WHISTLING.
"Why! he makes music with his mouth!" exclaimed a native of Burmah when he observed an American missionary whistling; and the missionary noted down the words in his journal, with the reflection: "It is remarkable that the Burmese are entirely ignorant of whistling."[23] But may not the simple-minded Asiatic only have been astonished in observing what he thought unbecoming in a gentleman who had come to Burmah to teach a new religion?
The Arabs generally disapprove of whistling, called by them el sifr. Some maintain that the whistler's mouth is not to be purified for forty days; while others are of opinion that Satan touching a man's person causes him to produce the offensive sound.[24]
The natives of the Tonga Islands, Polynesia, consider it wrong to whistle, as being disrespectful to their gods.[25]
In European countries people are met with who object to whistling on a certain day of the week, or at certain times of the day. The villagers in some districts of North Germany have the saying, that if one whistles in the evening it makes the angels weep. The villagers in Iceland say that even if one swings about him a stick, whip, wand, or aught that makes a whistling sound, he scares from him the Holy Ghost; while other Icelanders, who consider themselves free from superstitions, cautiously give the advice: "Do it not; for who knoweth what is in the air?"[26]
There seem to have been, however, in all ages light-hearted persons who, defying the superstitious views of their compatriots, have whistled to their heart's content, or for the amusement of those who set at nought popular prejudices.
Joseph Strutt, in his 'Sports and Pastimes of the People of England' records the astonishing performance of a whistler who, assuming the name of Rossignol, exhibited at the end of the last century his talent on the stage of Covent Garden Theatre. Again, an amusing account is given in the 'Spectator' (Vol. VIII., No. 570) of a skilful whistler, who was the host of the tavern especially patronised by Addison and Steele; and the writer concludes his description of the host's surprising talent by recommending his readers to repair to the tavern and to order a bottle of wine for the sake of the whistling.
The Russians in the Ukraine tell a queer story about a whistling robber of old, who must have been a person of fabulously large dimensions, for he used to sit, we are told, on nine oak trees at once. His name is still known; but it would be an infliction upon the reader to put before him a name almost entirely made up of consonants, and only pronounceable by a Russian. This celebrated robber had, however, also a nickname signifying "Nightingale," which was given to him on account of his extraordinary whistling powers. Whenever a traveller happened to enter the forest in which the robber Nightingale had his domicile, it was pity for him if he had neglected to make his will; for the robber Nightingale whistled so impressively that the poor traveller must needs faint away, and then the wretched whistler stepped forward and killed him outright. But, at last, a great hero, who was besides a holy man, and whose name was Ilja Murometz, repaired to the forest to subdue the robber Nightingale. Having hit him with an arrow, and taken him prisoner, he bound him to the saddle of his horse and escorted him to Kiev to the court of the Grand-Prince Vladimir. Even there the fettered whistler proved most dangerous. For when the Grand-Prince, merely from curiosity, and perhaps to see whether his courtiers had told him the truth, commanded the robber to whistle before him—the Grand-Princess and all the royal children being present—the man at once commenced whistling in a manner so overpowering that soon Vladimir with his whole family would inevitably have been dead, had not some brave courtiers, perceiving the danger, got up and shut the whistler's mouth.
Moreover, some enlightened Russians say that the story must not be taken literally. At the time of the introduction of Christianity into Russia there lived near Kiev, they say, a pagan high-priest who was so distinguished an orator that he actually succeeded in drawing many to his side to check the spread of Christianity. This man, whose powers of persuasion were so great that his adherents called him Nightingale, was at last vanquished by his Christian antagonist Murometz. The bones of Murometz, we are further informed, have never decayed, and are still annually exhibited in Kiev to be venerated by an assemblage of pious believers.[27]
THE STUDIES OF OUR GREAT COMPOSERS.
An inquiry into the gradual cultivation of the genius of our great musical composers is as instructive as it is interesting to the lover of music. Before attempting this inquiry, it is advisable to ascertain exactly what is meant by the designation "our great composers."
To compose music does not only imply to invent musical ideas, but also to employ ideas which are already invented in such a way as to exhibit them in a new light. Certain modulations, passages, and rhythmical combinations occurring in our musical compositions may be regarded as common property; but how surprisingly original and fresh do they often appear to us through the new way in which they are employed by composers in connection with other ideas! Now, a composer who has the power to construct very beautiful works of art in a certain form, by inventing ideas and by showing in a new light ideas not invented by him, deserves to be regarded as a great composer.
However, in order to trace the gradual progress of his genius, it is not sufficient to examine his studies, or, so to say, to watch him in his workshop; we must commence our inquiry further back, and observe him first as a promising child.
Unfortunately, of the early initiatory lessons of our great composers but little is generally ascertainable. Celebrated musicians have more important occupation than to explain their earliest instructions; or they have to a great extent forgotten how they learnt in childhood the rudiments of their art. Still the initiatory lessons are especially noteworthy, since the foundation exercises an almost ineffaceable influence upon the subsequent direction of the musical student.
The talent for music in children is not always so easily discovered as might be supposed. Idleness, not unusual in fast-growing children, or indifference caused by injudicious training, may be mistaken for want of talent. There are records extant of distinguished musicians who in early childhood evinced neither talent nor fondness for music. Others, who, showing no inclination to learn the musical instrument on which they received instruction, have unexpectedly exhibited much talent and industry in practising on another kind of instrument of their own choice. Most of our distinguished musicians have manifested from early childhood a preference for a particular instrument which they perseveringly cultivated, and on which they afterwards excelled.
Parents are apt to see talent in their children where it does not exist, or, at least, not in the supposed degree. Some even find unmistakable evidence of musical talent in the shape of the head of their offspring. A peculiar formation of the skull, especially about the temples, is certainly observable in many clever musicians, and may be recognized in the few portraits which are known to be faithful likenesses of great composers. It would be interesting to know whether the infantine musical prodigies, of which there have been so many during the present century, generally possessed this phrenological indication. Be this as it may, they have become great composers in only exceptional instances. Indeed, early musical prodigies have but seldom achieved in after-life so much as was expected from them. There are, however, exceptions; for instance, Mozart. Dr. Crotch in his infancy displayed abilities as extraordinary as Mozart's. At the age of three years and a half he could play some harmonized tunes on the pianoforte, and when he was five years old he performed in public on the organ at a benefit concert in London. He afterwards achieved comparatively but little, and did not realise the expectations which as a child he had excited.
There are instances on record of musicians who in their early childhood were forced against their inclination to practise assiduously, and who must have been tortured by the incessant care for their progress bestowed on them by their parents. They became brilliant players, making music like a well-constructed machine. Our great composers have generally had a happier childhood. They were, in most instances, children whose physical development was especially attended to; who were permitted to ramble about in fields and forests, and by outdoor amusements and bodily exercises to lay the foundation for a healthy life. This, perhaps, sufficiently explains why not all of them have displayed a precocity of talent in early childhood. Indeed, their full development has been in many instances but slow, and several of them did not produce their best works until they had attained an age exceeding that generally allotted to musicians. Gluck composed his 'Iphigenia in Tauris' at the age of sixty-five; Haydn composed the 'Creation' in his sixty-ninth year, and the 'Seasons' in his seventy-second year. Handel was fifty-six years old when he wrote the 'Messiah,' and sixty-one when he wrote 'Judas Maccabæus.'
Some of our most gifted musicians have required much longer time than others for cultivating their talent, because they had not in childhood the same advantage of guidance which others had, and were consequently compelled to find out for themselves the best method of cultivation. Perhaps there now walks behind a plough a Handel, who has not shown that he is a man of genius because circumstances prevented his knowing and cultivating his powers. Happy is the artist who, in his childhood, was led by a judicious guide in the way which saves much time, trouble, and disappointment! Mozart had such a guide in his father; also Mendelssohn. Weber deserves, perhaps, all the greater praise from the fact of his father having been an impediment rather than a help to him.
A systematic education in childhood presents the greatest advantage; this is too self-evident to require further comment. It may also be taken for granted that the moral and mental education of the young composer is not less important than are his musical studies. Nay, his moral training is even of higher importance, since one may be a good musician, but must be a good man. Moreover, he is sure to become a better musician if he possesses an acute discernment of right and wrong, with love for the former and dislike to the latter.
As regards his mental education, it is more important for him to know how to think than what to think. A clear discernment is preferable to much information; at any rate, it is better to know but little and to understand that little clearly, than to know a great deal confusedly.
There can be no doubt that a classical education is of great advantage to the musician, not only on account of the refining influence which a familiarity with classical literature exercises upon the artistic mind, but also on account of the languages. An acquaintance with two or three modern languages is almost indispensable to the composer. Latin poetry occurs not unfrequently in Church music; and several old treatises on music have been written in Latin, and are therefore not accessible to musicians unacquainted with this language. It does not, of course, follow that to be a great composer one must know Latin; however, many musicians have thought it advisable in their later years to study this language, when they had not the opportunity of studying it in their youth.
Talented young musicians sometimes appear rather deficient in their mental cultivation. The enthusiasm with which they pursue their musical studies is apt to cause them to neglect other studies. But there is no real deficiency of intellectual gifts; on the contrary, they have generally a great versatility of talent. This often becomes apparent in their later years. Several eminent musicians have evinced much talent for painting. The humorous, witty, and clever remarks of some of our great composers are notorious.
Without having thoroughly mastered the technicalities of the art, it is impossible to achieve anything of artistic value. An assiduous and persevering cultivation of the talent is as necessary as the talent itself. It has generally cost a musical composer long and continued labour to produce a valuable work of art. He attained his aim by knowing what was requisite for its achievement, and by labouring perseveringly to attain it.
As has been already intimated, it is of great importance for the progress of the future composer that his initiatory lessons should be correct, so that there is nothing learnt which afterwards requires to be unlearnt. A bad touch on the pianoforte, or a wrong method of bowing in playing the violin, is scarcely ever entirely remedied in later years. Example is better than precept. A teacher who, by playing to his pupil, can show him how a passage ought to be executed, may save him much time and trouble. Our celebrated singers have generally learnt the most easily the best they are able to accomplish by having been sung to. However, music may be learnt by different methods, and each method may have something to recommend it. The teacher must study the pupil to find out what is the best for him.
Our great composers had generally instruction in singing very early. Indeed, a composer who has not cultivated his voice in childhood is not likely to write vocal music so effectively as would be the case if he had accustomed himself to sing his melodies while inventing them. Even the melodious phrases in his instrumental compositions are likely to be more impressive if he has been a singer from early age.
Furthermore, the young student has to learn to play in a high degree of perfection at least one musical instrument. The pianoforte is—in our time, perhaps—the best suited for his purpose, on account of the harmony and of the arrangement of orchestral works executable on the instrument. Most of our great composers were pianists, harpsichord players, or organists. There are, it is true, exceptions. Gluck's instrument was the violoncello; Spohr's, the violin. But even composers who are not pianists, generally, while composing for the orchestra, make use of the pianoforte.
The best musical performer is he who can play the most simple melody with the greatest expression; and the second best is he who can play the most difficult passages with the greatest correctness. Some pianists of astonishing manual dexterity are unable to play a simple tune with proper expression; others cannot execute well a technically easy sonata by Mozart, because they have not learnt—or, perhaps, have forgotten—the pure expression required for such unaffected music. The execution of many modern pianists is best suited for the performance of their own compositions.
If the young musician is bent upon becoming a distinguished virtuoso, it may easily be disadvantageous to him as a composer, not only on account of the time he will require for practising his fingers, but also because his fingers are apt to induce him to compose for them instead of for the heart. A great composer generally plays one instrument masterly; and he has, probably, found it expedient to learn another instrument or two besides that which he has principally cultivated. If, in addition to the pianoforte, he can play the viola or violoncello in a quartet, or Bach's pedal-fugues on the organ, he possesses the means of familiarising himself more thoroughly with many of our classical compositions than he could possibly do by merely hearing or reading them; and the familiarity thus acquired is beneficial to him. Moreover, some practical experience with wind-instruments is useful to the composer of orchestral works. Our great masters knew this, and acted upon it.
The exercise of the fingers takes up time, but not necessarily much. One hour of practice with great attention is better than three hours of careless practice. The former has not only the advantage that it advances the student more rapidly, but also that it leaves him the time required for other studies, reading, and recreation. Several of our great composers could be named who, notwithstanding their diligent studies from their youth, always found plenty of time for bodily exercise, and for amusements conducive to the preservation of health and energy—such as pedestrian tours, riding, fencing, swimming, dancing, etc.
The young musician has soon to commence the study of the theory of music, especially if he exhibits decided talent for composing. He must learn to write with facility any musical composition strictly according to the rules which have been laid down by our theorists as they found them observed in the works of the great masters. When he has acquired the skill to write correctly and fluently in the different forms of composition, it will be early enough for him to disregard the rules occasionally where he thinks it advisable for his purpose. Perhaps he may establish a new one. By far the greater number of our rules of composition are not dictated by any physical law traceable in acoustics, but only by human taste, which is continually undergoing modifications in the course of time. Thus, most of our great composers have caused some alterations in our theory of music. It is not only possible, but probable, that in a hundred years' time we shall have admirable musical compositions very different in form and construction from our present ones.
Several of our great composers in their youth excelled in extemporising. They were fond of it, and spent many an hour in pouring forth on their favourite instrument their momentary inspirations and fanciful conceptions. Extempore fantasias are sometimes so original and effective that it is a pity they cannot be preserved by being committed to notation at the moment of their creation. However, charming as such spontaneous effusions may be on account of their freshness, they do not possess the artistic value of an elaborately constructed and carefully finished work. At any rate, our great composers have in their youth derived greater benefit from carefully working out in notation a theme according to a certain form of composition, than from indulging in extempore fantasias. These have, however, often helped them in creating beautiful ideas for their works.
It may easily be understood that a retentive memory is of great value to the musician, be he composer or merely performer. Talented young musicians not unfrequently possess an astounding memory. Sonatas, symphonies, and even fugues, which they practise, they can soon play by heart. As they advance in years the power of memory generally becomes somewhat weaker. Blind musicians appear to preserve it undiminished for a longer period than others. The blind flutist Dulon knew 120 flute concertos by heart, which he had numbered, and any one of which he could play instantly on its number being mentioned to him. True, there is musically little gained by burdening the memory with compositions which chiefly consist of compilations of passages calculated to display the dexterity and skill of the performer. The works which the musician ought to be able to recall to his memory are the classical works, such as Gluck's 'Iphigenia in Tauris,' Mozart's 'Don Giovanni,' Beethoven's Symphonies, Handel's 'Messiah,' Bach's 'Passion according to St. Matthew.' There are not a few among our great composers who studied the master-works of their predecessors so effectually that they knew by heart a considerable number of them from beginning to end, with the instrumentation of every bar.
As regards the different forms of composition, that of the sonata is the most important; for, if the composer is able to express his ideas with facility in this form, he possesses the key to all the other forms—except some of the older ones, as that of the fugue. Certain theorists recommend the student of composition to select a sonata by Mozart, or some other master, in which the established form is strictly adhered to, and to write a precisely similar sonata by imitating the model bar for bar, using the same time, tempo, modulations, changes in loudness, and so on—only substituting other notes. No doubt he may thus manufacture a sonata which is correct in form, whatever it may be in spirit. Our great composers did not arise from students trained to make music as the shoemaker makes shoes.
The form of the fugue has already become antiquated, and that of the sonata is more and more neglected by our present composers, and apparently will likewise become antiquated in the course of time. But until we have beautiful examples of some new form, it is not probable that those forms which have been gradually brought to a high degree of perfection will be entirely dispensed with, whatever modern composers may produce exhibiting an indifference to the rules observed by their predecessors.
Our great composers were particularly careful in the choice of the theme. This is only what might be expected. An orator who discourses on an uninteresting subject will not easily command the attention of his hearers. Still, if he is gifted with extraordinary powers of eloquence, he may discourse on almost any subject interestingly. Thus also in music. Beethoven and other great composers have occasionally chosen a theme which becomes significant only from its original and spirited treatment.
The artistic charm of a well-constructed composition consists in the development of the theme, so that it is exhibited in a variety of beautiful aspects—appearing, though always the same, yet always new. The skill of thus treating the theme, our great composers, by constant study and practice, have cultivated to an admirable degree of perfection. They were fully aware that it is as indispensable to the composer as is the power of creating an interesting musical idea. However, the development of the theme may be carried too far. It appears pedantic when it is contrived more with regard to the form than to the spirit of the music; and it disturbs the unity of the composition when the theme is so much changed as to appear an entirely new idea. Schubert, in his pianoforte sonatas, has not unfrequently altered the theme so much that its second exposition does not bear the required resemblance with its first; it becomes another theme, which is not wanted. For the clever development of a theme Schubert did not possess sufficient practical experience acquired by systematic study. Had he possessed a full command over the rules of the art—and especially, had he written less hastily—he might, with his wonderful gifts, have been as great a composer as Beethoven.
A few examples from Beethoven's book of sketches may find a place here, since they throw some light upon his studies. The alterations which he marked with "meilleur" are generally decided improvements upon the first notation of the idea to which they refer. This is, for instance, strikingly apparent in his sketches of his famous song 'Adelaide,' the beginning of which, noted down at first thus:—
[[Listen]] [[Transcriber's Note]]
he afterwards altered into:—
[[Listen]] [[Transcriber's Note]]
The following sketches from Beethoven's pocket-book refer to his Quartet in C♯ minor, Op. 131, with which they must be compared to render the several attempts at improvement more clearly intelligible:—
The first sketches for a tenth symphony, which Beethoven intended to compose, are noted by him thus:—
[[Listen to Andante in C major]] [[Listen to Andante in A flat major]]
Beethoven wrote As over the little fragment of the Andante, evidently to indicate that he intended it to be in A flat major—As signifying in German A flat.
As an interesting specimen of Haydn's sketches, the following notation of his first design of the earthquake in the 'Seven Last Words' may serve. The entire sketch of which this is a fragment, has been published in the 'Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,' Leipsig, 1848:—
[[Listen]] [[Transcriber's Note]]
Haydn, as well as Beethoven, generally used one staff for his first sketches; Mozart made them more clear by using two staves—one for the melody and another for the bass. Still, as the sketches are only indications to assist the memory, which is, as we have seen, in composers generally very strong, especially when their own inventions are concerned, a hasty notation is in most instances sufficient. In writing the score of an orchestral composition, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven usually noted down the entire thread of a movement, or what may be called the melody and the bass of the piece; and having written this, they inserted the notation for the various instruments.
In submitting the manuscript of a composition to a final revision, or in preparing a new edition of a published work, our great composers have not unfrequently introduced improvements which testify to their unabating study as well as to their delicacy of taste and discernment. One or two examples in support of this opinion shall be pointed out here. Others will probably occur to the musical reader.
André, in Offenbach, has published the score of the overture to the 'Zauberflöte' (the Magic Flute), from Mozart's original manuscript, with its alterations and corrections. This interesting publication exhibits clearly the care bestowed by Mozart upon the work, and affords an excellent study for the musician.
A remarkable improvement by extension occurs in Mozart's famous Symphony in C major. Mendelssohn speaks of it with admiration in a letter to Moscheles as follows: "Just now André sends me for inspection the original score of Mozart's C major Symphony ('Jupiter'); I shall copy something from it for you which will amuse you. Eleven bars before the end of the Adagio it stood formerly thus:—
[[Listen]]
and so on, as it proceeds to the end. Mozart has written the entire repetition of the theme on an inserted leaf; he has struck out the passage, and has introduced it three bars before the end. Is that not a happy alteration? The repetition of the seven bars belongs to my most favourite portions of the whole symphony."[28]
The Adagio of Beethoven's Sonata in B flat major, Op. 106, originally commenced with its present second bar thus:—
[[Listen]]
Beethoven had sent, in the year 1819, a copy of the manuscript of this sonata to Ferdinand Ries, in London, who had undertaken to superintend its publication in England. Great must have been the astonishment of Ries when, soon after the arrival of the bulky manuscript of this gigantic sonata, he received a letter from Beethoven containing the notation of an additional single bar:—
[[Listen]]
to be placed at the beginning of the Adagio. The beautiful effect obtained by the alteration is especially noteworthy, inasmuch as it serves as an example of the incessant care which Beethoven bestowed upon the improvement of his compositions up to the last moment of their publication.
Probably no composer has revised his manuscripts more carefully, and re-written whole pieces with the view of improving them, than has J. S. Bach. His forty-eight Preludes and Fugues, entitled 'Das wohltemperirte Clavier,' afford instructive examples of improvements, which may be traced by a comparison of the several editions of the work, and especially by an examination of the several manuscripts of these preludes and fugues in Bach's handwriting which have been preserved.
The prelude in C major, in the first set, was originally longer than in subsequent revisions. The second half, which Bach has struck out, was a repetition of its first half.
The prelude in C♯ major, in the first set, he has curtailed by striking out thirty-five bars. This he did evidently for the purpose of increasing the unity of this charming composition by discarding what was foreign to its character, as indicated by the theme.
On the other hand, the beautiful prelude in D minor, in the same set, he has considerably enlarged.
These few remarks must suffice to draw the reader's attention to the careful reconsideration given by Bach to 'Das wohltemperirte Clavier.'
Beethoven generally kept his manuscripts a long time by him, and altered and polished them up gradually. This he did especially with the manuscripts of his earlier compositions. Gluck, in composing an opera, carried out in his mind the principal airs and choruses before he wrote down a note; so that, when he began to commit the music to paper, he considered his opera as almost finished. Mozart, too, had sometimes a whole new composition in his head before he commenced writing it down. The overture to 'Don Giovanni' he is recorded, by some of his biographers, to have composed a few hours before the first performance of the opera, so that the copied parts for the musicians were not yet dry when they were carried into the orchestra. Probably Mozart did not compose the overture when he committed it to paper, but had it ready in his head. He was often composing when otherwise occupied, and even while he was playing billiards.
A musical composer may have a good reason for preserving the manuscript of his new work though he considers it a failure. He may wish to refer to it after a time to ascertain whether his unfavourable opinion remains unchanged on a subsequent examination. Perhaps it contains ideas which he may be glad to employ in later years when his power of invention begins to flag. Still, a celebrated musician would do wisely to destroy any such manuscripts when he no longer requires them; otherwise they are sure to arise against him after his death as posthumous works. They will, at least, lower his fame, if it is too great to be seriously injured by them. In truth, there is often harm done to art as well as to artists by these posthumous publications—in most instances weak productions which have been permitted to live from carelessness of the composers, or perhaps from the natural affection which a father feels for even his most ill-favoured child.
Our great composers have generally been extremely cautious, especially during the earlier part of their lifetime, in selecting for publication only such of their manuscripts as they were fully justified in considering worthy of being published. As regards most musicians, it would be better for their reputation if they had published only half the number of their works, and destroyed the other half.
It is a noteworthy fact that our great composers have occasionally produced beautiful effects by disregarding the rules laid down in treatises on the theory of music. Beethoven has been not unfrequently a trespasser in this respect. Weber, in the Introductory Chorus of the elves, in 'Oberon,' produces really charming consecutive fifths. So does Handel, in the beautiful Pastoral Symphony in the 'Messiah':—
[[Listen]]
and Gluck repeatedly, in the beautiful air of Rinaldo, in 'Armida':—
[[Listen]]
Graun, in his cantata, 'Der Tod Jesu' (The Death of Jesus), introduces into the first chorale consecutive fifths upon the words "Zur Frevelthat entschlossen" (On evil deed resolved), thus:—
[[Listen]]
Zur Fre-vel-that ent-schlos-sen.
which, no doubt, was considered by some musicians as remarkably appropriate to the words, although, probably, they could not have heard it in the performance, had they not previously seen it in notation. Not such whims only, but even oversights and misprints occurring in the works of eminent masters have found admirers, who regarded them as strokes of genius; while, on the other hand, some of the most original and surpassingly beautiful ideas were thought to be misprints, and attempts have actually been made by theorists to correct them.
A curious instance of a misprint which by many admirers of Beethoven has been accepted as a beautiful inspiration occurs in the scherzo of his C minor Symphony. To dispel all doubt of its being a misprint, Mendelssohn caused the publishers of the Symphony to make known a letter addressed to them by Beethoven in the year 1810, in which he says: "The following mistake I still find in the C minor Symphony, namely, in the third piece, in 3/4 time, where, after C major, the minor key recommences. It stands thus (I take at once the bass part):—
[[Listen]]
The two bars marked with * are redundant, and must be struck out; of course, also in all the other parts which have rests." A reference to the manuscript in the possession of the publishers revealed how the two superfluous bars had crept in. Beethoven had originally intended that the entire scherzo, with the trio, should be repeated, and then be concluded by the coda. He had marked in the manuscript the two superfluous bars with 1, and the two following ones with 2, and had written with a red pencil, "Si replica con trio allora 2," which the engraver had not exactly understood. As also the written parts for the instruments, which were used at the first performance of the C minor Symphony in Vienna, under Beethoven's direction, do not possess those two bars, there remains not the least doubt that they were never intended by the composer to be where they are now found to the delight of many enthusiastic admirers of Beethoven.
A misprint in Beethoven's 'Sinfonia Pastorale' (which Schumann points out in his 'Gesammelte Schriften,' Vol. IV.) is almost too evident to be left uncorrected, even by those who find it beautiful. In the second part of the first movement, where the theme recommences, with the accompaniment of triplets, the score has the following notations:—
[[Listen]]
That here, by mistake, three rests for the first violins have been inserted by the engraver, instead of three simile-signs,
, is evident from the sudden interruption of the flow of the triplet accompaniment, as well as from the fact that immediately afterwards, in the inversion of the same passage, the violas have the same accompaniment without any interruption. Otto Jahn, in his 'Gesammelte Aufsätze über Musik,' notices a misprint in the score of Beethoven's last Quartet, Op. 135, which is very extraordinary. He says: "In the last movement the copyist has omitted two bars in the first violin part, so that during twelve bars it is two bars in advance of the other instruments. After the twelve bars, the corrector perceiving that two bars were wanting to restore the equilibrium, has inserted two there according to his own fancy." Jahn gives side by side the genuine reading and the interpolated one. The wonder is that the latter is playable at all,—or rather, that the musicians, in playing it, should not have discovered at once that there must be something radically wrong. However, as Jahn justly remarks, the respect for the eccentricities of Beethoven's last quartets was so great, that no one ventured to think there could be a mistake here which required rectifying.
A carefully-compiled manual, containing reliable corrections of the most important misprints occurring in our classical compositions, would be a boon to the musical student. There are many in Bach's fugues, and even in Beethoven's sonatas, which are not easily detected, but which are on this account all the more noteworthy.
The following beautiful conception, which occurs in the first movement of Beethoven's Sinfonia Eroica, was regarded by many, on the first publication of the symphony, as a misprint:—
[[Listen]]
Ferdinand Ries, the pupil of Beethoven, was unable to appreciate the charm of this soft and timid indication of the theme on a dissonance immediately before it gloriously breaks out on the harmonious triad. In his biographical notices of Beethoven he thus speaks of it: "In the first Allegro of the Symphony there occurs a bad whim of Beethoven for the horn. Some bars before the theme enters again, in the second part of the Allegro, Beethoven indicates it by the horn, while the violins continue to sound the second-chord. This must always convey to those who are unacquainted with the score, the impression that the horn-player has counted incorrectly, and that he falls in at a wrong bar. At the first rehearsal of the symphony, which was very unsatisfactory, but in which the horn-player kept proper time, I was standing near Beethoven, and, in the belief that it was wrong, I cried: 'That confounded hornist! Can he not count! It sounds so infamously wrong!' Beethoven was near to giving me a box on the ear. It took him a long time to forgive me."
By making beautiful "mistakes," Beethoven has extended the rules of composition. Ries relates, "During a walk I took with him, I spoke to him of certain consecutive fifths which occur in his C minor Quartet, Op. 18, and which are so eminently beautiful. Beethoven was not aware of them, and maintained that I must be in error as to their being fifths. As he was in the habit of always carrying music paper with him, I asked for it, and wrote down the passage in all its four parts. When he saw that I was right, he said, 'Well, and who has forbidden them?' Not knowing how to take this question, I hesitated. He repeated it, until I replied in astonishment, 'But, they are against the first fundamental rules!' 'Who has forbidden them?' repeated Beethoven. 'Marpurg, Kirnberger, Fuchs, etc., etc.—all theorists,' I replied. 'And I permit them!' said Beethoven."
The harsh beginning of Mozart's C major Quartet (No. 6 of the set dedicated to Joseph Haydn) has been the subject of fierce attacks and controversies. Many musicians have supposed that misprints must have crept into the score; while others have endeavoured to prove in detail that all the four instruments are treated strictly according to the rules of counterpoint. Otto Jahn (in his 'Biography of Mozart,' Vol. IV. p. 74) finds it beautiful as "the afflicted and depressed spirit which struggles for deliverance." This may be so; and it is needless to conjecture what the admirers of the passage would have said, if it had emanated from an unknown composer. As it stands, it is, at any rate, interesting as an idea of Mozart, whose compositions are generally distinguished by great clearness of form and purity of harmony.
The adherence to a strictly prescribed form may easily lead the composer to the re-employment of some peculiar idea which he has already employed in a previous work. In fugues especially this may be often observed. Beethoven, in his sonatas, and likewise in his other compositions written in the sonata form, as trios, quartets, etc., introduces not unfrequently in the modulation from the tonic to the dominant certain favourite combinations of chords and modes of expression; and he has one or two phrases which may be recognised with more or less modification, in many of his compositions. Mozart, too, has his favourite successions of chords; for instance, the interrupted cadence which the German musicians call Trugschluss. Spohr repeats himself perhaps more frequently than any other composer. Mendelssohn has a certain mannerism in the rhythmical construction of many of his works, which gives them a strong family likeness. Weber has employed a certain favourite passage of his, constructed of groups of semi-quavers, so frequently, that the sight of a notation like this:—
[[Listen]]
is to the musician almost the same as the written name Carl Maria von Weber.
Some of the best examples for illustrating the studies of our great composers are to be found in those compositions which originally formed part of earlier and comparatively inferior works, and which were afterwards incorporated by the composers into their most renowned works. In thus adopting a piece which would otherwise probably have fallen into oblivion, the composer has generally submitted it to a careful revision; and it is instructive to compare the revision with the first conception. Gluck has used in his operas several pieces which he had originally written for earlier works, now but little known. For instance, the famous ballet of the Furies in his 'Orfeo,' is identical with the Finale in his 'Don Juan,' where the rake is hurled into the burning abyss; the overture to 'Armida' belonged originally to his Italian opera, 'Telemacco;' the wild dance of the infernal subjects of Hate, in 'Armida,' is the Allegro of the duel-scene in his 'Don Juan.'
As an instance of adoption from a former work wonderfully improved by reconstruction, may be noticed Handel's Sarabande, in his opera 'Almira,' performed the first time at Hamburg in the year 1705:—
[[Listen]]
From this Sarabande, Handel, six years later, constructed the beautiful air "Lascia ch'io pianga," in his opera 'Rinaldo,' performed in London in the year 1711:—
[[Listen]]
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
e che so-spi-ri,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà.
Il duolo in fran-ga que-ste ri-tor-te
de miei mar-ti-ri sól per pie-tà
de miei so-spi-ri sól per pie-tà.
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
e che so-spi-ri,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà,
Las-cia ch'io pian-ga mia cru-da sor-te,
e che so-spi-ri la li-ber-tà.
Beethoven's third overture to his opera 'Leonora' (later called 'Fidelio') is a reconstruction of the second. A comparison of these two overtures affords an interesting insight into Beethoven's studies. It must be remembered that Beethoven, not satisfied with the first overture, wrote a second, and subsequently a third, and a fourth. The first three, which are in C major, he wrote when the opera was known by the name of 'Leonora;' and the fourth, which is in E major, when the opera was brought anew on the stage in its revised form under the name of 'Fidelio.' The air of Florestan is indicated in Nos. 1, 2, and 3, composed in 1805 and 1806. No. 2 has the distant trumpet-signal, produced on the stage; and in No. 3 this idea is further carried out; but in No. 4, written in 1814, it is dropped.
A composer who borrows from his former works deserves reproach as little as a person who removes his purse from one pocket into another which he thinks a better place. To borrow from the works of others, as some composers have done, is altogether a different thing. However, it would be unreasonable to regard such a plagiarism as a theft unless the plagiarist conceals the liberty he is taking by disguising the appropriation so as to make it appear a creation of his own. Some inferior musicians display much talent in this procedure. Our great composers, on the other hand, have often so wonderfully ennobled compositions of other musicians which they have thought advisable to admit into their oratorios, operas, or other elaborate works, that they have thereby honoured the original composers of those pieces as well as benefited art. It is a well-known fact that Handel has, in several of his oratorios, made use of the compositions of others. As these adoptions have been pointed out by one or two of Handel's biographers, it may suffice here to allude to them. Beethoven has adopted remarkably little. His employment of popular tunes where they are especially required, as for example in his Battle Symphony, Op. 91, can hardly be regarded as an instance to the contrary. At any rate, popular tunes have frequently been adopted by our great composers for the purpose of giving to a work a certain national character. Weber has done this very effectively in his 'Preciosa.' Gluck, in his 'Don Juan,' introduces the Spanish fandango. Mozart does the same in his 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' twenty-five years later. Here probably Mozart took a hint from Gluck. However this may be, there can be no doubt that Gluck's 'Don Juan' contains the germs of several beautiful phrases which occur in Mozart's 'Don Giovanni.' Even on this account it deserves to be better known to musicians than it is, independently of its intrinsic musical value. A detailed account of it here would, however, be a transgression. Suffice it to state that Gluck's 'Don Juan' is a ballet which was composed at Vienna in the year 1761, twenty-six years before Mozart produced his 'Don Giovanni.' The programme of the former work, which has been printed from a manuscript preserved in the Bibliothèque de l'Ecole Royale de Musique of Paris, shows that it is nearly identical with the scenarium of the latter work. The instrumental pieces, of which there are thirty-one, are mostly short, and increase in beauty and powerful expression towards the end of the work. The justly-deserved popularity in Vienna of Gluck's 'Don Juan' probably induced Mozart to have his 'Don Giovanni' first performed under the title of 'Il Dissoluto Punito,' and the great superiority of this opera may perhaps be the cause of Gluck's charming production having fallen into obscurity.
Mozart's facility of invention was so remarkably great that he can have had but little inducement to borrow from others. Plagiarisms occur but rarely in his works, but are on this account all the more interesting when they do occur. Take for instance the following passage from 'Ariadne of Naxos,' a duodrama by Georg Benda. It is composed to be played by the orchestra while Ariadne exclaims: "Now the sun arises! How glorious!"
[[Listen]]
Mozart was in his youth a great admirer of this duodrama. He mentions in one of his letters that he carried its score constantly with him. The great air of the Queen of Night in 'Die Zauberflöte,' Act 1, commences thus:—
[[Listen]]
It is, however, quite possible that Mozart had made Benda's work so thoroughly his own that he borrowed from it in the present instance without being aware of the fact.
Again, Johann Heinrich Rolle published in the year 1779 an oratorio entitled 'Lazarus, oder die Feier der Auferstehung' (Lazarus, or the Celebration of the Resurrection). The second part of this oratorio begins with an introductory symphony, as follows:—
[[Listen]]
Perhaps Mozart was not acquainted with Rolle's oratorio when he wrote his overture to the 'Zauberflöte,' in the year 1791. The curious resemblance in the two compositions may be entirely owing to the form of the fugue in which they are written.
Moreover, the theme of Mozart's overture to the 'Zauberflöte' resembles also the theme of a Sonata by Clementi which was composed ten years earlier than the overture. In Clementi's Sonata it is as follows:—
[[Listen]]
In the complete edition of Clementi's pianoforte compositions this Sonata is published with the appended notice that Clementi played it to the Emperor Joseph II. when Mozart was present, in the year 1781. Mozart appears to have been fond of the theme, for he introduces a reminiscence of it into the first movement of his Symphony in D major, dating from the year 1786.
The first chorus in Mozart's 'Requiem' was evidently suggested by the first chorus in Handel's 'Funeral Anthem for Queen Caroline.' The motivo of both is however an old German dirge dating from the sixteenth century, which begins thus:—
[[Listen]]
Wenn mein Stündlein vor-han-den ist,
und soll hinfahrn mein Stras-se.
and which may have been familiar to Mozart as well as to Handel.
The motivo of the Kyrie Eleison in Mozart's 'Requiem:'—
[[Listen]]
Chri-ste e-le-
Ky-ri-e e-le ——— i-son! e-
occurs also in Handel's oratorio 'Joseph:'—
[[Listen]]
We will re -
We will re - joice
Hal - le - lu — jah! Hal — le -
and in Handel's 'Messiah:'—
[[Listen]]
And with his stripes we are heal - ed,
And with His, &c.
Likewise in a Quartet for stringed instruments by Haydn, Op. 20, thus:—
[[Listen]]
In the solemn phrase of the Commendatore, in 'Don Giovanni,' we have an interesting example of the happy result with which Mozart has carried out ideas emanating from Gluck. In the opera 'Alceste,' by Gluck, the Oracle sings in one tone, while the orchestral accompaniment, including three trombones, changes the harmony in each successive bar, as follows:—
[[Listen]]
Oracle. Le roi doit mou-rir au-jour-d'hui,
si quelqu'autre au tré-pas ne se liv-re pour lui.
That Mozart was much impressed with the effect of Gluck's idea may be gathered from the circumstance of his having adopted it in 'Don Giovanni,' and likewise, to some extent, in 'Idomeneo.' The Commendatore in 'Don Giovanni' sings, accompanied by trombones:—
[[Listen]]
Di ri-der fi-n-rai pria dell' au-ro-ra.
[[Listen]]
Ri-bal-do! au-da-ce! las-cia a'mor-ti la pa-ce!
There can hardly be a greater difference in the styles of two composers than exists in the style of Gluck and that of J. S. Bach. The masterly command of Bach over the combination of different parts according to the rules of counterpoint is just the faculty in which Gluck is deficient. It is on this account especially interesting to observe how Gluck has employed an idea which he apparently borrowed from Bach. The student may ascertain it by carefully comparing the air, 'Je l'implore, et je tremble,' in 'Iphigenia in Tauris,' with J. S. Bach's beautiful gigue in B flat major, commencing:—
[[Listen]]
Clementi, a pianoforte composer, who has certainly but little in common with Gluck, has for his B minor Sonata dedicated to Cherubini—perhaps his best work—a theme which may be recognised as that of the dance of the Scythians in 'Iphigenia in Tauris.'
Again, Beethoven's style, especially in his later works, is as different from Haydn's as possible; nevertheless we occasionally meet with a phrase in Beethoven's later works which appears to have been suggested by Haydn. For instance, Haydn, in his Symphony in B flat major (No. 2 of Salomon's set) has a playful repetition of a figure of semi-quavers leading to the re-introduction of the theme, thus:—
[[Listen]]
In Beethoven's famous E minor Quartet, Op. 59, a similar figure leads to the theme, thus:—
[[Listen]]
A more exact comparison of the two passages than the present short notations permit will probably convince the student of the great superiority of Beethoven's conception. He was one of those rare masters who convert into gold whatever they touch.
But it is not the object here to give a list of the similarities and adaptations which are traceable in the works of different musical composers. Such a list would fill a volume, even if composers of secondary rank, who are often great borrowers, were ignored. For the present essay a few examples must suffice, especially as others will probably occur to the reflecting reader.
Some insight into the studies of our great composers may also be obtained by comparing together such of their operas or other elaborate vocal compositions with instrumental accompaniment as are founded on the same subject. Note, for instance, the love-story of Armida, taken by the compilers of the various librettos from the episode of Rinaldo and Armida in Tasso's 'Gerusalemme Liberata.' The story had evidently a great attraction for the musical composers of the eighteenth century. There have been above thirty operas written on it, several of which it might now be difficult to procure, nor would an examination of them perhaps repay the trouble. However, the operas on the subject composed by Lulli, Gluck, Graun, Handel, Traetta, Jomelli, Naumann, Haydn, Sarti, Cimarosa, Rossini, Sacchini, etc., would suffice for the purpose. Thus also, a comparison of several compositions depicting a storm—most of our masters have written such a piece—elicits valuable hints for the musical student. Compare, for instance, with each other the storms in Gluck's 'Iphigenia in Tauris,' Haydn's 'Seasons,' Beethoven's 'Sinfonia Pastorale,' Cherubini's 'Medea.'
Even arrangements may illustrate the studies. Take, for instance, the arrangements of Vivaldi's violin concertos by J. S. Bach. It is, however, but seldom that eminent composers have occupied themselves with arranging the works of others. Instructive examples of this kind are therefore rare.
It is recorded of some composers that they were in the habit of founding their instrumental works on certain poetical ideas. Haydn is said to have done this almost invariably. Schindler, in his biographical notices of Beethoven, states that the two pianoforte Sonatas, Op. 14, of Beethoven, were explained to him by the composer as representing a dialogue between two lovers. When Schindler asked the meaning of the motivo of the C minor Symphony,
[[Listen]]
Beethoven exclaimed, "Thus Fate knocks at the gate!" And being requested by Schindler to supply him with the key to the Sonatas in D minor, Op. 31, and in F minor, Op. 57, Beethoven's answer was: "Read Shakespeare's 'Tempest!'" Beethoven probably resorted to such replies merely to satisfy troublesome inquirers somewhat resembling the inquisitive gentleman in Washington Irving's 'Tales of a Traveller,' who "never could enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the shell." Several of the titles of Beethoven's instrumental compositions ('Pastoral Sonata,' 'Moonlight Sonata,' 'Sonata appassionata,' etc.) did not originate with the composer, but were given to the pieces by the publishers to render them more attractive to the public. The title of his sonata Op. 81, 'Les Adieux, l'Absence et le Retour,' emanates however from Beethoven himself. This is noteworthy inasmuch as it has brought the advocates of descriptive music into an awkward dilemma. They found in this sonata an unmistakable representation of the parting and ultimate reunion of two ardent lovers,—when, unhappily for them, Beethoven's autograph manuscript of the sonata was discovered, in the library of Archduke Rudolph, bearing the inscription (in German), "The Farewell, Absence, and Return of His Imperial Highness the Venerated Archduke Rudolph."
A similar subject is treated by J. S. Bach, in a capriccio for the harpsichord, entitled, 'On the Departure of a very dear Brother,' in which the different movements are headed as follows:—"No. 1. Entreaty of friends to put off the journey.—No. 2. Representation of the various accidents which might befall him.—No. 3. General lament of friends.—No. 4. Entreaty being of no avail, the friends here bid farewell.—No. 5. Air of the postillion.—No. 6. Fuga in imitation of the post-horn."
This is but a modest essay in tone-painting compared with a certain production by Johann Kuhnau, a predecessor of Bach, who depicted entire biblical stories in a set of six sonatas for the clavichord, which were published in Leipzig in the year 1700. Each sonata is prefaced by a programme, which informs the player what is meant by the several movements—a very necessary proceeding. The stories depicted are from the Old Testament. One of the sonatas is entitled, 'Jacob's Marriage;' another, 'Saul cured by David's Music;' another, 'The Death of Jacob;' and so on. To show how far Kuhnau ventures into detailed description, the explanation printed with the sonata called 'Gideon' may find a place here. It runs as follows:—"1. Gideon mistrusts the promises made to him by God that he should be victorious.—2. His fear at the sight of the great host of the enemy.—3. His increasing courage at the relation of the dream of the enemy, and of its interpretation.—4. The martial sound of the trombones and trumpets, and likewise the breaking of the pitchers and the cry of the people.—5. The flight of the enemy and their pursuit by the Israelites.—6. The rejoicing of the Israelites for their remarkable victory."
Still earlier, in the seventeenth century, Dieterich Buxtehude depicted in seven suites for the clavichord, 'The Nature and Qualities of the Planets;' and Johann Jacob Frohberger, about the same time, composed for the harpsichord a 'Plainte, faite à Londres, pour passer la mélancolie,' in which he describes his eventful journey from Germany to England—how in France he was attacked by robbers, and how afterwards in the Channel, between Calais and Dover, he was plundered by Tunisian pirates. Frohberger composed also an allemande intended to commemorate an event which he experienced on the Rhine. The notation is so contrived as to represent a bridge over the Rhine. Mattheson is said to have cleverly introduced into one of his scores, by means of the notation, the figure of a rainbow. Such music one must not hear; enough if one sees it in print. It deserves to be classed with the silent music mentioned in Shakespeare's 'Othello,' Act III., Scene 1:—
"Clown.—But, masters, here's money for you: and the General so likes your music, that he desires you, for love's sake, to make no more noise with it.
"First Musician.—Well, sir, we will not.
"Clown.—If you have any music that may not be heard, to't again: but, as they say, to hear music the General does not greatly care.
"First Musician.—We have none such, sir.
"Clown.—Then put your pipes in your bag, for I'll away: go, vanish into air; away!"
It may afford satisfaction to the lover of descriptive music to imagine he hears in certain choruses by Handel the leaping of frogs, the humming of flies, or the rattling of hailstones; but the judicious admirer of these compositions values them especially on account of their purely musical beauties. These may in a great measure be traced to euphony combined with originality. Music must be above all things melodiously beautiful. Our great composers bore this in mind, or acted upon it as a matter of course; hence the fascinating charms of their music. The euphony does not depend upon the consonant harmony prevailing in the composition; if this were the case, music would be the more euphonious the fewer dissonant chords it contains, and the major key would be more suitable for euphony than the minor key, since the major scale is founded upon the most simple relation of musical intervals yielding concords. However, our finest compositions contain numerous dissonant chords; and many—perhaps most—are in the minor key. Some of our great composers have certainly written more important works in minor than in major keys. Mozart, in those of his compositions which are in major keys, often manifests extraordinary inspiration as soon as he modulates into a minor key.
Remarkably devoid of euphony are the compositions of some musicians who, having taken Beethoven's last works as the chief models for their aspirations, have thereby been prevented from properly cultivating whatever gift they may naturally possess for expressing their ideas melodiously and clearly. Moreover, they talk and act as if affected originality, or far-fetched fancies, constituted the principal charm of a composition. Not less tedious are the works of some modern composers who possess no originality, but who write very correctly in the style of some classical composer. There has been published a vast amount of such stale and unprofitable productions. Music, to be interesting, must possess some quality in a high degree. If it is very good, it is just what it ought to be; if it is very bad, one can honestly condemn it, and leave it to its fate. But music which is neither very good nor very bad—which deserves neither praise nor blame, and which one cannot easily ignore because it is well meant—this is the most wearisome. And often how long such productions are! The composers show with many notes that they have felt but little, while our great composers show with but few notes that they have felt much.
An inferior composer has, however, not unfrequently a better chance of becoming soon popular than a superior one. The latter is likely to be properly appreciated only by a few unbiassed judges—at least during his earlier career—while the former may possess qualities which at once please the uncultivated taste, and the voice of the unrefined majority may silence the voice of the few whose opinion is correct. If you become acquainted with a celebrated musician, you will perhaps find that he is not so talented as you expected; and if you become acquainted with a musician of no reputation, you will perhaps find that he is much more talented than you expected. Diffidence is apt to be mistaken for want of ability. Even some of our deepest thinkers, on acknowledging that they did not understand a certain subject, have been set down by ignorant people as dunces.
Composers who have made good studies sometimes write ingenious contrivances or "learned music," instead of inventing a beautiful melody. They are apt to introduce fugues into their works when they are short of ideas or at a loss how to proceed. Even our great composers have done this occasionally, when their power of invention began to flag. But they were careful, when resorting to mere head-work, to use it only in places most appropriate; and they generally succeeded in imparting to it some musical charm.
Always striving to attain a higher degree of perfection, they were in fact students all their lifetime. The more they learnt, the clearer they saw that they had much to learn, and that time was precious to them. Beethoven on his death-bed was studying the scores of Handel's oratorios, and Mozart to the end of his life investigated the intricate works of Johann Sebastian Bach.
Many examples from different composers might have been cited in support of the opinions advanced in this essay. But, not to lengthen it unnecessarily, only a few examples, referring to such of our composers as are universally acknowledged to be truly great, have been selected. No doubt many more will occur to the reflecting reader, if he is familiar with our classical compositions.
SUPERSTITIONS CONCERNING BELLS.
Much is said about church-bells which formerly sometimes used to toll entirely by themselves on occasions of extraordinary importance. In some countries places are pointed out where church-bells which have fallen into a lake or river, or have sunk deep into the ground, will toll on certain days of the year, or on certain solemn occasions. The believers in these wonders go to the place where a bell is said to be hidden, and listen attentively. Generally they soon hear the distant sounds which they anxiously wish to hear.
A wonderful bell is mentioned by Abraham à Sancta Clara, who so forcibly preached during the latter half of the seventeenth century; and some account of the same bell is given by Montano in his 'Historische Nachricht von denen Glocken,' published in the year 1726. Montano says that "it may be seen at Vililla, a small town in the kingdom of Arragon." When this bell was being cast, one of the thirty pieces of silver for which the arch-traitor Judas Iscariot delivered up Jesus Christ to the chief priests, was melted down with the metal, which had the effect of causing the bell to sound occasionally by itself without being touched, especially before the occurrence of some great national calamity, such as a disastrous issue of a warlike expedition, or the death of a king. In the year 1601, Montano records, it continued to ring by itself for three days unintermittingly,—viz., from Thursday the 13th of June until Saturday the 15th; but whether it had some particular reason for this extraordinary procedure, or whether it was merely actuated by some capricious impulse, we are not informed by the learned writer.
Spain appears to have been pre-eminently favoured with such miraculous bells. This is perhaps not to be wondered at considering that miracles occur most frequently in countries where the people are best prepared to accept them.
A lamentable misunderstanding occasioned by a little house-bell is recorded by Grimm as having occurred in a German town; but we are not informed of the name of the town, nor of that of the citizen in whose house it occurred. The inmates of the house, with the exception of the mistress, heard distinctly the sound of the bell, and were quite certain that no one had touched it. Moreover, a few days afterwards, they heard it a second time. The master of the house, a strong and healthy man, made up his mind at once that this omen portended the decease of his wife, who was keeping her bed, very much reduced indeed. He forbade the servants to tell their mistress what had occurred, lest it might frighten her and hasten her dissolution. The state of suspense, after the bell had given warning the second time, lasted for about six weeks, when suddenly—the husband died, and the wife became better! Even after the widow had married again, the bell rang by itself on several occasions; and whenever this happened, there was sure to be a death in the house—sooner or later.[29]