It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787; one of those days late in the season, when the luxuriant beauty of summer is the more precious, because it must soon depart. The serenity of the skies, the blandness of the atmosphere, deepening to a refreshing coolness as the day drew near its close, the bright green of the foliage, and the clear blue of the waters, added joyousness to the wonted cheerfulness of a holiday in the fair city of Bonn and its neighborhood. 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. But we have nought to do with any of these.
At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river; this wood was threaded by a small 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 sides, almost precipitous, were richly lined with verdure; the trees overhung it so closely that at noon-day this sweet nook was dark as twilight; and the profound silence was only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream. A winding path led down to the secluded spot.
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.
A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. His home was an unhappy one. He had been treated from infancy with harshness by his father. His brothers received hourly indulgences; Louis had none. They were praised for their application to study, or pardoned when they played truant; Louis was called a dunce, and punished severely for the slightest neglect. His brothers jeered and rallied him continually; he responded by sullen silence. The father boasted of them as his pride, and denounced Louis as an ungrateful blockhead, who had no aptitude nor taste for learning.
Besides that this cruel partiality sank deep into the boy’s heart, and nourished a feeling of jealousy and discontent, Louis felt within himself that he in some degree deserved the charge of neglecting his lessons. His general studies were utterly distasteful and disgusting to him: and he found application to them impossible. His whole soul was given up to one passion—the love of music.
Oh, how precious to him were the moments of solitude! He lived 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, till nature yielded to exhaustion. 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! Welcome, thrice welcome, the permission given to spend this holiday as he pleased; and while others of his age joined lively parties of their friends, he stole forth from the busy city, and wandered far as he dared, in search of solitude.—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 spirit, long depressed and saddened, sprang into new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy. Yes—the lonely—friendless boy, to whom no father’s heart was open, was happy—beyond measure happy!
Blessed is the poet; for him there is an inner life, more glowing, more radiant, more intense than the life of other men! For him there is a voice in nature, mute to others, that whispers of peace and love, and immortal joy. To him the visible enshrines the invisible: the earthly is but the shell of the god-like, with which his spirit claims kindred. Wo to him, if he, the appointed interpreter of Heaven, do not reveal to men less favored the utterings of that mysterious voice; if he suffer not the light within him to radiate a glory, that it may enlighten the earth!
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.