Fourth Reader: The Alexandra Readers. John Dearness
THE DEATH OF NELSON
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX
THE DISCOVERY OF THE MACKENZIE RIVER
FOURTH READER
DOMINION HYMN
God bless our wide Dominion,
Our fathers’ chosen land,
And bind in lasting union,
Each ocean’s distant strand,
From where Atlantic terrors
Our hardy seamen train,
To where the salt sea mirrors
The vast Pacific chain.
Our sires when times were sorest
Asked none but aid Divine,
And cleared the tangled forest,
And wrought the buried mine.
They tracked the floods and fountains,
And won, with master hand,
Far more than gold in mountains—
The glorious prairie land.
Inheritors of glory,
Oh! countrymen! we swear
To guard the flag that o’er ye
Shall onward victory bear.
Where’er through earth’s far regions
Its triple crosses fly,
For God, for home, our legions
Shall win, or fighting, die!
—The Duke of Argyle.
THE MOONLIGHT SONATA
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter’s evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterwards to sup with me. In passing through some dark, narrow 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 played!”
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but suddenly there was a break, then the voice of sobbing: “I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful; it is 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 shall play to her,” he said, in an excited tone. “Here is feeling—genius—understanding. I shall 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 towards 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 pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken, and all smiled involuntarily.
“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 young lady—”
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 by 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 Brühl 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