanians, Persians, and Medes; then, turning toward the north and flexing eastward by the southern border of the Caspian Sea, it penetrates the land of the Hyrcanians, Parthians, Bactrians, Indo-Scythians, and Seres; where, again met by the upper Indus, it bends southward, and, striking through the heart of Hindostan, ends in the lower portion of the peninsula at or near Madras. {518} The second, beginning at the same point, follows up the Indus in a path directly opposite to the former, until the place of departure is again reached and the final journey through modern India begins. It is scarcely possible to say which of these two routes is most probably correct. Future researches may throw light upon the extent of the region over which King Gondaphorus reigned, upon the relation of the dialects of these bordering nations to each other, and thus afford a clue to the more exact path of the apostle. But in either case, the districts over which he travelled, and the races into contact with whom he carried the Gospel, are distinguished with a high degree of certainty, and the triumphs of the cross under his leadership may thus be clearly understood.

Indeed, the work of scarce any apostle of the twelve can now be better followed than that of Thomas. The chief indefiniteness attaches to his mission to the Seres; for here little is extant to show, with any great conclusiveness, whether his labors terminated with the borders of Indo-Scythia, or penetrated to the Yellow Sea. Some monuments of antiquity have, it is true, been found, which point strongly to the spreading of the Gospel over a large part of China by primitive if not by apostolic missionaries; but nothing has as yet been discovered which would justify the conclusion that St. Thomas actually attempted the evangelization of that immense and thickly-populated empire. If such had been the case, it is hardly possible that India should have received him back again, and given him the distant Calamina for his martyrdom.

The area of territory over which the apostle Thomas must thus have journeyed embraces over three million two hundred and fifty thousand square miles, and the people to whom he opened the doors of heaven, through the Gospel, numbered more than two hundred millions of souls. The linear distance of his own personal travels probably exceeded ten thousand miles, and this, for the most part, necessarily on foot. The consideration of these facts, and of the results which followed from the apostle's labors, will give us some idea of the work which our Divine Lord committed to his immediate disciples, and of the untiring zeal and superhuman endurance with which they were endowed. It has become far easier for us to say, "The Lord hath shortened his hand," than to go and do likewise.

Yet it is still true that Thomas was an apostle; that it was the will of the Master that all nations should at once almost receive some knowledge of his Gospel; that the miraculous gift of tongues swept out of the way one of the greatest obstacles to missionary labor; and that St. Thomas had received the gifts of faith and charity to such a degree as enabled him to co-operate, to the utmost, with the graces of his work. And it is also true that, had not he and the others of the twelve been such as they were and accomplished what they did, the promises of Christ would have been unfulfilled, and the church have suffered from their failure to its latest day. But in that they were _apostles_, in that they did their work, the seed of the Gospel can scarcely fall, to-day, on soil which has not been already watered by the blood of martyrs, or among people in whom it has not, long ago, sprung up and brought forth fruit abundantly.

{519}

There were, however, in the case of St. Thomas, other and natural reasons why his work should have been so vast and his success so extraordinary. The facility of intercourse between the east and the west was far greater in his day than in our own. The successive conquests of Alexander had led him beyond the present western boundary of China. The Roman empire, at the beginning of our era, reached beyond the Euphrates, and the intimate connection of part with part, and the ease of intercourse between the imperial city and the farthest military outpost, can scarcely be exaggerated. [Footnote 152] Up to the seventh century, this unity continued to a great degree unbroken, and will account not only for the presence of the minister of Gondaphorus in Jerusalem and for the results which followed it, but for the diffusion and preservation of the traditions which have handed down those events to us.

[Footnote 152: De Quincey's _Caesars_. (Introduction.)]

Nor was this unity altogether that of conquest. Beyond the empire of Augustus lay the realms of Porus, of whom history relates that he held six hundred kings beneath his sway. Between these emperors there seem to have been two formal attempts at an intimate political alliance. Twenty-four years before the birth of Christ, an embassy from Porus followed Augustus into Spain, upon this errand, and another some years afterward met with him at Samos. In the reigns of Claudius, Trajan, Antoninus Pius, and succeeding emperors, the same royal courtesies were interchanged, and it was not until the Mussulman power, sweeping like a sea of fire between the east and the west, became an impassable barrier to either, that these relations had an end.

Nearly the same may be said of commercial unity. The trade in silk, from which substance the Seres, or Chinese, derived their name, was carried on between the Romans and that distant nation on no inconsiderable scale. Numerous caravans perpetually journeyed to and fro through the wilds of Parthia and along the southern border of the Caspian Sea; while the Erythrean, Red and Mediterranean waters glittered with sails from almost every land. The whole inhabited world (if we except this continent, the date of whose first settlement no one can tell) was thus providentially brought close together, and a higher degree of unity and association established between its different nations than had existed since the dispersion at Babel, or than has now existed for over twelve hundred years.

How vast an advantage to apostolic labor this unity must have been can easily be seen. While it removed almost entirely the difficulties of travel, it assured for the traveller both safety and good-will upon the way. While it conciliated in advance the people among whom they labored, it gave weight and human authority to the Gospel, when actually preached. And, when the church had been established and little colonies of Christians marked the track of the apostles, it enabled them to maintain a constant intercourse with their spiritual children by messengers or by epistles, and to keep watch and ward over the millions entrusted to their care.

Those prophetic traditions of a coming Saviour, which pervaded the east, as well as the south and west, also effected much toward the rapid spread and wide espousal of Christian truth. The origin of these traditions is shrouded in the mystery of an unchronicled antiquity. They may be attributed to the promise in paradise, to the transfusion of Mosaic teachings, or to direct revelation by means of pagan oracles. But that they existed, in a clear and well-defined prophetic form, is established beyond question; while that they were in the first instance of divine disclosure, it becomes no Christian to deny. {520} The learned and contemplative minds of Asia especially delighted in this state of expectation. Sons of a soil whereon the feet of God had trodden in primeval days, the very atmosphere around them still throbbed with the echoes of that voice which walked in Eden in the cool of the day. The mountains that overlooked them had aforetime walled in the garden of the Lord from a dark and half-developed world. The deserts of their meditations lay like a pall above the relics of those generations to whom the deluge brought the judgment wrath of God. Children of Sem, the eldest son of Noah, it had been theirs to see, even more clearly than God's chosen Israel, the coming of the Incarnate to the world, as it was also theirs to win from heaven the first tidings of his birth through the glowing orient star.

Among the many forms which this tradition assumed, there is one so beautiful and so theologically accurate, that we cannot omit to cite it here. While the swan of Mantua, on the banks of father Tiber, chanted the glories of the golden age, a Hindoo poet, on the borders of the Ganges, thus painted to the wondering eyes of Indian kings the grand event in which the disorders and miseries of that present age should have an end:

"Then shall a Brahmin be born in the city of Sambhala. This
shall be Vishnu Jesu. To him shall the divine scriptures and
all sciences unfold themselves, without the use of so much time
in their investigation as is necessary to pronounce a single
word. Hence shall be given to him the name of Sarva Buddha, as
to one who fully knoweth all things. Then shall Vishnu Jesu,
dwelling with his people, perform that work which he alone can
do. He shall purge the world from sin; he shall set up the
kingdom of truth and justice; he shall offer the sacrifice; ...
and bind anew the universe to God. .... But when the time of
his old age draws nigh, he shall retire into the desert to do
penance; and this is the order which Vishnu Sarva shall
establish among men. He shall fix virtue and truth in the midst
of the Brahmins, and confine the four castles within the
boundaries of their laws. Then shall return the primeval age.
Then sacrifice shall be so common that the very wilderness
shall be no more a solitude. Then shall the Brahmins, confirmed
in goodness, occupy themselves only in the ceremonies of
religion; they shall cause penance, and all other graces which
follow in the path of truth, to flourish, and shall spread
everywhere the knowledge of the holy scriptures. Then shall the
seasons succeed each other in unbroken order; the rains, in
their appointed time, shall water the earth; the harvest, in
its turn, shall yield abundance; the milk shall flow at the
wish of those who seek it; and the whole world, being
inebriated with prosperity and peace, as it was in the
beginning, all nations shall enjoy ineffable delights."
[Footnote 153]

[Footnote 153: _Le Christianisme en Chine_, p. 5.]

The well-known policy of St. Paul, who, preaching on Mars' hill to the Athenians, seized the inscription on their altar, "To the unknown God," as the text of his most memorable sermon, is a divine endorsement of the important part which God intended that these far-reaching revelations should play in the conversion of the world. St. Thomas, in the east, had but to repeat the announcement, Him whom ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. He, for whom you have waited--he, Vishnu Jesu, has already come; his wisdom and his counsels I reveal to you.

{521}

And among the clear-thoughted and pure-hearted sages of the east, among the Magi of Persia, the Brahmins of India, and the philosophers of China, among such as those who at the mere bidding of a voiceless star followed it to the world's end--to the cave of Bethlehem--these declarations of the apostle must have been the signal of salvation. In them there were no prejudices to wipe away, no new and strange ideas to be espoused. The Gospel was not to them, as to the Jews, the subversion of anticipated glory. It was the realization of expectation, the golden day which had so long shot gleams of light into the darkness of their iron age. And so it was that, while Judea could give to Christianity but simple fishermen, or at most a ruler of the synagogue, India and the orient thought not too highly of her kings and sages to yield them up to Vishnu Jesu, and offered on his altars the wealth of all her realms.

In the year 1521, certain excavations taking place under the ruins of a large and ancient church at Meliapour, there were found, in a sepulchre, at a great depth beneath the surface of the earth, the bones of a human skeleton, in a state of remarkable whiteness and preservation. With them were also found the head of a lance, still fastened in the wood, the fragments of an iron-shod club, and a vase of clay filled with earth. Some years later, near the same spot, an attempt was made by the Portuguese to build a chapel; and in digging for the foundations, the workmen came upon a monumental stone on which was sculptured a cross, some two feet long by eighteen inches wide, rudely ornamented and surrounded by an inscription in characters which, to the discoverers, were totally unknown. The authorities of Meliapour, being desirous to ascertain the meaning of the letters engraved around this cross, made diligent search among the native scholars for an interpreter, and finally obtained one in the person of a Brahmin of a neighboring city. His translation was as follows:

"Thirty years after the law of the Christians appeared to the
world, on the 25th of the month of December, the apostle St.
Thomas died at Meliapour, whither he had brought the knowledge
of God, the change of the law, and the overthrow of devils. God
was born of the Virgin Mary, was obedient to her during thirty
years, and was the eternal God. God unfolded his law to twelve
apostles, and of these, one came to Meliapour, and there
founded a church. The kings of Malabar, of Coromandel, of
Pandi, and of other different nations, submitted to the
guidance of this holy Thomas, with willing hearts, as to a
devout and saintly man." [Footnote 154]

[Footnote 154: _Le Christianisme en Chine_, p. 26.]

The same inscription was afterward laid before other oriental scholars, each of whom, without conference or collusion with the rest, offered the same rendering of this forgotten tongue.

Thus, again do the discoveries of later ages verify the traditions of early Christian history. That SS. Dorotheus, Sophronius, and Gaudentius possessed reliable evidence for their statement that St. Thomas died at Calamina, we can no longer doubt. That the original framer of "The Legend of St. Thomas" recited events which, in his day, were well known, and could be easily substantiated, is almost beyond dispute. The wondrous tales of heroism, built out of the deeds of martyrs and apostles and evangelists are not all foolish dreams. The "Legends of the Saints" are not, as the wiseacres of the day would lead us to believe, altogether idle words. {522} Men, who could traverse sea and land, without companions, without aid, converting nations, building churches, founding hierarchies, setting their faces ever farther on, looking for no human sympathy, having no mother-country, toiling for ever toward the martyr's crown, were not the men to fabricate childish stories, full of false visions and falser miracles. Nor were those who stood day by day on the brink of doom; who, in the morning, woke perhaps to meet the lions, perhaps the stake, but certainly the burden of the cross of Christ; who lay down at night without hope of day, the men to listen to wild tales of falsehood from some cunning tongue. Traditions of those early days were all too often written in blood. They come to us sealed with the lives of saints. They have stood the test of ages of investigation. They remain, to-day, monuments, engraved in many languages, and on many lands, asserting the achievements of our fathers, while modern science adds to ancient story the corroboration of her undeniable deductions, and vindicates the traditions of Christian antiquity both from the sneers and the indifference of self-exalted men.

It is almost needless to remark, as the conclusion of this sketch, that modern missionaries, who would rival the success of St. Thomas, can fairly expect it from no less exertion, no less singleness of heart. Those who from this or other countries sally forth, with missionary societies behind them to supply their needs, burdened with the double cares of family and church, with boards of directors at home, as well as consciences within, to satisfy, with a support to some extent conditioned on their apparent success, can scarcely be expected to compete with him who, bidding farewell to home and friends, goes out alone, wifeless and childless, looking to God for everything, and seeking nothing but an endless crown. The history of missions proves, by indisputable statistics, which of these two methods is effective, which has borne with it the divine prestige of success, and which remains, in spite of persecutions and oppressions, vigorous and undismayed after the conflicts of eighteen hundred years. If it were a simple question of policy, between the Catholic Church and her opponents, the event would indicate her wisdom. If it were one of precedent, she has the whole apostolic college, and the missionaries of fifteen centuries upon her side. But if the touchstone of the Master be still reliable, and we may know his workmen by their fruits, then does this history of the great missionary church bear witness, that not only her vocation but her operations are divine, and may assure her children, that, though heaven and earth should fail, no jot or tittle of her power or triumph can ever pass away. The throne of Peter may be smitten by the thunderbolt of war; the hoary head of his successor may be bowed with grief; the triple crown may once more be trampled under the feet of men; the faithful may again be overwhelmed with fear; but, in the far wilderness, beyond the glittering deserts, across the frozen and the burning seas, her sons are gathering strange nations to her bosom, over whom, in her coming days of victory and peace, she may renew her joy.

For the same Lord who bade her go into the whole world and teach all his commandments gave, in the same breath, its people to her baptism; and he who promised her the nations for her inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for her possession, was the same God who said to St. Peter, "Super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam, et porta inferi non prevalebunt."

-------

{523}

Beethoven, His Boyhood.

I.

One October afternoon, in 1784, a boat was coming down the Rhine close to that point where the city of Bonn sits on its left shore. The company on board consisted of old and young persons of both sexes, returning from an excursion of pleasure.

The company landed full of gayety and mirth, the young people walking on before, while their seniors followed. They adjourned to a public garden, close on the river side, to finish the day of social enjoyment by partaking of a collation. Old and young were seated ere long around the stone table set under the large trees. The crimson faded in the west, the moon poured her soft light glimmering through the leafy canopy above them, and was reflected in full beauty in the waters of the Rhine.

"Your boys are merry fellows," said a benevolent-looking old gentleman, addressing Herr van Beethoven, a tenor singer in the electoral chapel, pointing at the same time to his two sons, lads of ten and fourteen years of age. "But tell me, Beethoven, why did you not bring Louis with you?"

"Because," answered the person he addressed, "Louis is a stubborn, dogged, stupid boy, whose troublesome behavior would only spoil our mirth."

"Ah!" returned the old gentleman, "you are always finding fault with the poor lad, and perhaps impose too hard tasks upon him. I am only surprised that he has not, ere this, broken loose from your sharp control."

"My dear Simrock," replied Beethoven, laughing, "I have a remedy at hand for his humors--my good Spanish cane, which, you see, is of the toughest. Louis is well acquainted with its excellent properties, and stands in wholesome awe thereof. And trust me, neighbor, I know best what is for the boy's good. Carl and Johann are a comfort to me; they always obey me with alacrity and affection. Louis, on the other hand, has been bearish from his infancy. As to his studies, music is the only thing he will learn--I mean with good will; or, if he consents to apply himself to anything else, I must first knock it into him that it has something to do with music. _Then_ he will go to work; but it is his humor not to do it otherwise. If I give him a commission to execute for me, the most arrant clodpoll could not be more stupid about it."

Here the conversation was interrupted, and the subject was not resumed. The hours flew lightly by. It struck nine, and the festive company separated to return to their homes.

Carl and Johann were in high glee as they went home. They sprang up the steps before their father, and pulled the door-bell. The door was opened, and a boy about twelve years old stood in the entry with a lamp in his hand. He was short and stout for his age, but a sickly paleness, more strongly marked by the contrast of his thick black hair, was observable on his face. His small, gray eyes were quick and restless in their movement, very piercing when he fixed them on any object, but softened by the shade of his long, dark lashes. His mouth was delicately formed, and the compression of the lips betrayed both pride and sorrow. It was Louis Beethoven.

{524}

He came to meet his parents, and bade them "Good-evening."

His mother greeted him affectionately. His father said, while the boy busied himself fastening the door, "Well, Louis, I hope you have finished your task."

"I have, father."

"Very good; to-morrow I will look and see if you have earned your breakfast." So saying, the elder Beethoven went into his chamber. His wife followed him, after bidding her sons good night, Louis more tenderly than any of them. Carl and Johann withdrew with their brother to their common sleeping apartment, entertaining him with a description of their day of festivity. "Now, Louis," said little Johann, as they finished their account, "if you had not been such a dunce, our father would have taken you along; but he says he thinks that you will be little better than a dunce all the days of your life, and self-willed and stubborn besides."

"Don't talk about that any more," answered Louis, "but come to bed."

"Yes, you are always a sleepy-head!" cried they both, laughing; but in a few moments after getting into bed both were asleep and snoring heartily.

Louis took the lamp from the table, left the apartment softly, and went up-stairs to an attic chamber, where he was wont to retire when he wished to be out of the way of his teasing brothers. He had fitted up the little room for himself as well as his means permitted. A table with three legs, a leathern chair, the bottom partly out, and an old piano which he had rescued from the possession of the rats and mice, made up the furniture, and here, in company with his beloved violin, he was accustomed to pass his happiest hours.

The boy felt, young as he was, that he was not understood by one of his family, not even excepting his mother. She loved him tenderly, and always took his part when his father found fault with him; but she never knew what was passing in his mind, because he never uttered it. But his genius was not long to be unappreciated.

The next morning a messenger came from the elector to Beethoven's house, bringing an order for him to repair immediately to the palace, and fetch with him his son Louis. The father was surprised; not more so than the boy, whose heart beat with undefined apprehension as they entered the princely mansion. A servant was in waiting, and conducted them, without delay or further announcement, to the presence of the elector, who was attended by two gentlemen.

The elector received old Beethoven with great kindness, and said, "We have heard much, recently, of the extraordinary musical talent of your son Louis. Have you brought him along with you?"

Beethoven replied in the affirmative, stepped back to the door, and bade the boy come in.

"Come nearer, my little lad," cried the elector graciously; "do not be shy. This gentleman here is our new court organist, Herr Neefe; the other is the famous composer, Herr Yunker, from Cologne. We promised them both they should hear you play something."

{525}

The prince bade the boy take his seat and begin, while he sat down in a large easy-chair. Louis went to the piano, and, without examining the pile of notes that lay awaiting his selection, played a short piece, then a light and graceful melody, which he executed with such ease and spirit, nay, in so admirable a manner, that his distinguished auditors could not forbear expressing their surprise, and even his father was struck. When he left off playing, the elector arose, came up to him, laid his hand on his head, and said encouragingly, "Well done, my boy! we are pleased with you. Now, Master Yunker," turning to the gentleman on his right hand, "what say you?"

"Your highness," answered the composer, "I will venture to say the lad has had considerable practice with that last air to execute it so well."

Louis burst into a laugh at this remark. The others looked surprised and grave. His father darted an angry glance at him, and the boy, conscious that he had done something wrong, became instantly silent.

"And pray what were you laughing at, my little fellow?" asked the elector.

The boy colored and looked down as he replied, "Because Herr Yunker thinks I have learned the air by heart, when it occurred to me but just now while I was playing."

"Then," returned the composer, "if you really improvised that piece, you ought to go through at sight a motive I will give you presently."

Yunker wrote on a paper a difficult motive, and handed it to the boy. Louis read it over carefully, and immediately began to play it according to the rules of counterpoint. The composer listened attentively, his astonishment increasing at every turn in the music; and when at last it was finished, in a manner so spirited as to surpass his expectations, his eyes sparkled, and he looked on the lad with keen interest, as the possessor of a genius rarely to be found.

"If he goes on in this way," said he in a low tone to the elector, "I can assure your highness that a very great contrapuntist may be made out of him."

Neefe observed with a smile, "I agree with the master; but it seems to me the boy's style inclines rather too much to the gloomy and melancholy."

"It is well," replied his highness, smiling; "be it your care that it does not become too much so. Herr van Beethoven," he continued, addressing the father, "we take an interest in your son, and it is our pleasure that he complete the studies commenced under your tuition, under that of Herr Neefe. He may come and live with him after to-day. You are willing, Louis, to come and live with this gentleman?"

The boy's eyes were fixed on the ground; he raised them and glanced first at Neefe and then at his father. The offer was a tempting one; he would fare better and have more liberty in his new abode. But there was his _father!_ whom he had always loved; who, in spite of his severity, had doubtless loved him, and who now stood looking upon him earnestly and sadly. He hesitated no longer, but, seizing Beethoven's hand and pressing it to his heart, he cried, "No, no! I can not leave my father."

"You are a good and dutiful lad," said his highness. "Well, I will not ask you to leave your father, who must be very fond of you. You shall live with him, and come and take your lessons of Herr Neefe; that is our will. Adieu! Herr van Beethoven."

From this time Louis lived a new life. His father treated him no longer with harshness, and even reproved his brothers when they tried to tease him. Carl and Johann grew shy of him, however, when they saw what a favorite he had become. {526} Louis found himself no longer restrained, but came and went as he pleased; he took frequent excursions into the country, which he enjoyed with more than youthful pleasure, when the lessons were over. His worthy master was astonished at the rapid progress of his pupil in his beloved art.

"But, Louis," said he one day, "if you would become a great musician, you must not neglect everything besides music. You must acquire foreign languages, particularly Latin, Italian, and French. Would you leave your name to posterity as a true artist, make your own all that bears relation to your art."

Louis promised, and kept his word. In the midst of his playing he would leave off, however much it cost him, when the hour struck for his lessons in the languages. So closely he applied himself, that in a year's time he was tolerably well acquainted not only with Latin, French, and Italian, but also with the English. His father marvelled at his progress not a little; for years he had labored in vain, with starvation and blows, to make the boy learn the first principles of those languages. He had never, indeed, taken the trouble to explain to him their use in the acquisition of the science of music.

In 1785, appeared Louis' first sonatas. They displayed uncommon talent and gave promise that the youthful artist would, in future, accomplish something great, though scarcely yet could be found in them a trace of that gigantic genius whose death forty years afterward filled all Europe with sorrow.

"We were both mistaken in the lad," Simrock would say to old Beethoven. "He abounds in wit and odd fancies, but I do not altogether like his mixing up in his music all sorts of strange conceits; the best way, to my notion, is a plain one. Let him follow the great Mozart, step by step; after all, he is the only one, and there is none to come up to him--none!" And Louis' father, who also idolized Mozart, always agreed with his neighbor in his judgment, and echoed, "None!"

It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787; numerous boats with parties of pleasure on board were passing up and down the Rhine; numerous companies of old and young were assembled under the trees in the public gardens, or along the banks of the river, enjoying the scene and each other's conversation, or partaking of the rural banquet.

At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river; this wood was threaded by a small and sparkling stream, that flung itself over a ledge of rocks, and tumbled into the most romantic and quiet dell imaginable, for it was too narrow to be called a valley. The trees overhung it so closely that at noonday this sweet nook was dark as twilight, and the profound silence was only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream.

Close by the stream half sat, half reclined, a youth just emerging from childhood. In fact, he could hardly be called more than a boy; for his frame showed but little development of strength, and his regular features, combined with an excessive paleness, the result of confinement, gave the impression that he was even of tender years. His eyes would alone have given him the credit of uncommon beauty; they were large, dark, and so bright that it seemed the effect of disease, especially in a face that rarely or never smiled.

{527}

A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. His whole soul was given up to one passion--the love of music. Oh! how precious to him were the moments of solitude. He had loved, for this, even his poor garret room, meanly furnished, but rich in the possession of one or two musical instruments, whither he would retire at night, when released from irksome labor, and spend hours of delight stolen from slumber. But to be alone with nature, in her grand woods, under the blue sky, with no human voice to mar the infinite harmony--how did his heart pant for this communion! His breast seemed to expand and fill with the grandeur, the beauty, of all around him. The light breeze rustling in the leaves came to his ear laden with a thousand melodies; the very grass and flowers under his feet had a language for him. His spirits, long depressed and saddened, sprang into new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy.

The hours wore on, a dusky shadow fell over foliage and stream, and the solitary lad rose to leave his chosen retreat. As he ascended the narrow winding path, he was startled by hearing his own name; and presently a man, apparently middle-aged and dressed plainly, stood just in front of him. "Come back, Louis," said the stranger, "it is not so dark as it seems here; you have time enough this hour to return to the city." The stranger's voice had a thrilling though melancholy sweetness; and Louis suffered him to take his hand and lead him back. They seated themselves in the shade beside the water.

"I have watched you for a long while," said the stranger.

"You might have done better," returned the lad, reddening at the thought of having been subjected to espionage.

"Peace, boy," said his companion; "I love you, and have done all for your good."

"You love me?" repeated Louis, surprised. "I have never met you before."

"Yet I know you well. Does that surprise you? I know your thoughts also. You love music better than aught else in the world; but you despair of excellence because you cannot follow the rules prescribed."

Louis looked at the speaker with open eyes.

"Your masters also despair of you. The court-organist accuses you of conceit and obstinacy; your father reproaches you; and all your acquaintance pronounce you a boy of tolerable abilities, spoiled by an ill disposition."

The lad sighed.

"The gloom of your condition increases your distaste to all studies not directly connected with music, for you feel the need of her consolations. Your compositions, wild, melancholy as they are, embody your own feelings, and are understood by none of the connoisseurs."

"Who are you?" cried Louis in deep emotion.

"No matter who I am. I come to give you a little advice, my boy. I compassionate, yet I revere you. I revere your heaven-imparted genius. I commiserate the woes those very gifts must bring upon you through life."

The boy lifted his eyes again; those of the speaker seemed so bright, yet withal so melancholy, that he was possessed of a strange fear. "I see you," continued the unknown solemnly, "exalted above homage, but lonely and unblessed in your elevation. Yet the lot of such is fixed; and it is better, perhaps, that one should consume in the sacred fire than that the many should lack illumination."

"I do not understand you," said Louis, wishing to put an end to the interview.

{528}

"That is not strange, since you do not understand yourself," said the stranger. "As for me, I pay homage to a future sovereign!" and he suddenly snatched up the boy's hand and kissed it. Louis was convinced of his insanity.

"A sovereign in art," continued the unknown. "The sceptre that Haydn and Mozart have held shall pass without interregnum to your hands. When you are acknowledged in all Germany for the worthy successor of these great masters--when all Europe wonders at the name of _Beethoven_--remember me.

"But you have much ground to pass over," resumed the stranger, "ere you reach that glorious summit. Reject not the aid of science, of literature; there are studies now disagreeable that still may prove serious helps to you in the cultivation of music. Contemn not _any_ learning: for art is a coy damsel, and would have her votaries all accomplished! Above all--_trust yourself_. Whatever may happen, give no place to despondency. They blame you for your disregard of rules; make for yourself higher and vaster rules. You will not be appreciated here; but there are other places in the world; in Vienna--"

"Oh! if I could only go to Vienna," sighed the lad.

"You _shall_ go there, and remain," said the stranger; "and there too you shall see me, or hear from me. Adieu, now--_auf Wiedersehen_." ("To meet again.")

And before the boy could recover from his astonishment the stranger was gone. It was nearly dark, and he could see nothing of him as he walked through the wood. He could not, however, spend much time in search; for he dreaded the reproaches of his father for having stayed out so late. All the way home he was trying to remember where he had seen the unknown, whose features, though he could not say to whom they belonged, were not unfamiliar to him. It occurred to him at last, that while playing before the elector one day a countenance similar in benevolent expression had looked upon him from the circle surrounding the sovereign. But known or unknown, the "auf Wiedersehen" of his late companion rang in his ears, while the friendly counsel sank deep in his heart.

Traversing rapidly the streets of Bonn, young Beethoven was soon at his own door. An unusual bustle within attracted his attention. To his eager questions the servants replied that their master was dying. Shocked to hear of his danger, Louis flew to his apartment. His brothers were there, also his mother, weeping; and the physician supported his father, who seemed in great pain.

Louis clasped his father's cold hand, and pressed it to his lips, but could not speak for tears.

"God's blessing be upon you, my son!" said his parent. "Promise me that throughout life you will never forsake your brothers. I know they have not loved you as they ought; that is partly my fault; promise me, that whatever may happen you will continue to regard and cherish them."

"I will--I will, dear father!" cried Louis, sobbing. Beethoven pressed his hand in token of satisfaction. The same night he expired. The grief of Louis was unbounded.

It was a bitter thing thus to lose a parent just as the ties of nature were strengthened by mutual appreciation and confidence; but it was necessary that he should rouse himself to minister support and comfort to his suffering mother.

To Be Continued.

-------

{529}

Lecky On Morals. [Footnote 155]

[Footnote 155: _History of European Morals, from Augustus
to Charlemagne_. By William Edward Hartpoole Lecky, M.A.
London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1869. 2 vols. 8vo.]

Mr. Lecky divides his work into five chapters. The first chapter is preliminary, and discusses "the nature and foundations of morals," its obligation and motives; the second treats of the morals of the pagan empire; the third gives the author's view of the causes of the conversion of Rome and the triumph of Christianity in the empire; the fourth the progress and deterioration of European morals from Constantine to Charlemagne; and the fifth the changes effected from time to time in the position of women. The author does not confine himself strictly within the period named, but, in order to make his account intelligible, gives us the history of what preceded and what has followed it; so that his book gives one, from his point of view, the philosophy and the entire history of European morals from the earliest times down to the present.

The subject of this work is one of great importance in the general history of the race, and of deep interest to all who are not incapable of serious and sustained thought. Mr. Lecky is a man of some ability, of considerable first or second hand learning, and has evidently devoted both time and study to his subject. His style is clear, animated, vigorous, and dignified; but his work lacks condensation and true perspective. He dwells too long on points comparatively unimportant, and repeats the same things over and over again, and brings proofs after proofs to establish what is mere commonplace to the scholar, till he becomes not a little tedious. He seems to write under the impression that the public he is addressing knows nothing of his subject, and is slow of understanding. He evidently supposes that he is writing something very important, and quite new to the whole reading world. Yet we have found nothing new in his work, either in substance or in presentation, nothing--not even an error or a sophism--that had not been said, and as well said, a hundred times before him; we cannot discover a single new fact, or a single new view of a fact, that can throw any additional light on European morals in any period of European history. Yet we may say Mr. Lecky, though not an original or a profound thinker, is above the average of English Protestant writers, and compiles with passable taste, skill, and judgment.

We know little of the author, except as the author of the book before us, and of a previous work, on _Rationalism in Europe_, and we have no vehement desire to know anything more of him. He belongs, with some shades of difference, to a class represented, in England, by Buckle, J. Stuart Mill, Frank Newman, and James Martineau; and of which the _Westminster Review_ is the organ; in France, by M. Vacherot, Jules Simon, and Ernest Renan; and, in this country, by Professor Draper, of this city, and a host of inferior writers. They are not Christians, and yet would not like to be called anti-Christians; they are judges, not advocates, and, seated on the high judicial bench, they pronounce, as they flatter themselves, an impartial and final judgment on all moral, religious, and philosophical codes, and assign to each its part of good, and its part of evil. {530} They aim to hold an even balance between the church and the sects, between Christian morals and pagan morals, and between the several pagan religions and the Christian religion, all of which they look upon as dead and gone, except with the ignorant, the stupid, and the superstitious. Of this class Mr. Lecky is a distinguished member, though less brilliant as a writer than Renan, and less pleasing as well as less scientific than our own Draper.