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JOURNAL OF MUSIC,
3 Paper of Art and Titerature.
JOHN S. DWIGHT, EDITOR.
VOLS. VII. AND VIII.
PRINTED BY EDWARD L. BALCH, No. 21 SCHOOL STREET.
Adam, Adolph, his opera of Falstaff,....
Statue of, by Crawford; its completion cele-
Boott, Francis, A Te Deum by..
..vii. 111, 125
Boston Theatre, vii. 107; Music Hall, viii. 108.
Britton, Thomas," the musical small coal man." viii. 75.
Cadenzas in wrong places; Gluck's testimony,...viii. 54
works, 188; George Sand's account of, vii. 194, 201
Mrs. De Ribas,..
. viii. 198
New York: vii. 11, 20. 27, 28, 29, 37, 44. 60. 68. 87, 92, 100,
Darley, F. T. S., his "Cities of the Plain,".......viii. 84
Rubinstein's Symphony, vii. 2; Don Juan; Music in Paris,
Didiée, Nantier, viii. 76; in opera,........134, 142, 151
Field, John, Memoirs of, vii. 139; and Hummel,....148
Franz, Robert, his songs.......vii. 52; viii. 169, 177, 185
"Harp of a thousand strings;" queer sermon, viii. 28
Lagrange, Mme. De, vii. 47. (see Opera.)
Marx, A. B., Translations from, vii. 121, 129, 137, 145, 153
Mozart, A. W., Wagner's view of, vii. 130; his grave
Local (Boston and New England): vii. 7, 15, 23, 39, 55, 175,
Musical Libraries, vii. 109; Boston Public L......viii. 21
Onslow, G., Halevy's Eulogy on...
Spiritual Telegraph, viii. 189
English Opera, Pyne and Harrison, vii. 21, 31. 39.
Mr. Paine's Troupe; Lagrange, Hensler, Didiée, &c., viii.
Opera in New York, (see Mus. Intelligence,) vii. 29, 37,
45, 68, 149, 173, 205; viii. 6. 19, 83, 116, 123, 131
Pratt, G. W., his return from Germany, vii, 207; his
Ditson's Publications: Songs of Mozart; Harp of Italy, vii.
Richardson's do: Songs of Schubert, Franz, &c., vii. 55,
Norello's do.; Organ melodies, vii. 63; Rinck's Organ
Horace Waters's publications: Songs, polkas, &c., vii. 142.
.....H. F. Chorley, vii. 19
[Probably no other woman ever reached so high a place as an artist, in the sphere of rure, or instrumental music, (if we except, perhaps, the sister of MENDELS SOHN, whose death was the precursor of his own, and whose art was only exercised in private,) as the wife of the composer, ROBERT SCHUMANN, formerly celebrated as a pianist by her maiden name of CLARA WIECK. Since the melancholy illness of her husband (from which recent accounts encourage us to hope that he has recovered) she has again been making a concert tour through Germany. Our "Diarist" has already reported of her in Berlin, in company with JOACHIM. She also played a few months since in Weimar, where LISZT was inspired to write about her a very long and glowing article in the Leipzig Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, for Dec. 1, 1854. We propose in two instalments to translate the latter half of it, the first half being altogether general and speculative.—ED.
There can be no more happy, more harmonious union in the world of Art conceivable, than that of the inventing husband with the executing wife; of the composer, representing the idea, with the fair virtuoso, realizing it; both standing on the highest steps of the Art, altar in regions to which the mists of commonness can never rise. Poets, both, by feeling; zealous cherishers of their faith, severe guardians of its purity, subtile expounders of its mystic rites; with loftily aspiring hearts; their souls glowing with the divine afflatus; with spotless nobility and a pride proper to their rank, and armed with personal character corresponding to this nobility and pride, they both, in the most shining moment of their youthful development, in the first bloom of endeavor, full of ecstatic ardor and enthusiastic dreams, felt themselves drawn to one another, and each saw in the other the most sympathetic, most beloved, most exalted image of the god of Art,
VOL. VII. No. 1.
scathed from a training almost wholly absorbed in the practical learning of an instrument. She practised from her earliest childhood as long and often longer than her physical strength held out; but since she was one chosen among the many called, her sensibility did not become blunted in dry toiling after the necessary manual dexterity, or extinguished by too long dwelling in the rare atmosphere of Art, as flowers wilt in the beams of a too Southern sun before their opening; in spite of all this danger it acquired an early strength, and unfolded harmoniously, which in a feminine organization is to be deemed doubly fortunate.
In the beginning it cost her painful efforts to compel herself to a persistent toil, repugnant to her as to all artist natures, which are afflicted with a roving imagination, an indolent and dreamy spirit, slow to digest its lessons. For a long time she had to battle courageously to
before whom both bowed down in the same fer-
We see too often in our day, unfortunately, parents, who, relying upon certain brilliant examples, and actuated by motives, which have actually nothing in common with the love of the Beautiful, wear out and exhaust their children, when they show a spark of talent, by merely mechanical studies, if the slightest prospect of their acquiring some facility affords them the least hope of gain. They waste all upon the attainment of a fruitless virtuosity, a for the most part soul-less, often senseless delivery of masterworks, which for sheer thumping and thrashing cannot be comprehended, or else of mediocre productions, which do not gain value by a momentary success. The fledgings remain strangers to all other intellectual development, and are in danger, if they be not prominently gifted, of running wild into a purely material sleight of hand. Clara Wieck is one of those who have come out un
excitable, proud and introverted natures, which
Through much playing, or rather in spite of much playing, there grew in her at last, instead of ennui and satiety, as one might well believe, an inward understanding of what she played. Without doubt she understood music very differently from the way in which they sought to teach it to her, and that saved her! Thenceforth her spirit strove to mount up ever higher into the mystic realm of poesy. Soon it required no more the presence of a master to keep her to her study; she had found the golden gate of everlasting dreams and plunged with ever growing rapture into the element, whose high attrrction she had felt and known. She pressed more and more toward the equator, to breathe amid the flames of Art, at an age, which otherwise is little fitted to approach these flames without danger of being consumed by them. The singular energy of her
constitution, which has held out since, in spite of such manifold trials, exertions and sacrifices, in spite of uninterrupted cares, allowed her even then, without injury to her health, to live continually and ever longer in the glowing tropics of the soul. Thus she grew up in the land of the Ideal, to which youthful spirits undertake dreamy excursions, unsuspected by the world around her, which is unacquainted with those spheres and does not know the imperceptible but sure signs, with which the travellers in that wonder-land are quite familiar. There in the silence of her earnest meditation was that highest wisdom hers, which suddenly discloses to the artist, what it is sought in vain to teach him after the prescriptions of the schools.
When we heard Clara Wieck in Vienna fifteen years ago, she drew her hearers after her into her poetic world, to which she floated upward in a magical car drawn by electric sparks and lifted by delicately prismatic but nervously throbbing winglets. The poets in this graceful apparition recognized a daughter of their Fatherland, educated on the same shores, and nourished on the same flower pollen; they strewed pearls and songs before her and fêted this Benjamin of their tribe, who gazing round with wandering and inspired look, strangely smiling, seemed like a silent Naiad, ill at home here in the land of prose. At her performance of the F minor Sonata of BEETHOVEN all the listeners believed what Grillparzer related:
A weird magician, weary of the world,
What other passion besides love could bring back to this earth a genius so naturalized and made at home upon the heights of musical thought and feeling? And for whom could she feel a love worthy of herself, her dreams and longings, except for an artist like herself, who silent, introverted, musing as she mused, was wont to wander through the balsam groves of the Ideal, to relate in the language of tones the wonders there revealed? Two souls in their essence so entirely kindred must have kneeled before each other on first meeting, as the chronicle relates of the first interview of Maria of Burgundy with Maximilian of Austria, which adds; tant emerveillés furent ils de leur moult grande beautè et gentillesse mutuelle. Did not our artists also, like that royal pair of lovers, inwardly exclaim after the first shock of wonder and amazement: how beautiful!" And must they not, merging themselves in the concord of their two natures, have mutually dedicated and yielded themselves up to one another? Their destinies were fulfilled in this mutual love blossoming under the benign beams of Art, and thenceforth "his life was all for poetry, her poetry was in her life.”
[The following letter, addressed by the Count de Rossi, husband of the late celebrated vocalist, to a friend in Paris, is translated, by the London Musical World from Le Ménestrel.]
It is now nearly five months since I left her tomb, and I am still as broken-hearted and miserable as on the day of her death. The generous but useless endeavors of my relations to alleviate my loss, and even the presence of my beloved children, sadden rather than console me, particularly when I think of the happiness their dear mother would have felt in witnessing the great success of her favorite daughter, whom all find so charming in those qualities of education, heart, and musical feeling, which my lamented Henriette made such efforts to develope under her own direction. All now is lost forever, to me, to my children, and to the world, which she knew how to charm as much as she did her own domestic circle, by a talent which was never more perfect than when the decree of Providence arrested it in its career. It is impossible for me to tell you
what myself and my poor children suffer from a wound that time will scarcely heal; more especially my little Marie, who is only beginning to recover somewhat from the terrible blow given to her dearest and best affections. Pious as she is, (and permit me to add as I am myself,) we have appreciated in the highest degree the proof of affection shown by Mlle. Alphonsine Lemit (in the services at La Madeleine) in favor of one who had vowed to bestow upon her a mother's interest, and would have kept the vow if the Almighty had permitted her to realize the project of fixing her residence in Paris, as we had decided. Alas! it only remains for us now to honor her memory in our prayers, and to endeavor to stifle the bitter feelings which all of us experience in thinking of the fate of that unhappy mother who, as the price of her noble and indefatigable devotion, died, and died even at the moment when she was counting the days and the hours that would bring her back to her beloved children, and recompense her for all her troubles and anxieties. Let us hope, my dear and good friend, that Heaven, in its just mercy, has reserved for her the reward of her good works, in the enjoyment of a happiness of which we cannot measure the extent; and in truth it is not she, but ourselves, who are the most to be pitied.
I am waiting for the arrival at Hamburg of her dear mortal remains, in order to go there and meet them; I shall then accompany them to their last resting place, in the Convent of Maria Jhal, near Dresden, where her sister is a nun, and where, in consequence, the holy prayers of those who loved her most will not be wanting. I am and, after satisfying this wish of my heart, I rehaving a small chapel built there, with two tombs, turn to my family.
I shall meet you, no doubt, in the spring, but will not promise you that the pleasure of seeing impossible for me to separate your presence from you will be exempt from all sadness. It will be the remembrance of my dear Henriette; the idea of being able to talk of the angel whom I have lost with those who feel as you do, has, however, its consolation. Besides, it will be delightful to renew the friendship of Mile. Alphonsine and my dear Marie, by bringing them together again for a short time.
concerts in Vienna. The "pianism," to use a word of New York coinage, I believe, was of that immensely powerful, passionate character, which despising all the mere finenesses and niceties of the schools and salons, exerts its perfect command of the instrument, only for the purpose of expressing feelings and musical ideas. As with JOACHIM and his violin, so Rubinstein has no more difficulties to conquer. One of our musicians of some note here found this, that and the other fault with Rubinstein's playing. It came to the ears of one of the oldest and most distinguished professors. "Tell him." said he," he may think himself happy when he begins to play like him!"
As to the first part of the concert all agree. The greatness of Rubinstein's playing, the originality and depth of his musical thoughts, and the extreme skill with which upon the piano, he expresses them, admit of no dispute. For the first time in my life have I heard a pianist play his own compositions, without wishing he would leave this finger trash and give something from CHOPIN, MENDELSSOHN, or older composers. Because I speak of the immense power of his playing, do not imagine that he cannot be delicate-the softest zephyrs breathe after the terrific thunderstorm-I am generally more impressed with the little beauties than with the giant sublimity of Niagara.
As to the Symphony, it is hard to speak of it, after once hearing. There are those, and indeed of the first class, which are as well understood on the first hearing as on the hundredth; there are those which are beneath all rank, which are never understood. It is equally impossible to see the bottom of Lake Superior and of Lake Erie-the former is deep, the latter muddy. My companion was exceedingly pleased-he felt it to be entirely original and indeed its power and originality seemed to be its grand characteristics. I agree with him in a great measure; he was perhaps most pleased with the Andante; I thought the most striking and original movement to be the Scherzo. RELLSTAB's article upon the first concert contains much with which I must sympathize. It does seem as if Joachim was pursuing the wiser course in devoting himself to a most thorough study of the Orchestra, and gaining a wide experience in the art of expressing his ideas before coming before the public as composer on so grand a scale. At times I thought not difficult to see, that Rubinstein had not fully succeeded in making his idea clear, while the grandeur of the thought was evident. Beethoven at his age was again going through a thorough course of harmony and counterpoint with ALBRECHTSBerger, and was three years older before he produced an orchestral work in public.
I have heard this winter many orchestral works of young, or at least not much known, composers; but nothing has approached in importance what was last night produced in the theatre hall. If he should not split upon the rock on which so many have been lost-a want of thorough, severe study in the grammar and rhetoric, so to speak, of music-in the technicalities of the Art, why may we not expect great things of him? I never think of him but as a young Beethoven-can there be a higher compliment?
Feb. 11-One thing occurs to me, worthy of a place in my jottings, in connection with Rubinstein's concert. And that is the conduct of the audience. A large proportion of those present came with free tickets, and showed their appreciation(!) of the concert giver by talking, laughing, going out before the close, and all that sort of thing, in a manner I had not dreamed of here. I had to leave the main floor and seek a place in the gallery, to hear at all. The worst behaved audience, by all odds, at the performance of good music, which I ever saw was that-mostly young women-which last winter and winter before I used to see (and hear) at the Philharmonic rehearsals in New York. But these were only rehearsals. Rubinstein's audience bore the palm at regular concerts.
Ah, how the Germans love and appreciate music!
VERY CLASSICAL."-A recent number of the Musical Gazette has the following clever jeu d'esprit :
Not long since, as a gentleman who is well known in this city as a thorough musician and an
accomplished artist, was contemplating from his parlor window the antics of a monkey, belonging to an organ grinder in the street, who was torturing his organ and our friend with a vindictive pertinacity, of which only organ grinders are capable, he-the tortured friend and musician-was surprised at the appearance of a dashing equipage threading the humble street in which he resided. So seldom was anything vehicular of more recherché and pretentious quality than the butcher's, baker's, or milkman's cart, seen in the street, that the appearance of the equipage caused much commotion among the simple-minded inhabitants, and completely eclipsed the organ grinder and his monkey, who indignantly retired; the latter taking its revenge in making hideous faces at the footman, who formed a portion of the new arrival. Our musical friend observed that the approaching establishment consisted of two spanking bay horses, arrayed in resplendent silver-plated harness; a fashionable and costly carriage; a sumptuously dressed and beautiful lady, half reclining on the cushions; a burly coachman on the box, and two footmen behind, adorned with dashing livery. Where, soliloquized our musical friend, where can this beautiful creature be going? He was answered by the carriage stopping before his own door; and before he could overcome the astonishment consequent thereupon, his servant-girl brought him a card, on which was inscribed the name of one of the richest ladies in New York. The lady sought him most unequivocally; and with mingled feelings of surprise and vanity, he awaited her approach, in his modest little parlor. She soon came. She hoped she had the pleasure of addressing Mr. SYMPHONY: she had. She was glad of it. She was going to give a classical musical soirée, on a scale of magnificence hitherto unprecedented, and utterly regardless of expense. It was to be strictly classical; and of course a strictly classical musical soirée could not well be given without the aid of Mr. Symphony and his band.
Would Mr. Symphony and his band assist? The price was of no consequence; the utmost classicalness, at whatever cost, was to be secured. Mr. Symphony was charmed-equally with the good taste and the liberality of the lady; he would be happy-exceedingly happy to contribute his feeble aid, and he would also insure the attendance of his band. But when was the soirée to take place? Oh! it would take place very soon. But would Mr. Symphony be so kind as to call at the lady's residence, on the following Thursday, for the purpose of giving his valuable opinion as to the arrangement of the room so as to secure the best musical effects, etc.? Mr. Symphony would be happy to call. The lady retired; the carriage rolled away, and Mr. Symphony began to indulge in a brighter dream for musical Art in America. That lovely creature, so enthusiastic for the classical in music, and so regardless of expense, would certainly give Art an impetus, etc. Mr. Symphony permitted himself to cherish the wildest hopes, and ordered a barrel of lager-bier. Mr. Symphony was impatient for the arrival of Thursday. He said to himself that it would never come; but it did come, nevertheless, and with it came the carriage, coachman, and footman, and a note from the lady, informing Mr. Symphony that the carriage had been sent for him. What an honor! How considerate! Mr. Symphony entered the carriage, and soon arrived at the stupendous mansion of his fair patroness, in Fifth Avenue. He was ushered into an imposing and gorgeously furnished suit of rooms. The lady soon entered, as handsome and classical as ever, and seemingly as regardless of expense. She greeted Mr. Symphony cordially. She conducted him here; she conducted him there. How will this do? how will that do z Remember, Mr. Symphony, every thing is to be of the most classical order. O yes! Mr. Symphony keeps that constantly in mind, and ventures a compliment on the lady's taste. He then mentioned various compositions of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and others, which he thinks it would be well to introduce; not the entire works, that would perhaps be to tiresome for such an occasion; but the most effective and best appreciated movements of them. Yes, certainly, that
would be very nice. But the lady wished Mr. Symphony "to open the whole affair," and to commence the performances with something very classical. She had made a selection for him: the opening chorus of Ernani. Next, she would have played the sextet from Lucia; next, Jullien's Firemen's Quadrille; next-but here, to the astonishment of the lady, Mr. Symphony executed a fugue across the parlor, through the hall, out at the door, and down the avenue; and she has never been able to set eyes on him since.
From WASHINGTON, D. C. MARCH 29.-For about a week past our city has been a wind-instrument, whose only music however has been a prevalent pneumonic coughing. Whether it is the President's vetoes, or the Soulé correspondence, or the Czar's death that have been sowing the wind, we have certainly been reaping the whirlwind. Under such circumstances, though I had heard some good music, and had read the Journal, it was impossible to have written a good-natured letter, as I wanted to,-even if there had been a possibility of getting it to the post office without being blown away.
Since I last wrote we have had two or three pretty fair concerts here,-the best of which was PAUL JULLIEN'S; whose violin reminds you of that famous one whose maker caught in it the spirit of his dying mother, and which ever after gave forth a tone as of an imprisoned soul. But the latest thing is something which for originaliy, individuality, and all that sort of thing, beats even your own city of Isms and Eccentricities. This is no other than a Soirée of ROBERT HELLER's, held at Carusi's Saloon last week. Part 1; Pianoforte music. Part 2; three grand experiments necromantic! Heller's a genius. He saw what Washington wanted; he gave the supply, it brought him money and reputation.
The concert was opened with the Sonata Pathetique. I was agreeably surprised. Of all BEETHOVEN'S music this was the last I should have associated with Heller. I had many Boston memories of Heller: of how at our afternoon concerts he used to come forth, sit down quickly and in nine cases out of ten play that little scherzo of MENDELSSOHN's youth-until once some of us raised a hiss, which attracted a gaze from the crowd similar to little Oliver when he asked for "more." It was clear Heller was not aware of the importance of our Wednesday afternoons. And then at the subscriptions he played concertos faithfully.
His fingers are manifestly in better plight now. And the Sonata was charming. The second part of the first movement, Allegro molto e con brio, was given to a wonder. But I trembled for the second. I had heard DRESEL play it, and supposed I should never hear it again. But Heller had studied it thoroughly, and the fascinating Adagio did not suffer. The other good music he had, consisted of the following Lieder ohne Worte: No. 1, first book; No. 6, third book; No. 6, fifth book. Rather ambitious certainly, but still such a treat to hear at all. that I had not the heart to criticize. THALBERG'S Sonnambula Fantasie, and some selections from his own (Heller's) works attracted more applause than the others.
Heller is certainly a remarkable performer, chiefly so from his marvellous intrepidity, coolness. The most rapid prestidigitation (a phrase I remember you used to apply to him as apropos of his profession) does not seem to excite anything more than his knuckles. I rather suspect it was the lack of a better piano that made his performance of pieces that have so often penetrated me
through and through, only enlist my admiration of his skill.
But of Heller's "Drum of the Spirits." "Marvellous Orange Tree," "Second-Sight Mystery," I have no words to express my admiration. The Second-Sight produces the greatest excitement here, and convinces many that Robert Heller is certainly a near friend of Robert le Diable.
I was better pleased with the first Song without Words, as I heard it two evenings afterward at Mr. L.'s, than as Heller performed it. Before the quar. tet assembled, it was performed on the piano and violoncello. I wish those beautiful arrangements of CZERNY's were more common. We also had on this occasion Mendelssohn's first and second Quartets. The first of these I have heard several times now. It has always struck me as more constrained than Mendelssohn's usual style; somewhat as the first Symphony of Beethoven has, as being not exactly individual and natural. We had, as a conclusion, the Eroica, which I listened to in the light of WAGNER's analysis; which, however, like every other analysis I ever read of Beethoven's music, did me no good, and was soon forgotten.
LEGHORN, FEB. 12.-I promised to tell you something about what 1 had seen, or rather heard, in the musical way since I have been wandering in that land known, par excellence, as "the Land of Song." From my experience it appears rather a misnomer. Almost as much so as the hackneyed epithet of "sunny clime;" which the alternate storms of snow and rain, which have attended our Italian pilgrimage in search of sunshine, have most wofully belied.
In Venice, where we stopped some weeks, we heard a sufficient quantity of Opera, to be sure, but it was VERDI-VERDI! The Venetians very naturally like to hear I due Foscari, even when performed, as we heard it, by a tenor, who shouted through his nose in an exasperating manner-a basso, who reminded me of the man in the Picwick Papers that was requested to "send a boy home, to see if he had not left his voice under his pillow ;" and a prima donna, who probably sang very well indeed ten years ago. National partiality and memory of the past may excuse the weakness which submits to be amused three times a week by a most doleful series of alternate inaudible solos and deafening choruses; but no tenable reason could, I opine, be alleged for the enthusiasm with which a certain production, calling itself an opera and denominated L'Ebreo (the Jew) was received. Perhaps the aspect of the beautiful Teatro la Fenice put the audience into good humor. Certainly, without, exception it is the most beautiful theatre I have seen. The Berlin Opera House may be equal to it, but not superior. There are no dark reds, no deep greens, giving to a place of amusement the aspect of a misapplied cathedral. All is light, graceful, airy. The boxes are closed at the sides, which adds to the completeness of the aspect of the house, though it destroys the individuality of the groups in the boxes, only leaving visible the fair, flower-crowned heads, and graceful shoulders of the beautiful Venetian women. Beautiful they are, not with the airy grace of our lovely countrywomen; but with a certain heavy, monumental grandeur, that is quite as fascinating in its way.
They would be more agreeable neighbors at the Opera, however, if they came there to listen instead of to talk, which appears to be their sole object in coming. Then there are those insupportable white-coated Austrian officers, who go lounging about, talking in German, and, with the proverbial insolence of conquerors, utterly disregarding the hush! hush! which precedes the prima donna's grand effort, coolly continuing their audible cbservations on the ladies in the lower row, during the last dying speech and confession of the unlucky tenorwho sings away in the agonies of death, as is the wondrous fashion of that class of humanity-without in the least attracting their high and mighty attention. But I am forgeting L'Ebreo.
This opera is the production of an individual denominated Signor GIUSEPPE APPOLLONI, who appears to have