Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_, and superscripts thus y^{en}.

THE

POWER OF MUSIC,

_&c. &c._

PRINTED BY J. SWAN,
76, FLEET STREET, LONDON.

FRONTISPIECE.

THE

POWER OF MUSIC.

IN WHICH IS SHOWN,

BY A VARIETY

_OF PLEASING AND INSTRUCTIVE_

ANECDOTES,

THE EFFECTS IT HAS ON

Man and Animals.

_LONDON_:

PRINTED FOR J. HARRIS,

CORNER OF ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.

1814.

THE

POWER OF MUSIC,

_&c. &c._

CONVULSIONS RELIEVED BY MUSIC

The following extraordinary instance of the effects of music, is related by M. Menuret.

“An unmarried lady, about thirty years of age, in consequence of violent grief in her youth, experienced various derangements in the natural functions, and was afterwards attacked by convulsions, which, at first, returned every month, and in the sequel, became more frequent. Medicines of every kind seemed only to aggravate the disorder; the fits recurred, not only every day, but several times a day, and were marked by an involuntary agitation of the limbs, by their rigidity, gnashing of the teeth without foam, and insensibility, Their duration was unequal: sometimes a quarter of an hour, but more frequently several hours; and concluded by an abundant discharge of tears. No expedient could be devised for her relief during these fits, nor did any remedy appear capable of preventing them, or of diminishing their violence, or their frequency: the most affectionate attention, travelling, diversions, amusements, were equally ineffectual.—Among the means that were tried on this occasion, was, fortunately, a concert, during which the young patient seemed highly delighted, and uncommonly well: she not only remained free from any convulsive fit while it lasted, but it afterwards returned later than usual. This method was repeated with the same result. The medical men by whom she was attended, availed themselves of the intervals of composure which it produced, to have recourse to other remedies. Long experience demonstrated their inutility; and repeated trials having proved the exclusive efficacy of music, her father, being obliged to return into the country, where he resided, engaged a musician to accompany and live with him. The soft melody of the violin or the piano forte, skilfully adapted to the taste and state of the patient, and often repeated, frequently prevents the convulsive fits, or abates their violence. This treatment, which has been solely employed for the last three years, has been attended with such success, that all the functions are restored to their natural state; and, for a year, the attacks are rare, and so slight, that the shortness of their duration does not always render it necessary to have recourse to the agreeable specific.”

_Monthly Magazine_, _Vol._ xxii. _p._ 65.

RECOVERY OF THE VOICE BY MUSIC.

“In the beginning of December, 1801, Elizabeth Sellers, a scholar in the Girls’ Charity School, at Sheffield, aged 13, lost her voice: so that she was unable to express herself on any occasion, otherwise than by a whisper. She, however, enjoyed very good health, and went through several employments of the school, such as knitting, sewing, spinning, on the high and low wheel, &c. without _any indulgence_. Read audibly she could not; and her infirmity resisted, without intermission, all medical assistance, till, in the evening of the 20th of March, 1803, she, hearing some of her schoolfellows singing a hymn, in which she wished to join, went up to one Sarah Milner, and whisperingly begged that she would shout down her throat. Milner, at first, was shocked at the proposal, and refused to comply with her request. But, at length, through her repeated solicitations, she consented, and shouted down her throat with all her might; upon which Sellers immediately regained her voice, and, to the astonishment of the whole school, wept and sung, as if she had been almost in a state of derangement, and has continued in possession of her voice ever since.”

_Gentleman’s Magazine_, 1803, p. 524.

THE EFFECT OF MUSIC ON A HARE.

The following anecdote was communicated, some years since, by Mr. James Tatlow, of Wiegate, near Manchester, who had it from those who were witnesses of the fact.

“One Sunday evening, five choristers were walking on the banks of the river Mersey, in Cheshire, after some time, they sat down on the grass, and began to sing an anthem. The field in which they sat, was terminated, at one extremity, by a wood, out of which, as they were singing, they observed a hare to pass with great swiftness towards the place where they were sitting, and to stop at about twenty yards distance from them. She appeared highly delighted with the music, often turning up the side of her head to listen with more facility.

“As soon as the harmonious sound was over, the hare returned slowly towards the wood; when she had reached nearly the end of the field, they began the same piece again; at which the hare stopped, turned about, and came swiftly back again, to about the same distance as before, where she seemed to listen with rapture and delight, till they had finished the anthem, when she returned again, by a slow pace, up the field, and entered the wood.—The harmony of the choristers, no doubt, drew the hare from her seat in the wood.”

_Eastcott’s Sketches of the Origin and
Effects of Music._

THE POWER OF MUSIC ON THE ELEPHANT.

“At Paris, some curious experiments have been lately made on the power of music, over the sensibility of the elephant. A band of music went to play in a gallery, extending round the upper part of the stalls, in which were kept two elephants, distinguished by the names _Margaret_ and _Hans_. A perfect silence was procured; some provisions, of which they were very fond, were given them to engage their attention, and the musicians began to play. The music no sooner struck their ears, than they ceased from eating, and turned, in surprise, to observe whence the sounds proceeded. At the sight of the gallery, the orchestra, and the assembled spectators, they discovered considerable alarm, as though they imagined there was some design against their safety. But the music soon overpowered their fears, and all other emotions became completely absorbed in their attention to it. Music, of a bold and wild expression, excited in them turbulent agitations, expressive, either of violent joy, or of rising fury. A soft air, performed on the bassoon, evidently soothed them to gentle and tender emotions. A gay and lively air moved them, especially the female, to demonstrations of highly sportive sensibility. Other variations of the music produced corresponding changes in the emotions of the elephants.”

_Bingley’s Animal Biography._

THE EFFECT OF MUSIC ON A PERSON WHILE ASLEEP.

Dr. Burney, in his Present State of Music, relates the following story.

“Among the anecdotes,” says he, “relative to the strange effects of music, which were given to me by Lord Marshal, he told me of a Highlander, who always cried, upon hearing a certain slow Scots tune, played upon the bagpipe. General G. whose servant he was, stole into his room one night, when he was fast asleep, and playing the same tune to him very softly, on the German flute, the fellow, without waking, cried like a child.”

CONTRARY EFFECTS OF ITALIAN AND FRENCH MUSIC ON A GREEK LADY.

“A young Greek lady being brought from her own country, to Paris, some years since, was, soon after her arrival in that city, carried to the opera by some French ladies, supposing, as she had never heard any European music, that she would be in raptures at it; but, contrary to these expectations, she declared, that the singing only reminded her of the hideous howlings of the Calmuc Tartars; and, as to the machinery, which it was thought would afford her great amusement, she declared her dislike of many parts of it, and was particularly scandalized, by what she called, the impious and wicked imitation of God’s thunder. Soon after this experiment, she went to Venice, where another trial was made upon her uncorrupted ears, at an Italian opera, in which the famous Gizziello sung; at whose performance she was quite dissolved in pleasure, and was ever after passionately fond of Italian music.”

_Dr. Burney’s Present State of Music._

ANECDOTE OF ZAMPERINI.

About the year 1775, Zamperini, one of the actresses at the opera, returning from Lisbon by sea, was so terrified by a storm, that she fell into a state of stupidity, from which nothing could relieve her. Upon her arrival at Venice, among her family, she received every assistance which medicine could give, but in vain. She ate, drank, slept, and performed all the functions of animal life; but she knew nobody, took no interest in any thing, and seemed to be sunk into the most profound state of unconsciousness. Some persons recommended that a harpsichord should be played in her presence: she was immediately affected; shortly after, she appeared so far sensible, as to take a part in the music, and even sung some favourite airs which were played to her. This was repeated frequently, during six months, and always with the same symptoms and the same effects. At first sight, any one would have taken her for an idiot: as soon as the harpsichord was touched her countenance changed, and, by degrees, she sang with as much expression and fire as ever; but, in a moment after, she relapsed into her former state of insensibility. Madame Durazzo, the lady of the imperial ambassador at Venice, had the curiosity to see her: she was moved with her situation, took her to her own house, and by care, medicine, and _above all, by music_, had the satisfaction of seeing her, in two years, completely restored to her original state of health and rationality: and in 1778, she appeared upon the stage at Venice, with the greatest success.

EFFECTS OF MUSIC ON MICE AND SPIDERS.

An officer of state, being shut up in the Bastile, obtained permission to carry with him a lute, on which he was an excellent performer; but he had scarcely made use of it, for three or four days, when the mice, issuing from their holes, and the spiders, suspending themselves from the ceiling by their threads, assembled around him to participate in his melody. His aversion to these animals, made their visit at first disagreeable, and induced him to lay aside this recreation; but he soon was so accustomed to them, that they became a source of amusement.

_Dr. Burney’s History of Music._

ANECDOTE OF STRADELLA.

Stradella, the celebrated composer, having carried off the mistress of a Venetian musician, and retired with her to Rome, the Venetian hired three desperadoes to assassinate him; but, fortunately for Stradella, they had an ear sensible to harmony. These assassins, while waiting for a favourable opportunity to execute their purpose, entered the church of _St. John de Latran_, during the performance of an oratorio, composed by the person whom they intended to destroy; and were so affected by the music, that they abandoned their design, and even waited on the musician, to forewarn him of his danger. With regret we state, that Stradella, however, was not always so fortunate; for other assassins, who had no ear for music, stabbed him some time after, at Genoa: this event took place about the year 1670.

A MODERN TIMOTHEUS.

Modern music has had its Timotheus, who could excite or calm, at his pleasure, the most impetuous emotions.— Henry III. King of France, having given a concert, on occasion of the marriage of the Duke de Joyeuse, Claudin le Jeune, a celebrated musician of that period, executed certain airs, which had such an effect on a young nobleman, then present, that he drew his sword, and challenged every one near him to combat; but Claudin, equally prudent as Timotheus, instantly changed to an air, apparently sub-Phrygian, which appeased the furious youth.

TIMOTHEUS THE MELISIAN.

Timotheus was so excellently skilled in music, that, one day, when he played and sung a song, composed in honour of Pallas, in the presence of Alexander the Great, the prince, as one transported with gallantry and the martial humour of the air, started up, and being stirred in every part, called for his armour, and was going to attack his guests; when the musician immediately changed into more sedate and calmer notes, sounding, as it were, a retreat; the impetuous prince was calmed, and sat quiet and still.

THIRTY THOUSAND PERSONS SAVED BY THE WONDERFUL EFFECTS OF MUSIC.

“Sultan Amurath, having laid siege to Bagdad, and taken it, ordered thirty thousand Persians to be put to death, though they had submitted, and laid down their arms. Amongst these unfortunate victims, was a musician. He besought the officer, who had the command to see the Sultan’s orders executed, to spare him but for a moment, and permit him to speak to the Emperor. The officer indulged him, and, being brought before the Sultan, he was suffered to give a specimen of his art. He took up a kind of psaltry, which resembles a lyre, and has six strings on each side, and accompanied it with his voice. He sung the taking of Bagdad, and the triumph of Amurath. The pathetic tones and exulting sounds of the instrument, together with the alternate plaintiveness and boldness of his strains, melted even Amurath; he suffered him to proceed, till, overpowered with harmony, tears of pity gushed forth, and he revoked his cruel orders. In consideration of the musician’s abilities, he not only ordered those of the prisoners, who remained alive, to be spared, but gave them their liberty.”

_Prince Cantimer’s Account of the Transactions
of the Ottomans._

PHILIP V. KING OF SPAIN.

Philip V. King of Spain, being seized with a total dejection of spirits, which made him refuse to be shaved, and rendered him incapable of attending council, or transacting affairs of state, the queen, who had, in vain, tried every common expedient, that was likely to contribute to his recovery, determined that an experiment should be made of the effects of music, upon the king, her husband, who was extremely sensible to its charms. The celebrated Farinelli being then at Madrid, of whose extraordinary performance, an account had been transmitted from several parts of Europe, but, particularly from Paris, her majesty contrived that there should be a concert in a room adjoining to the king’s apartment, in which this singer performed one of his most captivating songs. Philip appeared, at first, surprised, then moved; and, at the end of the second air, made the virtuoso enter the royal apartment, loading him with compliments and caresses; asked him how he could sufficiently reward such talents; assuring him, that he could refuse him nothing. Farinelli, previously instructed, only begged that his majesty would permit his attendants to shave and dress him, and that he would endeavour to appear in council as usual. From this time, the king’s disease gave way to medicine; and the singer had all the honour of the cure, and, by singing to his majesty every evening, his favour increased to such a degree, that he was regarded as first minister.

_Burney’s History of Music._

THE MUSICAL PIGEON.

Mrs. Piozzy, in her Observations in a Journey through Italy, relates the following singular anecdote.

“An odd thing,” says she, “of which I was this morning a witness, has called my thoughts away to a curious train of reflections upon the animal race, and how far they may be made companionable and intelligent. The famous _Bertoni_, so well known in London, by his long residence among us, and, from the undisputed merit of his compositions, now inhabits this, his native city; and, being fond of _dumb creatures_, as we call them, took for his companion, a pigeon; one of the few animals which can live at Venice, where scarcely any quadrupeds can be admitted, or would exist with any degree of comfort to themselves.

“This creature has, however, by keeping his master company, obtained so perfect an ear and taste for music, that no one, who sees his behaviour, can doubt for a moment of the pleasure he takes in hearing Mr. Bertoni play and sing: for, as soon as he sits down to the instrument, Columbo begins shaking his wings, perches on the piano forte, and expresses the most indubitable motions of delight. If, however, he, or any one else, strikes a note false, or makes any kind of discord upon the keys, the pigeon never fails to show evident tokens of anger and distress; and, if teased too long, grows quite enraged; pecking the offender’s legs and fingers, in such a manner, as to leave no doubt of the sincerity of his resentment.”

Signora Cecilia Guiliani, a scholar of Bertoni’s, who has received some overtures from the London Theatres lately, will, if ever she arrives there, bear testimony to the truth of an assertion very difficult to believe, and to which I should hardly myself give credit, were I not a witness to it every morning that I choose to call and confirm my own belief. A friend, present, protested he should be afraid to touch the harpsichord before so nice a critic; and, though we all laughed at the assertion, Bertoni declared he never knew the bird’s judgment fail; and that he often kept him out of the room, for fear of affronting or tormenting those who came to take musical instructions.

“With regard to other actions of life, I saw nothing particular in the pigeon, but his tameness and strong attachment to his master: for, though not unwinged, and only clipped a little, he never seeks to range way from the house, or quit his master’s service, any more than the Dove of Anacreon.

While his better lot bestows
Sweet repast and soft repose;
And, when feast and frolic tire,
Drops asleep upon his lyre.”
_Mrs. Piozzy._

THE MUSICAL DOG.

Signor Morelli, the celebrated Opera singer, has a dog, who, aided by the well-known comic powers of his master, is productive of much amusement, by his attempts to sing, when called upon in company. On his master’s summons for that purpose, he seats himself on the chair left for him, and, with great earnestness, tries to follow the tones of his master’s voice; plaintively whining when he hears the high tones, and growling when the low ones are sounded. Signor Morelli pretends to be in raptures, when his singular pupil performs well; and his gentle reproofs, when he proceeds to an unmusical bark, are highly comic and entertaining to the company.

THE EXTRAORDINARY EFFECTS OF MUSIC ON A BULL.

A few years ago, a man who lived at Allerton, near Liverpool, by trade a tailor, but who could occasionally handle his fiddle, as well as his needle, on his way home, from whence he had been exercising his musical talents, for the entertainment of his country neighbours, in passing through a field, about three o’clock, in the morning, in the month of June, he was attacked by a bull. After several efforts to escape, he attempted to ascend a tree; not, however, succeeding in the attempt, a momentary impulse directed him to pull out his fiddle, and, fortifying himself behind the tree as well as he could, began to play; upon which the enraged animal became totally disarmed of his ferocity, and seemed to listen with great attention. The affrighted tailor, finding his fierce and formidable enemy so much appeased, began to think of making his escape, left off playing, and was moving forward. This, however, the bull would not suffer, for, no sooner had the tailor ceased his fascinating strain, than the bull’s anger appeared to return with as much rage as before: he, therefore, was glad to have recourse a second time to his fiddle, which instantly operated again, as a magic charm upon the bull, who became as composed and attentive as before. He afterwards made several more attempts to escape, but all in vain; for no sooner did he stop his fiddle, than the bull’s anger returned, so that he was compelled to keep fiddling away, till near six o’clock, (about three hours,) when the family came to fetch home the cows, by which he was relieved and rescued from a tiresome labour and frightful situation. This is, perhaps, the first man upon record, who may be really said to have fiddled for his life, and, who so truly fulfilled the poet’s idea, that

“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast.”

It is proper, and farther curious, to observe, that this man lodged at the farm-house where the bull was kept; and that, as he frequently played upon the fiddle, in an evening, to amuse the family, he had observed the bull, (who always attended the cows home to be milked,) constantly endeavoured to get as near as possible to that part of the house where he happened to be playing, and always appeared to listen, with the greatest attention, which, fortunately struck him with the idea of having recourse to his fiddle, and, in all probability, preserved his life.

THE DYING MAN AND THE PIANO.

Died lately, aged 85, Mr. William Anthony de Luc. His passion for music was so predominant, in his latter days, that a piano forte was placed by his bedside, on which his daughter played a great part of the day. The evening of his death, seeing her father ready to sink into a slumber, she asked him, “Shall I play any more?”—“Keep playing,” said he, “keep playing!”—He slept, but awoke no more! Mr. W. A. de Luc had explored many volcanic countries, whence he had brought choice specimens of their productions, in which his cabinet was, perhaps, the richest in Europe.

THE POWER OF MUSIC ON ANIMALS, IN THE WEST OF ENGLAND.

The style of driving an ox-team in Devonshire is remarkable, indeed, cannot pass unnoticed by a stranger. The language, though in a great degree peculiar to the country, does not arrest the attention, but the tone, or rather tune, in which it is delivered. It resembles, with great exactness, the chantings, or recitative of the cathedral service. The plowboy chants the counter-tenor, with unabated ardour, through the day; the plowman, throwing in, at intervals, his hoarser notes. It is understood that this chanting march, which may sometimes be heard at a considerable distance, encourages and animates the team, like the music of a marching army, or the song of the rowers.

TWO INSTANCES OF THE SURPRISING EFFECTS OF MUSIC, AS RELATED IN THE
HISTORY OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF SCIENCES, AT PARIS.

A famous musician, and great composer, was taken ill of a fever, which gradually increased, till the 7th day, when he was seized with a violent delirium, almost constantly accompanied by cries, tears, terrors, and a perpetual watchfulness. The third day of his delirium, one of those natural instincts, which makes, as it is said, sick animals seek out for the herbs that are proper for their case, set him upon desiring earnestly to hear a little concert in his chamber. His physician could hardly be prevailed upon to grant his request. Some cantatas, however, were sung to him. On hearing the first modulations, his countenance became serene, his eyes sparkled with joy, his convulsions absolutely ceased, he shed tears of pleasure, and was then possessed with a sensibility for music, which he never had before, nor after his perfect recovery. He had no fever during the whole concert, but, when it was over, he relapsed into his former condition. The use of a remedy, of which the success had been so unexpected, and yet so fortunate, was continued. The fever and delirium were always suspended during the concerts, and music was become so necessary to the patient, that, at night, he obliged a female relation, who sometimes sat up with him, to sing, and even to dance, and who, found some difficulty in gratifying him in such a point of complaisance. One night, among others, having none but his nurse to attend him, who could sing nothing better than some wretched country ballads, was obliged to take up with them, and even appeared satisfied, and found some benefit from the same. At length, ten days of music entirely cured him, without any other assistance, than being bled in the foot, which was prescribed for him as necessary. This account was communicated to the Academy, by Monsieur Dodart, who had it well authenticated. He does not pretend that it may serve as an example or rule, in all similar cases, but observes, it is curious to notice, how musical sounds could have restored the spirits to their natural course, in a man who had so long been habituated to music.

The second instance of the extraordinary effect of music, is related of a dancing-master of Alais, in the province of Languedoc. Being once over fatigued, in Carnival time, by the exercise of his profession, he was seized with a violent fever, and, on the fourth or fifth day, fell into a lethargy, which continued upon him for a considerable time. On recovering out of it, he was seized with a furious and mute delirium, wherein he made continual efforts to jump out of the bed; threatened, with a shaking of the head, and an angry countenance, those that hindered him, and even all that were present; and he, besides, obstinately refused, though without speaking a word, all the remedies that were presented to him. One of the assistants bethought himself, that music, perhaps, might compose so disordered an imagination. Accordingly, he proposed it to his physician, who did not disapprove the thought, but feared the ridicule that might take place, should the patient happen to die during the performance of such a remedy. A friend of the dancing-master being present, who seemed regardless of the physician’s measures, and who knew how to play on the violin, seeing the patient’s hang up in the chamber, laid hold of it, and played directly to him, the airs that were most familiar to him. He was cried out against, as a greater madman than the poor sick prisoner in bed, and some were going to make him desist, when the patient immediately jumped up, and appeared agreeably surprised, and specified, by the motion of his head, the pleasure he felt. By degrees, he appeared so much recovered, that those who held his arms, being sensible of the effects the violin had on him, remitted something of their force in keeping him down, and at last yielded to the motions he was desirous to give them, when, in so doing, they found his furious fits quite abated. In short, in a quarter of an hour’s time, the patient fell into a profound sleep, and shortly after was perfectly recovered.

INTERESTING PARTICULARS OF MONSIEUR MOZART.

“Mozart, the celebrated German musician, was born at Salzburg, in the year 1756. His father was also a musician of some eminence, but not to be compared with the son, of whom we have the following account, in one of the Monthly Miscellanies, taken by Mr. Busby, from some biographical sketches, of two eminent German professors.

“At the age of three years, young Mozart, attending to the lessons which his sister, then seven years old, was receiving at the harpsichord, he became acquainted with harmony, and when she had left the instrument, he would instantly place himself at it, find the thirds, sound them with the liveliest joy, and employ whole hours at the exercise. His father, urged by such early and striking indications of genius, immediately began to teach him some little airs; and soon perceived that his pupil improved even beyond the hopes he had formed of him. Half an hour was generally sufficient for his acquiring a minuet, or a little song, which, when once learned, he would of himself perform with taste and expression.

“At the age of six years, he made such a progress, as to be able to compose short pieces for the harpsichord, which his father was obliged to commit to paper for him. From that time, nothing made any impression upon him but harmony; and infantine amusements lost all their attractions, unless music had a share in them. He advanced from day to day, not by ordinary and insensible degrees, but with a rapidity, which hourly excited new surprise in his parents—the happy witnesses of his progress.

“His father, returning home one day with a stranger, found little Mozart with a pen in his hand. “What are you writing?” said he.—“A concerto for the harpsichord,” replied the child. “Let us see it,” rejoined the father, “it is a marvellous concerto, without doubt.”—He then took the paper, and saw nothing at first, but a mass of notes mingled with blots of ink, by the mal-address of the young composer, who, unskilled in the management of the pen, had dipped it too freely in the ink; and having blotted and smeared his paper, had endeavoured to make out his ideas with his fingers; but, on a closer examination, his father was lost in wonder, and his eyes, delighted and flowing with tears, became riveted to the notes.—“See!” exclaimed he, to the stranger, “how just and regular it all is! but it is impossible to play it; it is too difficult.”—“It is a concerto,” said the child, “and must be practised till one can play it. Hear how this part goes.” He then sat down to perform it; but was not able to execute the passages with sufficient fluency, to do justice to his own ideas. Extraordinary as his manual facility was universally allowed to be, for his age, it did not keep pace with the progress of his knowledge and invention. Such an instance of intellectual advancement, in a child only six years of age, is so far out of the common road of nature, that we can only contemplate the fact with astonishment, and acknowledge, that the possible rapidity of mental maturation is not to be calculated.

“In the year 1762, his father took him and his sister to Munich, where he performed a concerto before the elector, which excited the admiration of the whole court; nor was he less applauded at Vienna, where the emperor called him the _little sorcerer_.

“His father gave him lessons only on the harpsichord; but he privately taught himself the violin; and his command of the instrument afforded the elder Mozart the utmost surprise, when he one day, at a concert, took a second violin, and acquitted himself with more than passable address. True genius sees no obstacles. It will not, therefore, excite our wonder, if his constant success, in whatever he attempted, begot an unbounded confidence in his own powers; he had even the _laudable_ hardihood to undertake to qualify himself for the _first_ violin, and did not long remain short of the necessary proficiency.

“He had an ear so correct, that he felt the most minute discordancy; and such a fondness for study, that it was frequently necessary to take him by force from the instrument. This love of application never diminished. He every day passed a considerable time at his harpsichord, and generally practised till a late hour at night. Another characteristical trait of real genius, always full of its object, and lost as it were in itself.

“It is lamentable that premature genius too rarely enjoys a long career. The acceleration of nature in the mental powers seems to hurry the progress of the animal economy, and to anticipate the regular close of temporal existence.

“In the year 1791, Mozart, just after he had received the appointment of _Maitre-de-Chapelle_ of the church of St. Peter, and when he was only thirty-five years of age, paid the last tribute, and left the world at once to admire the brilliancy, and lament the shortness of his earthly sojournment.

“Indefatigable, even to his death, he produced, during the last few months of his life, his three great master-pieces, _La Flute Enchantée_, _La Clemence de Titus_, and a _Requiem_, his last production. _La Flutte Enchantée_ was composed for one of the theatres at Vienna; and no dramatic _olio_ could ever boast of a greater success. Every air struck the audience with a new and sweet surprise; and the _tout-ensemble_ was calculated to afford the deepest and most varied impressions. This piece had, in fact, so great a number of successive representations, that, for a long time, it was unnecessary to consult the opera bill, which only announced a permanent novelty. And the airs selected from it, and repeated throughout the empire, as well in the cottage as in the palace, and which the echoes have resounded in the most distant provinces, favoured the idea, that Mozart had actually the design to enchant all Germany with his _Flutte Enchantée_.

“_La Clemence de Titus_ was requested by the states of Bohemia, for the coronation of Leopold. The composer began it in his carriage, during his route to Prague, and finished it in eighteen days.

“Some circumstances attending his last composition, the _Requiem_, the last effort of his genius, are too interesting to be omitted. A short time before his death, a stranger came to him, with the request, that he would compose, as speedily as possible, a _Requiem_ for a Catholic prince, who, perceiving himself on the verge of the grave, wished, by the execution of such a piece, to sooth his mind, and familiarize it to the idea of his approaching dissolution. Mozart undertook the work; and the stranger deposited with him, as a security, four hundred ducats, though the sum demanded was only two hundred. The composer immediately began the work, and during its progress, felt his mind unusually raised and agitated. He became, at length, so infatuated with his _Requiem_, that he employed, not only the day, but some hours of the night, in its composition. One day, while he was conversing with Madame Mozart on the subject, he declared to her, that he could not but be persuaded that it was for himself he was writing this piece. His wife, distressed at her inability to dissipate so melancholy an impression, prevailed on him to give her the _score_. He afterwards appearing somewhat tranquillized, and more master of himself, she returned the _score_ to him, and he soon relapsed into his former despondency. On the day of his death, he asked her for the _Requiem_, which was accordingly brought to his bed. “Was I not right,” said he, “when I declared, that it was for myself I was composing this funeral piece?” And the tears trickled from his eyes. This production, of a man impressed, during its composition, with a presentiment of his approaching death, is _unique_ in its kind, and contains passages which have frequently drawn tears from the performers.

“Only one complaint escaped him during his malady. ‘I must quit life,’ said he, ‘precisely at the moment when I could enjoy it, free from care and inquietude, at the very time, when independent of sordid speculations, and at liberty to follow my own inclinations, I should have to write from the impulses of my own heart; and I am torn from my family, just when in a situation to serve it.’ Mozart, at the time of his death, was considerably involved in debt; but Vienna and Prague disputed the honour of providing for his widow and children.”

_Encyclopædia Britannica._

G. F. HANDEL, ESQ.

Handel’s government of the fingers was somewhat despotic; for, upon Cuzzoni’s (a famous singer of his time) insolently refusing to sing his admirable air, _Falsa Imagine_, in Otho, he told her, that he always knew she was a _very devil_; but that he should now let _her_ know, in his turn, that he was _Belzebub_, the prince of the devils; and then, taking her up by the waist, swore, if she did not _immediately_ obey his orders, he would throw her out of the window.

TARTINI, AN ITALIAN MUSICIAN.

Tartini was a celebrated musician, born at Pirano, in Istria, and being much inclined to the study of music in his early youth, dreamed one night, that he made a compact with the Devil, who promised to be at his service on all occasions: and during this vision, every thing succeeded according to his mind: his wishes were prevented, and his desires always surpassed, by the assistance of this new servant. At last, he imagined that he presented the Devil with his violin, in order to discover what kind of a musician _he_ was; when, to his great astonishment, he heard him play a solo, so singularly beautiful, and which he executed with such superior taste and precision, that it surpassed all the music which he had ever heard or conceived in his life. So great was his surprise, and so exquisite was his delight upon this occasion, that it deprived him of the power of breathing. He awoke with the violence of his sensations, and instantly seized his fiddle, in hopes of expressing what he had just heard, but in vain: he, however, then composed a piece of music, which is, perhaps, the best of all his works, and called it, the _Devil’s Sonata_; but it was so far inferior to what he had produced in his sleep, that he declared he would have broken his instrument, and abandoned music for ever, if he could have found any other means of subsistence.

MR. HANDEL.

When Handel went through Chester, in his way to Ireland, in 1741, he applied to Mr. Baker, the organist, to know whether there were any choirmen in the cathedral who could sing _at sight_, as he wished to prove some books that had been hastily transcribed, by trying the chorusses, which he intended to perform in Ireland. Mr. Baker mentioned some of the most likely singers then in Chester; and, among the rest, a printer, of the name of Janson, who had a good bass voice, and was one of the best musicians in the choir. A time was fixed, for the private rehearsal, at the Golden Falcon, where Handel was quartered: but, alas! on trial of the chorusses in the Messiah, “_And with his stripes are we healed_,” poor Janson, after repeated attempts, failed so egregiously, that Handel let loose his great bear upon him; and, after swearing, in four or five different languages, cried out, in broken English, “_You schauntrel!_ did not you tell me _dat_ you could sing at _soite_?” ‘Yes, Sir,’ says the printer, ‘and so I can, but not at _first sight_.’

FARINELLI AND HIS TAYLOR.

“The following story,” says Dr. Burney, “was frequently told, and believed at Madrid, during the first years of Farinelli’s residence in Spain. This singer, having ordered a superb suit of clothes for a _gala_ at court, when the taylor brought it home, he asked him for his bill. “I have made no bill, Sir,” says the taylor, “nor ever shall make one. Instead of money,” continues he, “I have a favour to beg. I know that what I want is inestimable, and only fit for monarchs; but, since I have had the honour to work for a person, of whom every one speaks with rapture, all the payment I shall ever require, will be a song.” Farinelli tried in vain, to prevail on the taylor to take his money. At length, after a long debate, giving way to the humble entreaties of the trembling tradesman, and flattered, perhaps, more by the singularity of the adventure, than by all the applause he had hitherto received, he took him into his music room, and sung to him some of his most brilliant airs, taking pleasure in the astonishment of his ravished hearer; and, the more he seemed surprised and affected, the more Farinelli exerted himself, in every species of excellence. When he had done, the taylor, overcome with ecstacy, thanked him in the most rapturous and grateful manner, and prepared to retire. “No,” says Farinelli, “I am a little proud; and, it is, perhaps, from that circumstance, that I have acquired some small degree of superiority over other singers; I have given way to your weakness, it is but fair, that, in your turn, you should indulge me in mine;” and, taking out his purse, he insisted on his receiving a sum, amounting to nearly double the worth of the suit of clothes.”

MR. ABELL.

Mr. John Abell was one of the Chapel Royal, in the reign of King Charles II. He was celebrated for a fine counter-tenor voice, and for his skill in playing on the lute. The king admired his singing, and was desirous of sending him, with the subdean of his chapel, Mr. Gostling, to the Carnival of Venice, to show the Italians what good voices were produced in England: but the latter expressing an unwillingness to go, the king desisted from his purpose. Mr. Abell continued in the chapel till the time of the Revolution, when he was discharged in consequence of being a Roman Catholic. He then went abroad, travelled through Holland, and acquired considerable sums of money, by singing in public, at Hamburgh and other places. During this period, he lived in great profusion, and affected the expense of a man of quality, frequently travelling in his own equipage, though, at times, he was so reduced, as to walk through whole provinces with his lute slung at his back. Rambling through Poland, he arrived at Warsaw; of which the king having notice, sent for him to court. This honour Abell at first declined, on some frivolous excuse; but, dreading the royal displeasure, he made an apology, and attended the king on the following day. Upon his arrival, he was seated in a chair in the middle of a great hall, and immediately drawn up to a considerable height; soon after, the king appeared in an opposite gallery, when a number of wild bears were turned in, and poor Abell was left to his choice, either to sing, or be let down among them. Of these alternatives, it may seem unnecessary to say, that Abell preferred the former; and he afterwards constantly declared that he never sung so well in all his life.

About the latter end of Queen Anne’s reign, Abell was at Cambridge, with his lute, where he met with but little encouragement. It is uncertain how long he lived after this period, but he appears to have required assistance from his friends for support, though he preserved the tone of his voice to an extreme old age.

_Harrison’s Musical Magazine._

HANDEL.

George Frederick Handel, unquestionably the greatest master of music the world has ever known, was born at Halle, in Upper Saxony, on the 24th of February, 1684. Scarcely could he speak, before he articulated musical sounds; and his father, a physician, then upwards of sixty, having destined him for the law, grieved at the child’s propensity to music, banished from his house all musical instruments. But the immortal spark of genius, which Heaven had kindled in the infant’s bosom, was not to be extinguished by the caprice of a mistaken parent. The child contrived to get a little clavichord into a garret; where, applying himself after the family retired to rest, he soon found means to produce both melody and harmony.

Before he was seven, the Duke of Weisenfels accidentally discovering his genius, prevailed on the father to cherish his inclination. He was accordingly placed with Zackan, organist of Halle Cathedral; and, for three years, from the age of nine, composed a new church-service every week.

In 1698, he went to Berlin; but, losing his father, he thought he could best support his aged mother, by repairing to Hamburgh, where he soon attracted general notice. Yet this wonderful musician was a stripling of fourteen! At this premature age, he composed Almeria, his first opera.

Having quitted Hamburgh, he travelled six years in Italy, where he gave a new display of his wonderful ability, and was pensioned by the Elector of Hanover, afterwards George I.

In 1710, he came to London, where his opera of Rinaldo was admired, like his preceding miracles, and the necessity of his departure became the subject of general regret.

In 1712, he again visited England: but, seduced by the favour and fortune that overwhelmed him, he forgot to return; and when, on the death of Queen Anne, the Elector was called to the throne, he was afraid to appear at court, till an ingenious stratagem restored him to favour.

Queen Anne’s pension of £200, was now doubted by George I., and the nobility having formed an Academy of Music, under his direction, it flourished ten years, when a quarrel between him and Senesino dissolved the institution, and brought on a contest which ruined his fortune and his health. Restored by the baths of Aix la Chapelle, he determined to chuse sacred subjects for the future exercise of his genius. This resolution produced those noble compositions, his truly divine Oratorios; which were performed at Covent Garden till his death, in 1759. He was buried in Westminster Abbey with suitable pomp; where his genius has been since commemorated with little less than divine honours.

DR. ARNE.

The father of this celebrated composer, and the still more celebrated Mrs. Cibber, was an upholder and undertaker in King Street, Covent Garden, with whom the doctor, when a young man, resided.

At this time, there was a gentleman, of much celebrity in the musical world, employed at Drury Lane Theatre.—Many may still remember Mr. John Hebden, who, for almost half a century, stood in a corner of the orchestra, and performed on the bassoon and the bass viol, on which two instruments he was unrivalled. He was also of the band of his late, and a few years of his present, Majesty.

One Sunday morning he called upon Tom Arne, to whom he occasionally gave lessons. He found him in the undertaker’s shop, practising upon the violin, his music desk and book placed upon a coffin.

Hebden, shocked at this want of sensibility in his pupil, observed, that it was impossible for him to practise in such a situation, as, from the solemn thoughts which the coffin naturally excited, he should be impressed with the idea that it contained a corpse.

“So it does!” cried Arne: and shoving back the lid, discovered that this was a fact.

Hebden, disgusted at the sight of a dead body so improperly introduced, and, perhaps, equally shocked at the insensibility of his pupil, left the shop with great precipitation, and never could be prevailed on to renew his visits to him, while he remained in that situation.

JEREMIAH CLARKE.

Jeremiah Clarke was originally bred to music, and had his education in the Chapel Royal, under the celebrated Dr. Blow, who seems to have had a paternal affection for him. Early in life, Clarke was so unfortunate as to conceive a violent and hopeless passion for a very beautiful and accomplished lady, of a rank far superior to his own; and his sufferings, on this account, became so intolerable to him, that he resolved to put an end to his existence. He was at the house of a friend, in the country, where he took up this fatal resolution, and suddenly set off for London. His friend, observing his dejection, without knowing the cause, furnished him with a horse, and a servant to attend him.

In his way to town, a fit of despair suddenly seized him, he alighted, and, giving his horse to the servant, went into an adjoining field, in the corner of which was a pond, surrounded with trees, which pointed out to his choice two ways of getting rid of life. Hesitating for some time, which to take, he at last determined to leave it to chance, and taking a piece of money out of his pocket, tossed it up in the air to decide it. The money, however, falling on its edge in the clay, seemed to forbid both ways of destruction; and it had such an effect upon him, that he declined it for that time, and, regaining his horse, rode to town.

His mind, however, was too much disordered to receive comfort, or take any advantage from the above omen: and, after a few months, worn out in the utmost dejection of spirits, he shot himself, in his own house, in St. Paul’s Church-yard.

The late Mr. John Reading, organist of St. Dunstan’s Church, a scholar of Dr. Blow, and master to the late Mr. Stanley, the well-known blind organist, who was intimately acquainted with Clarke, happened to be passing by the door as the pistol went off; and, upon entering the house, found his friend and fellow-student in the agonies of death.

This unfortunate man was the original composer of that beautiful air,

“’Tis woman that seduces all mankind.”

and many other, _then_, popular pieces; among them was Dryden’s celebrated Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, which was afterwards recomposed by Handel, in 1736.

HANDEL.

One night, while Handel was in Dublin, Dubourg, having a solo part in a song, and a close to make at his pleasure, he wandered about in different keys a great while, and seemed a little bewildered, and uncertain of his original key; but, at length, coming to the shake which was to terminate this long close, Handel, to the great delight of the audience and augmentation of applause, cried out, loud enough to be heard in the most remote part of the theatre, “_You are welcome home_, Mr. Dubourg!”

In 1749, _Theodora_ was so very unfortunately abandoned, that he was glad if any professors, who did not perform, would accept of tickets or orders for admission. Two gentlemen of that description, now living, having applied to Handel, after the disgrace of _Theodora_, for an order to hear the _Messiah_, he cried out, “Oh, your _sarvant!_ you are _tamnaple tainty!_ you would not _co_ to _Theodora_—there was room enough to _tance dere_ when _dat_ was _perform_.”

Sometimes, however, I have heard him as pleasantly, as philosophically, console his friends, when, previous to the curtain being drawn up, they have lamented that the house was so empty, by saying, “_Nevre moind, de moosic vil sound de petter_.”

MR. BROWN.

The late Mr. Brown, leader of his Majesty’s band, used to tell several stories of _Handel’s_ love of good cheer, liquid and solid, as well as of his impatience: of the former he gave an instance, which was accidentally discovered, at his own house, in Brook Street, where Brown, in the Oratorio Season, among other principal performers, was at dinner. During the repast, _Handel_ often cried out——“O, I have de taught, (thought),” when the company, unwilling that, out of civility to them, the public should be robbed of any thing so valuable as his musical ideas, begged he would retire and write them down; with which request, however, he so frequently complied, that, at last, one of the most suspicious had the ill-bred curiosity to peep through the key-hole, into the adjoining room, where he perceived that _dese taughts_ were only bestowed on a fresh hamper of Burgundy, which, as was afterwards discovered, he had received in a present from his friend, the late Earl of Radnor, while his company was regaled with more generous and spirited port.

_Burney’s Life of Handel._

LULLI.

This fortunate musician, the son of a peasant in the neighbourhood of Florence, was born in 1633. He had a few instructions in music from a cordelier. His first instrument was the guitar, to which he was always fond of singing. The Chevalier de Guise brought him into France, in 1646, as a present to his sister, Mademoiselle de Guise, who placed him among the assistants of her kitchen, where he was assigned the honourable office of _sous marmiton_[1].

[1] Under scullion.

In his leisure hours, being naturally fond of music, he used to be scraping on a miserable violin, to the great annoyance of his fellow-servants. However, his disposition for music being discovered, his patroness had him taught the violin by a regular master, under whom he made so rapid a progress, that he was admitted among the violins of the king’s band; where he distinguished himself so much, that he was employed to compose the music for the court ballads, in which Louis XIV., at this time very young, used to dance. But though Lulli approached the royal presence, early in life, it was by slow degrees, that he arrived at solid preferment. In 1652 he was appointed superintendent or master of the king’s new band of violins, which, if we may judge by the business assigned them afterwards, by Lulli in his operas, was composed of musicians not likely, by their abilities, to continue the miraculous powers ascribed to Orpheus and Amphion.