Chapter XV: Part II (5)

In the latter part of Dr. Tudway’s life he resided chiefly in London, and was much patronized by the Oxford family. The valuable scores of English church music, in six thick quarto volumes, now in the British Museum, and forming part of the Harleian Collection, (No. 7337,) were collected and transcribed by himself at this time. During the same period he was in the habit of meeting Prior, Sir James Thornhill, Christian the engraver, and other eminent characters, at Lord Oxford’s, once a week; and Sir James drew all their portraits, among which is Tudway playing on the harpsichord. Prior wrote humorous verses under these drawings, which were in the possession of Mr. West, formerly President of the Royal Society. There is also a picture of Dr. Tudway in the Music-school at Oxford, a present from Dr. Rawlinson. ‘At Cambridge,’ Burney rather sarcastically remarks, ‘he was longer remembered as an inveterate punster than as a great musician.’[55] His intimacy with Purcell furnished him with the means of forming an accurate judgment both of the character and talents of that great composer, of which he thus speaks in a letter addressed to his son:--‘I knew him perfectly well: he had a most commendable ambition of exceeding every one of his time, and succeeded without contradiction, there being none in England, nor anywhere else I know of, that could come in competition with him for compositions of all kinds,’ &c.

Dr. Tudway died in 1726.

* * * * *

~William Blake~, Doctor in Divinity, was prebendary of Salisbury, and rector of St. Thomas’s church in that city. This is all that we can learn of his history. We conjecture that his death must have taken place more than fifty years ago, for in a volume of anthems published about the year 1780, he is mentioned as ‘_late_ prebendary,’ &c. Burney does not speak of him; his name therefore, of course, does not occur in Hawkins; and we do not meet with it in the new edition of Wood’s _Athen. Oxon._, or in the Biographical Dictionary. But though he is thus unnoticed, no anthem is more generally known and admired than his ‘I have set God always before me,’ which, for beauty of melody, elegance in construction, and correctness in setting, is without a superior. It has been contemned by those whose beau ideal of excellence consists in canons and fugues, but long-continued public approbation is a sure test of merit, and this the composition in question has enjoyed, till the criticism of pedants is nearly if not quite silenced.

* * * * *

~Charles King,~ Mus. B.--Sir John Hawkins, who seems to have been personally acquainted with the subject of this sketch, states that he was bred up in the choir of St. Paul’s, under Dr. Blow, and was at first a supernumerary singer in that cathedral, for the small stipend of 14_l._ a year. In 1704 he was admitted bachelor in music at Oxford; and on the death of Jeremiah Clark, whose sister was his first wife, was appointed almoner and master of the children of St. Paul’s; and in 1730 became a vicar-choral thereof. He was also organist of St. Bennet Fink, London; and held these several appointments till his death in 1745. ‘With his second wife,’ says Sir John, ‘he had a fortune of seven or eight thousand pounds, left her by the widow of Mr. Primatt, the chemist, who lived in Smithfield, and also in that house at Hampton which is now Mr. Garrick’s. But notwithstanding this accession of wealth, he left his family in but indifferent circumstances. King composed some anthems, and also services to a great number, and thereby gave occasion to Dr. Greene to say,--and indeed he was very fond of saying it, as he thought it a witty sentiment--that “Mr. King was a very _serviceable_ man.” His compositions are uniformly restrained within the bounds of mediocrity; they are well known as being frequently performed, yet no one cares to censure or commend them, and they leave the mind just where they found it. Some who were intimate with him say, he was not void of genius, but averse to study; which character seems to agree with that general indolence and apathy which were visible in his look and behaviour at church, where he seemed to be as little affected by the service as the organ-blower.’ Hawkins was very much enamoured of the works of Blow, and such laborious, dry composers, and appears to have had little if any genuine taste for what is natural in music--for flowing melody and unaffected harmony,--for both of which King’s productions are eminently distinguished. Their best praise is, that they have continued to be performed from the moment they were brought forth to the present time; they are in constant use in every cathedral in England and Ireland: this is an incontestable proof of merit, and silences all criticism. He who can listen to King’s Service in ~B~ flat with indifference, may be assured that he has no true taste, though he may be a great admirer of canons _recte_ and _retro_, and four in one.

A TREATISE ON MELODY.

(From _La Revue Musicale_.)

A Treatise on Melody, independent of its connection with Harmony;
with a Supplement on the Art of accompanying Melody with Harmony
where the former is predominant; the whole supported by the best
Models of Melody. By ~Anthony Reicha~, Member of the Legion of
Honour, and Professor of Composition in the Conservatory of Music.
Second Edition. Paris, 1832. In two volumes quarto.

In the preface to this work, M. Reicha expresses himself thus--“During several ages a great number of treatises have been written on harmony, and not one on melody.” Further on he says, “Several authors of merit have indeed spoken in their various works on the subject of melody, but it has only been with reference to its general effects. In Germany, Italy, England, and especially in France, remarks, more or less important, more or less instructive, and often more or less ingenious, have been published on the subject; but what has been the result of these remarks on the musical art? Why have they been of so little profit to it? Because vague reasonings, unsupported by demonstrative proofs, however ingenious, however instructive they may be, having very little internal evidence, are susceptible of being combated and refuted by other reasonings, and consequently remain without effect. It is with music as with geometry; in the one you must prove every point by musical examples, as in the other by geometrical figures. In both you must proceed regularly, from consequence to consequence, and establish a system so solid, that no reasoning whatever can shake it. It is in this point of view that I say nothing has yet been published respecting melody; all the remarks which have been made on the subject united would not furnish matter for a real treatise on melody. I found myself in my researches, therefore, entirely abandoned to myself; and if unwittingly I have, on some occasions, followed the paths of those who have written on melody before me, it will be an immediate emanation of my own system, and in that case it would be unjust to make it a matter of reproach.

“It will be seen in the course of this treatise that the musical period has a real existence. This period has remained a secret even to the present time, no one has ever proved or defined it indubitably, and even when it has been spoken of, it has been only too much confounded with the phrases and melodic members which are in fact only its decisions. This is the reason it played so unhappy a part in the famous contest between the Piccinists and the Gluckists.

“Musical rhythm, the knowledge of which is so important, not only in music, but in lyric poetry, for similar reasons, has shared the same fate.”

I have extended my quotation to this length, only that the object M. Reicha proposes to achieve by his book, and the circumstances under which he wrote it may be well understood. Not only has he felt the utility of a systematic treatise on melody, but the necessity of it has appeared to him so pressing, that he has persuaded himself there existed no previous work on the subject. Though he is mistaken in this respect, it is a point which should be borne in mind, in order that he may be allowed all the merit of his own ideas.

I have said that M. Reicha is in error when he says, that no work especially on the subject of melody existed before his own. In fact, setting, aside entirely the excellent discourse of Doni “on the Perfection of Melody,” which will be found in the second volume of his musical works; and the work of Nichellman, (published at Ratisbon in 1752,) _Die Melodie nach ihren Wesen sowohl als nach ihren Eigenschaften_, (Melody considered in its Nature and Qualities,) the first part of the great work of Riepel, published at Frankfort and Leipsic, in 1757, and entitled _Anfangsgründe zur Musikalischen Setzkunst_, (Elements of Musical Composition,) is a complete treatise on the Melodic Rhythm; and the second part of the same work, _Grundregeln zur Tonordnung_, (Fundamental rules of the System of Tones, &c.,) contains a very good theory of modulation. The two last volumes of Koch’s Essay towards an Introduction to Composition contain also an excellent treatise on melody, considered in various ways. The second volume treats on the creation and forms of melodic passages, on modulation, on the varieties of times, &c. The third and last volume is divided under the following heads: 1. Of Rhythm. 2. Of the Ornaments of Melody, and the manner of varying their forms. 3. On the Melodic Period.

We have likewise seen that, when writing his book, M. Reicha believed also that there was no especial work on particular rhythm, that is to say, on measure in music and poetry, except the general treatises on melody: he did not know, therefore, the work of Augustan Pisa, entitled _Battuta della Musica Dichiarata_; nor that of P. Sacchi, _Della Divisione del Tempo nella Musica, nell ballo e nella Poesia_, of which the work of Bonesi, entitled “A Treatise on Measure, or the Division of Time in Music and Poetry,” is in some respects only a translation. In examining the work of M. Reicha, therefore, we must not lose sight of the consideration that he has not used other books to assist the construction of his own; it is to his own individual ideas and thoughts alone that we are introduced, and we most allow him the merit he deserves on that score, even if he is sometimes mistaken.

Another consideration must also be kept in mind when examining the work of M. Reicha, and that is, that he has intentionally treated of melody alone, laying aside all consideration of its connection with harmony. By fixing these bounds to his work he has, doubtlessly, renounced the analyzing some points of high interest; for in the present state of the art, melody derives as much effect from the harmony which accompanies it as from its own resources; the modulation, the expression of a phrase, often depends upon it; but M. Reicha has said in his preface that he has determined to treat only of the material, or, if the epithet may be permitted, palpable parts of melody; that is to say, of the form of its periods and its phraseology. It is doubtless the same reason which has prevented him from discussing the poetry of melody, or the influence of rhythm on melodic expression. A complete treatise on melody would embrace all these points; but again, it is to be remembered that such a treatise was not what the author proposed to write.

M. Reicha seems to have an idea that, in order to justify the writing a treatise on melody, it is requisite to anticipate and answer beforehand all the objections which would be made against such a book. It is not from forethought that M. Reicha has anticipated these objections; I have frequently heard them from the mouths of professors themselves. There seems a general persuasion that the best melodies are the produce of a blind instinct, a mere uninstructed animal genius, and people are not aware that the best-organized composer, the man most endowed by nature with the faculty of creating, does not at first know what to do with his own ideas; that he is incapable of himself alone conceiving the mechanism of rhythm, that of modulation, or the magic effect of reducing his thoughts to order. All these things are learned: some learn them from books, some from the instructions of a professor, and some again from their own experience. Hence it arises, that the first essays of a man of genius, if he has had no preliminary education, are as defective in melodic invention as in any other point. The only difference between the man of genius and the ordinary musician is, that in the productions of the former a certain air of novelty and vigour is generally to be detected rising above the faults with which it is surrounded, and giving promise of what the writer will be when he has acquired experience. The requisites indispensable to melody are symmetry in the rhythm of the phrases, symmetry in the number of bars, and regularity of modulation, that is, an easy and pleasant arrangement in the succession of the notes; these things are first learned, then become habitual, and, finally, present themselves without our having the labour of thinking of them.

It is erroneous to suppose that there are so many obstacles as some conceive, in the way of a spontaneous production of ideas, for rhythm, number, and modulation are faculties so inseparable from a well-instructed musician, that he obeys them as by instinct, without ever remarking it, while he is solely occupied by the graceful, energetic, gay, or passionate character with which he wishes to invest his melody. How many other more real obstacles is the composer obliged to combat with and surmount in the arrangement of his ideas! If he writes to words in the dramatic style, the arrangement of the verse, the prosody, the rapidity of the action, and many other difficulties, restrain him much more; yet the man of genius always ends with triumph.

Composers themselves cannot understand by what mysterious agency they are endowed thus with the faculty of invention, the power of keeping up their warmth of feeling and their enthusiasm; of investing themselves with a passion, in the midst of no many obstacles; of retaining their independent power of choosing subjects, and working upon them with equal dexterity, as if there were nothing in the way. I have heard persons who disapprove of writing on melody, say, that supposing a good work could be produced on such a subject, no one is competent to the task but a composer celebrated himself for his happy invention of melodies, such as Mozart or Rossini. This appears to me to be a manifest error. The man of genius, who is constantly occupied by new productions, has not time to analyse the mechanism of his own works; he has no doubt that he himself understands what he knows, and he has no faith in things which are to be learned; no man can be more unfit to become a teacher. The power of analysis is a very rare gift of nature, and not necessarily connected with or produced by any of the other faculties of the mind.

After giving some preliminary notions on the most important objects of music, M. Reicha passes to the definition of melodic designs, of cadences, of rhythm, and the construction of the period. He then develops all those points in separate articles, entitled--1. Of periods consisting of one member only. 2. On periods consisting of two members. 3. On the complement (filling up) of the bar after the completion of a melodic phrase. 4. On measures understood, not expressed in the rhythm. 5. On the melodic echo. 6. On the difference of rhythms in relation to the quantity of bars. 7. On periods consisting of two members. 8. Of Organ points, &c. 9. On the conducting of melody. 10. On periods consisting of more than two members. 11. On the connection of periods. 12. On melodies consisting of two periods. 13. On melodies with three principal periods. 14. General observations on the form, outline, and dimensions of melodic phrases. 15. Remarks on airs of declamation and concerted pieces. 16. On the different characters of melody. 17. Observations on the unity and variety of melody. 18. On the style of delivering and of ornamenting melody. 19. Observations on national airs. 20. On the methods of developing a subject. 21. On the methods of studying and practising the writing of melody. 22. Plan of a programme of a course of study for composition. 23. Last remarks on rhythm. 24. (Supplement.) On the art of accompanying melody with harmony where the former is predominant.

~Fetis.~

MR. BARNETT _versus_ THE PHILHARMONIC SOCIETY.

_To the_ ~Editor~ _of the_ ~Harmonicon~.

~Sir~, 9, _John Street, Adelphi_.

Without a wish to mix up your respectable publication with my quarrels and grievances, I trust you will make known the following remarks to your readers, and allow _them_ to judge for themselves whether they are called for or gratuitous.

A few months ago I was informed of certain reformations about to take place in the Philharmonic Society, and of certain resolutions agreed upon at a meeting of the members. I refrained from making known to the public _then_ that portion of the business which concerned me, because I gained my information in confidence; but since that time, I have heard it from those who have made no secret of it: I shall, therefore, treat the public with a ‘plain unvarnished tale,’ serving to show the _extreme liberality_ of the _Philharmonic Society_.

Soon after the publication of my strictures upon the _unjust_ conduct of these gentlemen towards native artists, their truth was doubtless felt; and a meeting was called for the laudable purpose of arranging plans to treat artists in future more generously than they had treated _me_. We not unfrequently find that ungenerous persons (like bad paymasters, who either pay beforehand or not at all) stride from one extreme to the other: thus the Society acted as preposterously on the one hand, as they had before done on the other; and, with a show of liberality which I had not given them credit for, they now resolved upon engaging English writers by wholesale, to compose for them, thereby giving the lie to all I had advanced against them. Mr. A. then proposed his intimate friend Mr. B., and Mr. C. did the same kind act for Mr. D., until the whole alphabet of English composers was proposed and received. Some of the gentlemen (I mention no names) who were to be called upon to write had scarcely made up their minds whether they should set up for composers or not; and I doubt not that there was at the time a great run upon Messrs. Boosey and Co. for all the _partiture_ of the classical writers. Now then was the glorious time for the Society to lay aside all personal feeling towards me, and to do me justice, in common with others of no greater pretensions than myself. At this meeting of the members of the Philharmonic, there was but _one_ gentleman (whose name I do not feel myself at liberty to mention) who felt and stated, in finding that _my_ name was not in the most remote manner alluded to, that I had been unjustly treated by them, and that, as a liberal body, they ought to make the _amende honorable_ by employing _me_ with the rest; and that if it was to be presumed that _I_ was the first cause of a revolution in the arrangements of the Society, that _I_ ought at least to share in the benefits of it. No sooner did the hated name echo from director to member, than the hue and cry was raised, the motion negatived on all hands, the member silenced, and the Philharmonic Society, in the very midst of their (newly-acquired) glowing liberality, forgetting themselves, threw off their “borrowed robes,” and appeared in their native nudity.

I am not vain enough to say that my trifling efforts were worthy of performance at their concerts, but I may boldly assert that my abilities (such as they are) had nothing at all to do with their rejection of me: had I been a _Beethoven_, I doubt not that they would have treated the bare mention of my name in the same manner. They were actuated by a paltry feeling of revenge and animosity, and hailed the opportunity of casting an affront upon me; but in this way alone could they do it: they dared not to revenge themselves openly upon me, but under cover of a meeting to which they knew _I_ could not gain admittance to tax them with their injustice.

Having learnt the result of the transaction, I came to the natural conclusion, that I had judged these gentlemen aright. Had they waived that ill feeling towards me, which was occasioned by any act of mine which they might have deemed improper, and had admitted me upon the score of any musical talent which I might possess, their conduct would have been magnanimous, and I should have sorely regretted having exposed their former ill treatment of me to the public, but--

Ex pede Herculem,

they did the very thing to convince the world that my original opinion of them was a just one. However disposed I might have been to have judged them liberally, it was not likely that a body of men who had before treated me so scurvily either would or could now behave like _true artistes_, and, in the anxious wish to advance music in England, lose sight of all private picque.

In conclusion, should any further question arise whether, in the first instance, they treated me as I have represented, let it be borne in mind that I advanced, boldly, a string of facts which were given publicity to, through the medium of the _Harmonicon_: I signed my name, gave my address, and was ready for any confutation, either public or private. The only reply to my former letter was a weak and futile attempt to prove that Messrs. ~Attwood~ and ~Potter~ were _not so clever as I asserted them to be_; but the main point was not attempted to be disputed, and my brave antagonist shielded himself under cover of a _fictitious name_. These gentlemen thought it wisest to suffer my assertions to go uncontradicted, because _they could not_ disprove them; and, moreover, because they knew that I had in the background strong evidence of the ~TRUTH~ of my statement, even among _the members of their own Society_.

I have the honour, Sir,
Of subscribing myself
Your obedient, humble servant,
~John Barnett~.

MEMOIRS OF DR. BURNEY, BY HIS DAUGHTER MAD. D’ARBLAY.

[Concluded from page 99.]

In bringing to a conclusion this lengthened account of a work which, however executed, must be interesting to the general reader on account of the anecdotes relating to distinguished literary and other characters which it contains, and to the musical amateur from the information, though too scanty, which it conveys on matters concerning his favourite pursuit, we shall confine ourselves as much as possible to what relates to the art and its professors.

In 1785, Dr. Burney’s account of the Commemoration appeared, and led to his first audience of George III. and his queen.

This year, happily for Dr. Burney, re-opened with a new
professional interest, that necessarily called him from the
tributary sorrow with which the year 1784 had closed.

The engravings for the Commemoration of Handel were now finished;
and a splendid copy of the work was prepared for the King. Lord
Sandwich, as one of the chief Directors of the late festival,
obligingly offered his services for taking the Doctor under his
wing to present the book at the levee; but his Majesty gave Dr.
Burney to understand, through Mr. Nicolai, that he would receive
it, at a private audience, in his library.

This was an honour most gratifying to Dr. Burney, who returned from
his interview at the palace in an elevation of pleasure that he
communicated to his family with the social confidence that made the
charm of his domestic character.

ROYAL AUDIENCE.

He had found their Majesties together, without any attendants or
any state, in the library; where he presented both to the King and
to the Queen a copy of his Commemoration.

They had the appearance of being in a serene _tête-à-tête_, that
bore every mark of frank and cheerful intercourse. His reception
was most gracious; and they both seemed eager to look at his
offerings, which they instantly opened and examined.

“You have made, Dr. Burney,” said his Majesty, “a much more
considerable book of this Commemoration than I had expected; or,
perhaps, than you had expected yourself?”

“Yes, Sire,” he answered. “the subject grew upon me as I proceeded,
and a continual accumulation of materials rendered it almost daily
more interesting.”

His Majesty then detailed his opinion of the various performers;
and said that one thing only had discredited the business, and that
was the inharmonious manner in which one of the base singers had
sung his part; which had really been more like a man groaning in a
fit of the cholic, than singing an air.

The Doctor laughingly agreed that such sort of execution certainly
more resembled a convulsive noise, proceeding from some one in
torture, than any species of harmony; and that therefore, as he
could not speak of that singer favourably in his account, he had
been wholly silent on his subject; as had been his practice in
other similar instances.

The Queen seemed perfectly to understand, and much to approve,
the motive for this mild method of treating want of abilities and
powers to please, where the will was good, and where the labour had
been gratuitous.

The King expressed much admiration that the full _fortes_ of so
vast a band, in accompanying the singers, had never been too loud,
even for a single voice; when it might so naturally have been
expected that the accompaniments even of the softest pianos, in
such plenitude, would have been overpowering to all vocal solos. He
had talked, he said, both with musical people and with philosophers
upon the subject; but none of them could assign a reason, or
account for so astonishing a fact.

Something then bringing forth the name of Shakspeare, the Doctor
mentioned a translation of his plays by Professor Eichenberg. The
King, laughing, exclaimed, “The Germans translate Shakspeare! why
we don’t understand him ourselves! how should foreigners?”

The Queen replied, that she thought Eichenberg had rendered the
soliloquies very exactly.

“Aye,” answered the King, “that is because in those serious
speeches there are none of those puns, quibbles, and peculiar
idioms of Shakspeare and his times, for which there are no
equivalents in other languages.”

The remaining part of this conversation we omit, out of tenderness to Madame d’Arblay, who, being a practised writer, surely might have conveyed the sense of the highly flattering compliment paid her by their Majesties in less direct terms than she has here employed.

In 1786, Dr. Burney experienced some disappointment in not being appointed to succeed Mr. Stanley (‘blind Stanley’) as Master of the King’s band. The office was bestowed on Mr., afterwards Sir William, Parsons, by the Marquess of Salisbury, the Lord Chamberlain, at the request of the Marchioness. As Mr. Parsons had even less claims as a composer than Dr. Burney, and--though a most honourable, well-educated, sensible man, of very polished manners--possessed none of those literary talents which the other was then so exclusively and successfully devoting to the service of music, his appointment to the only place in the gift of the crown which offers anything like an adequate reward for musical eminence, was much censured, and, according to the author of these Memoirs, not a little displeasing to the King. It is but just, however, to the memory of Sir W. Parsons, to add, that he very soon conciliated the good will of all the royal family, with whom, ostensibly as singing-master to the Princesses, he passed much time, at both Buckingham House and Windsor, in intercourse as social as the great difference of each in the parties permitted.

About this time, Miss F. Burney, the future wife of General d’Arblay, was made Keeper of the Robes to the Queen, and had apartments assigned to her in the two principal royal residences. At those in Windsor Castle, Dr. Burney was, by royal desire, invited to pass some days with his daughter; and here the King, throwing off all the formalities of royalty, had an opportunity of entering into unrestrained, familiar conversation with the historian of music. The first of the interviews thus agreeably brought about is described in the following extract.

He [the King] opened upon musical matters, with the most animated
wish to hear the sentiments of the Doctor, and to communicate his
own; and the Doctor, enchanted, was more than ready, was eager, to
meet these condescending advances.

No one at all accustomed to court etiquette could have seen him
without smiling: he was so totally unimpressed with the modes
which, even in private, are observed the royal presence, that he
moved, spoke, and walked about the room without constraint; nay,
he even debated with the King precisely with the same frankness
that he would have used with any other gentleman whom he had
accidentally met in society.

Nevertheless, a certain flutter of spirits which always accompanies
royal interviews that are infrequent, even with those who are
least awed by them, took from him that self-possession which, in
new or uncommon cases, teaches us how to get through difficulties
of form, by watching the manœuvres of our neighbours. Elated
by the openness and benignity of his Majesty, he seemed in a
sort of honest enchantment that drove from his mind all thought
of ceremonial; though, in his usual commerce with the world, he
was scrupulously observant of all customary attentions. But now,
on the contrary, he pursued every topic that was started till he
had satisfied himself by saying all that belonged to it; and he
started any topic that occurred to him, whether the King appeared
to be ready for another or not; and while the rest of the party,
retreating towards the wainscot, formed a distant and respectful
circle, in which the King, approaching separately and individually
those whom he meant to address, was alone wont to move, the Doctor,
quite unconsciously, came forward into the circle himself; and,
wholly bent upon pursuing whatever theme was begun, either followed
the King when he turned away, or came onward to meet his steps when
he inclined them towards some other person; with an earnestness
irrepressible to go on with his own subject, and to retain to
himself the attention and the eyes--which never looked adverse to
him--of the sweet-tempered monarch.

This vivacity and this nature evidently amused the King, whose
candour and good sense always distinguished an ignorance of the
routine of forms, from the ill manners or ill will of disrespect.

The Queen, also, with a grace all her own towards those whom she
deigned to wish to please, honoured her Robekeeper’s apartment with
her presence on the following evening, by accompanying thither
the King; with the same sweetness of benevolence of seeking Mrs.
Delany, in granting an audience to Dr. Burney.

No one better understood conversation than the Queen, or
appreciated conversers with better judgment: gaily, therefore, she
drew out, and truly enjoyed, the flowing, unpracticed, yet always
informing discourse of Dr. Burney.

In 1791, Dr. Burney became a ‘member among the monthly reviewers, under the editorship of the worthy Mr. Griffith.’ In the same year he commences his journal in the following words:--

“1791.--This year was auspiciously begun, in the musical world,
by the arrival in London of the illustrious Joseph Haydn. ’Tis
to Salomon that the lovers of music are indebted for what the
lovers of music will call this blessing. Salomon went over himself
to Vienna, upon hearing of the death of the Prince of Esterhazy,
the great patron of Haydn, purposely to tempt that celebrated
musical genius hither; and on February 25, the first of Haydn’s
incomparable symphonies, which was composed for the concerts of
Salomon, was performed. Haydn himself presided at the piano-forte:
and the sight of that renowned composer so electrified the audience
as to excite an attention and a pleasure superior to any that
had ever, to my knowledge, been caused by instrumental music in
England. All the slow middle movements were encored; which never
before happened, I believe, in any country.”

In 1801, Dr. Burney entered into an engagement with the proprietors of Rees’s Cyclopædia, as it is called, to furnish all its musical articles at stated periods. He thus speaks of this enterprise in a letter to some friend:--

“I have entered now into concerns that leave me not a minute
or a thought to bestow on other matters. Besides professional
avocations, I have deeply engaged in a work that can admit of no
delay, and which occupies every instant that I can steal from
business, friends, or sleep. A new edition, on a very enlarged
plan, of the Cyclopædia of Chambers, is now printing in two double
volumes 4to., for which I have agreed to furnish the musical
articles, on a very large scale, including whatever is connected
with the subject; not only definitions of the musical technica, but
reflections, discussions, criticism, history, and biography. The
first volume is printed, and does not finish the letter A; and in
_nine months’ hard labour_, I have not brought forth two letters.
I am more and more frightened every day at the undertaking, so
long after the usual allowance of three score years and ten have
expired. And the shortest calculation for the termination of this
work is still ten years.”

And in his letters to West Hamble on the same subject, he mentions, that to fulfil his engagement, he generally rises at five or six o’clock every morning--! in his seventy-sixth year.

The only entry in Dr. Burney’s journal, in the year 1803, relates to Beethoven’s music, of the merits of which his quick discrimination enabled him immediately to form a favourable opinion.

“Beethoven’s compositions for the piano-forte were first brought
to England by Miss Tate, a most accomplished _dilettante_ singer
and player. I soon afterwards heard some of his instrumental works,
which are such as incline me to rank him amongst the first musical
authors of the present century. He was a disciple of Mozart, and is
now but three or four and twenty years of age.”

In his journal for 1804, he mentions his retirement from his profession, and confesses the advance of some of those infirmities which, when within two years of becoming an octogenarian, it is rather difficult to avoid.

“In 1804, in the month of April, I completed my 78th year, and
decided to relinquish teaching and my musical patients; for both
my ears and my eyes were beginning to fail me. I could still hear
the most minute musical tone; but in conversation I lost the
articulation, and was forced to make people at the least distance
from me repeat everything that they said. Sometimes the mere tone
of voice, and the countenance of the speaker, told me whether I
was to smile or to frown; but never so explicitly as to allow me
to venture at any reply to what was said! Yet I never, seemingly,
have been more _in fashion_ at any period of my life than this
spring; never invited to more conversaziones, assemblées, dinners,
and concerts. But I feel myself less and less able to bear a part
in general conversation every day, from the failure of memory,
particularly in names; and I am become fearful of beginning any
story that occurs to me, lest I should be stopped short by hunting
for Mr. How-d’ye-call-him’s style and titles.

“I was very near-sighted from about my 30th year; but though it is
usually thought that that sort of sight improves with age, I have
not discovered that the notion was well founded. My sight became
not only more short, but more feeble. Instead of a concave glass,
I was forced to have recourse to one that was convex, and that
magnified highly, for pale ink and small types.”

Dr. Burney meets the Prince of Wales at Lady Salisbury’s, and, of course, is enchanted by him. At the same party is Lady Melbourne, an old pupil of the Doctor, who reproaches him with never having been to dine with her, and promptly mixes up a party, in which the heir apparent and the musical historian are the chief ingredients. The Prince and the Doctor agree surprisingly well in their opinions, and meet again afterwards at the Opera, where their unanimity is not less remarkable. But a few months later, Dr. Burney being on a visit to the Duke of Portland, at Bulstrode, is in company with Lord and Lady Darnley, with whom he did not so well agree in matters of musical taste.

“They came in,” he says in his journal, “while I was dressing,
and I had not heard their names, and knew not who they were.
Unacquainted, therefore, with the bigoted devotion to the exclusive
merit of Handel that I had to encounter, I got into a hot dispute
that I should else, at the Duke’s house, have certainly avoided.
The expression ‘modern refinements,’ happened to escape me, which
both my lord and his lady, with a tone of consummate contempt,
repeated: ‘Modern refinements, indeed!’ ‘Well, then,’ cried I,
‘let us call them modern changes of style and taste; for what one
party calls refinements, the other, of course, constantly calls
corruption and deterioration.’ They were quite irritated at this;
and we all three went to it ding-dong! I made use of the same
arguments that I have so often used in my musical writings,--that
ingenious men can not have been idle during a century; and the
language of sound is never stationary, any more than that of
conversation and books. New modes of expression, new ideas from
new discoveries and inventions, required new phrases: and in the
cultivation of instruments, as well as of the voice, emulation
would produce novelty, which, above all things, is wanted in music.
And to say that the symphonies of Haydn, and the compositions of
Mozart and Beethoven, have no merit because they are not like
Handel, Corelli, and Geminiani,--or to say that the singing of
a Pacchierotti, a Marchese, a Banti, or a Billington, in their
several styles, is necessarily inferior to singers and compositions
of the days of Handel,--is supposing time to stand still.”

In 1805, the King visited and closely inspected Chelsea College, of which Dr. Burney was resident organist; and he had the honour to be summoned to the royal presence, when a long conversation, very diligently recorded in the Doctor’s journal, took place, of which the following is a small portion:--

“‘And what are you doing now, Dr. Burney?’ said the King.

“‘I am writing for the new Cyclopædia, Sir.’

“‘I am glad the subject of music,’ he answered, ‘should be in such
good hands.’

“And then, with an arch smile, he added: ‘For the essay writers and
the periodical writers are all, I believe, to a man, at this time,
Jacobins.’

“And afterwards, with a good-humoured laugh, he said: ‘That disease
(the Jacobin) was first caught here, I believe, by the poets;
and then by the actors; and now the infection has caught all the
singers, and dancers, and fiddlers.’”

Nearly all the poets thus alluded to are still living, but most of them are entirely recovered from such diseases. The dancers and fiddlers so elegantly spoken of, and in the plural number, to avoid apparent personality, were, we conjecture, M. Didelot and Mr. Viotti, both of whom were, for a time, obliged to leave this country.

Dr. Burney all his life had been a zealous Tory, but the Tories never showed their zeal for him. In 1806, when the Whigs came into office, the united efforts of Mr. Windham and Mr. Fox procured for the historian of music a pension of £300--a grant which, it is not saying much when we assert, was more justly obtained in this instance, than in nine cases out of ten in which the royal prerogative has been exercised.

Not only was the latter part of Dr. Burney’s life rendered comfortable through the instrumentality of that party for which he, and still more his daughter, entertained so great a horror, but he was destined to have an honour of the highest kind conferred on him by Jacobinism itself; for about this time the _Institut National de France_ elected him a member of the _Classe des Beaux Arts_; and we have reason to know that he considered this as one of the most flattering events of his life; though his daughter, governed by prejudice rather than that exactness which ought to be the chief aim of a biographer, would lead us to believe that the distinction thus conferred was not only embarrassing, but somewhat disagreeable to him.

We now are fast approaching the close of Dr. Burney’s life, and the termination of this Memoir. One of the best remarks that have, in the progress of these three volumes, fallen from Madame d’Arblay’s pen, is the following, introducing the last entry made by her father in his journal. The date is 1813.

Sir Joshua Reynolds desired that the last name he should pronounce
in public should be that of Michael Angelo; and Dr. Burney
seems to purpose that the last name he should transmit--if so
allowed--through his annals to posterity, should be that of Haydn.

“Finding a blank leaf at the end of my journal, it may be used in
the way of postscriptum, in speaking of the prelude or opening of
Haydn’s Creation, to observe, that though the generality of the
subscribers were unable to disentangle the studied confusion in
delineating chaos, yet, when dissonance was tuned, when order was
established, and God said,

‘Let there be light!--and there was light!’
‘_Que la lumière soit!--et la lumière fut!_’

the composer’s meaning was felt by the whole audience, who
instantly broke in upon the performers with rapturous applause
before the musical period was closed.”

The winter of 1814 was remarkable for its severity, and made its impression on the feeble frame of Dr. Burney. Spring, however, had arrived, and he flattered himself, or rather flattered his numerous and affectionate family, that he had triumphed over the effects of so inclement a season. But he was deceived: the exertion to resist its influence had cost all his remaining strength, and more genial weather found him utterly exhausted.

On the 12th of April he almost suddenly exhibited symptoms which showed that nature could make no further effort, and he remained in a state nearly approaching insensibility, till the 15th, in the evening of which day he tranquilly breathed his last. A detailed account of this event is given in a letter written at the time by Madame d’Arblay to her husband, General d’Arblay, then in Paris, and this narrative may be mentioned as one of the best parts of the whole work; though it evidently has received recent touches that have not improved what we can imagine to have been the more natural tone and style of the original.

* * * * *

A memoir of so distinguished a literary character, of so excellent a musical critic, as Dr. Burney, cannot be read without exciting a very considerable degree of interest, particularly as coming from the pen of a celebrated writer; and, still more especially, as embodying numerous anecdotes of persons who filled such prominent stations, and shone with so much brilliancy, during a period that may almost be called our own. Had the whole been written with the spirit and in the manner of those early letters which Madame d’Arblay has here so judiciously published in all their native vivacity and unaffected simplicity, the work would have been delightful and irreproachable: but, unhappily, she delayed putting together her materials till that judgment, once so strong, was no longer in full vigour; till advancing age had somewhat lessened those qualifications which, at the time when she was deprived of her highly-gifted, excellent, and venerable parent, she, most undeniably, possessed for the performance of such a task.

Vain would it be to express a wish that Madame d’Arblay could be induced to publish what we will venture to call a castigated edition of this Memoir; her age renders it next to impossible that such a hope should be realized: but the time probably will come, when what she has here collected will be revised, be combined in a very different manner, and then form a work worthy of being classed among the most entertaining of the many pieces of biography in which the literature of our country abounds.

ON THE RE-INTRODUCTION OF THE LYRE,

_In its most ancient form of a four-stringed Instrument._

_To the_ ~Editor~ _of the_ ~Harmonicon~.

~Sir~,

We have lately seen the guitar, an instrument nearly new to this country, introduced among us, and acquire great popularity. This was an instrument of the Greeks, though far less a favourite than the lyre. Why, then, should not the lyre be now found to possess yet higher recommendations? The fact of its origin in Greece, and the high estimation in which it was held by that people, prove, at least, that it deserves our study.

The strings of the lyre, it appears, were gradually increased from four to forty. The lyre of Apollo had only four strings; and the number of seven continued to be established by law at Sparta, so late as the time of Timotheus, who attempted an innovation in adding four more, and was condemned for it.

Some circumstances render it, in my opinion, probable that, in playing on the lyre, the ancients stopped the strings, at various places, by means of some metallic substance, in order to produce a great variety of notes. Probably the plectrum might occasionally be used for that purpose. It was, indeed, scarcely possible that their κιθαρα should so perfectly resemble the guitar of the present day (as observed in the sequel), without suggesting to them the stopping of the strings of the lyre.

The violin seems to me to be only a modification of the earliest lyre, having attached to it a vast body for the purpose of increasing sound, a contraction in the middle to allow the application of the bow, and an elongated neck to permit the same hand at once to support it against the shoulder and to stop the strings.

What has been gained by these changes?--By the body, loudness of tone; by the bow, continuity; and by the neck, a new mode of at once supporting and stopping.

What is the relative value of these changes?--Great loudness may be no advantage. Continuity may not be desirable, even when the voice is not engaged; and it never is so where the instrument is employed as a mere accompaniment. A new mode of at once supporting and stopping is only of use in this new application of the instrument.

What has been lost by these changes?--for it is really possible that we may have lost something by _improving_ upon the Greeks, and that improvement upon the lyre of Apollo may deserve to be classed with improvements on the Philippics of Demosthenes, on the Iliad of Homer, on the Parthenon of Phidias, &c.--Why, by the body, we may have lost somewhat of the freer aërial vibration when we gained so much of the woody or boxy one, for these should bear a certain relation to each other; by the bow, we may have lost the natural ring of musical chords, when we gained the ever distinguishable scrape of horse-hair and rosin; and by the neck, we may have lost a more perfect stop, by trying at once to stop and support.

It is worthy of remark, that the mere external beauty of all instruments of this kind is destroyed by a large body or sounding-box. The most beautiful forms of the lyre, among the Greeks, had least of this; and even the guitar had a body proportionately small, if we may judge from that of which a figure, hitherto I believe unobserved, may be seen sculptured among the Townley marbles in the British Museum--No. 35 of the fifth room.

The violin has, in regard to beauty of form, too large a body. It looks something like the shell of a large crab with a tail attached to it. The bow, however, gives an external vibration which compensates for this; and it would almost seem that we might consider the length of the bow as added to that of the strings.

In the construction of stringed instruments, nothing seems more wonderful than that the strings should be incapable of producing what may be called musical sound, except in connexion with some hollow wooden or other body; that the vibrations of the former should seem incapable of being communicated to the air; and that, though the latter is itself incapable of producing any musical sound, it should so accurately communicate, and, as it were, enforce, the power of each otherwise silent string which is attached to it.--This subject requires further observation and inquiry.

So much for the body at present.--I would more particularly dwell on the great advantage resulting from the absence of that continuity of tone which is produced by the bow, where the instrument is a mere accompaniment.

Where tones are emitted in consequence of strings not being struck or rubbed, but merely set free from the finger, where these tones assist and verify the voice, and yet, owing to their peculiar quality, in no way interfere with it, and where, from want of continuity, they gradually fall while the tones of the voice steadily proceed, or even rise,--a beautiful contrast is formed, the voice acquires an accuracy, boldness, and independence which could not otherwise be obtained by it, and all its power and splendour are displayed to the utmost advantage.

It was evidently this change from non-continuity to continuity of tone, and the corresponding change of position, which unfitted the violin for an accompaniment to the voice, and which leave to the lyre its high prerogative in this respect.

These reflections have led me to propose the restoration of the lyre, and that in its most ancient form, as a four-stringed instrument; for such form would be attended with a great advantage, namely, that the whole of the violin music at present extant would be instantly applicable to it.

Its advantages over the violin or violoncello played pizzicato, are its far greater beauty of form, the absence of the wooden tone, the freedom of its strings, and its capability of a fuller harmony--a vast recommendation in these days.

The lyre is indeed altogether unrivalled for beauty of form. It may be constructed of any size to avoid the wooden tone of the sounding-box. Its strings, which vibrate with perfect freedom, may be accurately stopped by means of a metallic instrument. Half or quarter notes may be produced on it; and these may be run into each other, upward or downward, by carrying the stop correspondingly over the string.

It is not, however, enough to propose this: I have carried into practice what I recommend. By merely cutting away the finger-board of an old lute, reducing it to the length of a violin, and fitting it up with four strings, I have procured a lyre which fulfils every expectation that can reasonably be founded on such a transformation.

Great beauty and even splendour may, however, be given to the form of the lyre, and of these it is quite worthy, for its capabilities seem to have little limit. I have no doubt, therefore, that it is destined to become, in the hands of the vocalist, precisely what the violin is in those of the instrumentalist.

~Donald Walker.~

A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF TAMBURINI. ~By~ M. CASTIL BLAZE.