"PAPA HAYDN."
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
One day nearly a hundred and fifty years ago two elderly gentlemen were dining together in an old house in Hamburg, Germany. They were music-masters of great note in those days. Herr Franck was the host; the guest was Herr Reuter, Capellmeister at Vienna. Their conversation very naturally was on music, and the new and old musicians, singers, and conductors. Suddenly Franck declared he had in his house a prodigy, a boy of nine, whom he had brought from the country. Reuter was delighted. The boy was summoned from the kitchen, where he was dining with the cook, and no doubt enjoying his Sunday pudding with great relish, for he worked hard and did not fare too well.
I like to think of that picture: the old wainscoted dining-room, the grave musicians looking up from their dinner as the door opened on a small dark-haired, brown-skinned boy, a dainty, delicately modelled child, who came in shyly, and stood at a distance from the table, with his hands behind him, and his head bent down, until his teacher, Herr Franck, bade him sing. And then the boy's voice broke all the bonds of restraint. He threw back his little head and sang. It was an irrepressible burst of melody, and Reuter, the old master, sprang up, exclaiming, "He shall come to my choir; he is just what I want."
It was a wonderful step onward for the child; but Reuter little knew the future of the boy whom he took that day, and never dreamed that his name, Francis Joseph Haydn, would be famous in every civilized country of the world.
Reuter carried young Haydn off to Vienna, where he was placed in the cathedral choir, and where his sweet young voice, a marvellous soprano, filled all the town with delight. His parents gave him freely in charge to old Reuter; but the master was selfish and exacting. The boy longed to compose, but Reuter refused to allow him to take lessons in composition, and made him give his whole time to choir practice. Haydn had very little money, but he hoarded every penny for a long time, and when he was thirteen years old he purchased two treatises on music, and having studied them diligently, actually composed a mass.
I don't suppose it was very fine music, but at all events it showed a great desire for work, and it was too bad that Reuter should have roared with laughter over it, and given the eager boy no encouragement. It seems as though from that time the old master was determined to thwart and annoy his pupil. The lad found choir work a slavery, but did not know how to free himself. A piece of idle mischief led to his escape. One day in a frolic he cut off the tail of the wig of a singer in the choir. Reuter flew into a rage, turned Haydn out then and there, actually expelling him from choir, board, and lodging. It was a cruel winter's night. The lad wandered about the streets of Vienna, until he remembered the one person who had ever encouraged him. This was a barber named Keller, and to his humble abode Haydn directed his steps. Keller gave him a cordial welcome, though he had but little to offer: a loft—in which, however, stood an old harpsichord—and a seat at his simple table. In the wig-maker's family Haydn went joyfully to work. He had some sonatas of Bach's, he picked up odd bits of music here and there, mastered the science of those who had gone before him, and though often cold and hungry, was never cheerless. Now and then he went into the shop, where Keller and his daughter Anne were at work on wigs, and where Haydn's assistance was quite acceptable. Anne Keller was a plain dull girl, who knew nothing of the great art of her father's lodger, yet Haydn was grateful for her rough sort of kindness to him. He became engaged to her, and later, when he was more prosperous, married her.
It was not long before the young musician had made a circle of friends. He played on the violin and the organ, sometimes in the churches, and occasionally in the salons of some great ladies, but his chief enjoyment was a little club of wandering minstrels. They were a band of enthusiastic youths who wandered about Vienna on moon-light nights to serenade famous musicians.
One night they directed their steps to the house of Herr Curtz, the leader of the opera. Under his windows they began one of Haydn's compositions, the young musician's violin slowly filling the moon-lit garden with melody. No demonstration from old Curtz was expected, but suddenly a window was flung open, out came Curtz's head, and his voice screamed to know who was playing.
Back came the answer. "Joseph Haydn."
"Whose music is it?"
"Mine."
Down came Curtz, collared the astonished young man, and brought him upstairs to a big candle-lit room, where stood a fine piano littered with music. There, when the two had regained their breath, Curtz explained that he wanted Haydn to compose some music for a new libretto he had written. Now this was certainly an important moment. Haydn sat down to the piano, banged away, tried various ideas, and at last hit upon the right thing. Before daylight he had arranged with Curtz for the music, for which he was promised one hundred and thirty florins.
It was his first real success, and from that moment prosperity attended him. He wrote his first symphony when he was twenty-eight, in the year 1759. Soon after he received an appointment in the household of Prince Esterhazy, where his duty was a curious one. He was obliged to have a piece of music ready to lay on his patron's breakfast table every morning. This may seem drudgery, but in reality these years were among the happiest of Haydn's life, marred only by his marriage with the barber's daughter, Anne Keller, whose wretched temper at last forced him to separate from her. He cared for her tenderly, however, and she was well content with her lot in life.
Around Haydn in England, France, and Germany gathered a band of younger musicians, eager to watch his developments in music, and to whom he was familiarly known as "Papa Haydn." It was Mozart, the then youthful composer, that gave him the endearing title. Between them existed the most touching friendship, broken only by Mozart's early death.
I can not tell you of all of Haydn's works. His greatest were his Symphonies. In these he developed instrumental music until he made it something far greater than it had ever been before; and for this all generations will owe him thanks and praise.
His oratorio, The Creation, was composed in 1799, and with its performance, nine years later, is associated one of the last scenes in Haydn's life.
The public of Vienna wished to pay their honored musician a tribute, and so the oratorio was given with every possible brilliancy of effect and performance. Haydn was an old man, and very feeble, and he was obliged to be carried into the theatre; but there he sat near his dear friend Princess Esterhazy, while all eyes turned lovingly and reverently toward him.
When the music reached that part in which the words "Let there be light" occur, Haydn rose, and pointing heavenward, said, aloud. "It comes from thence"; and indeed all knew that the master's work was always a subject of prayer and humble supplication that he might be able to do the best for the good of all.
After that evening Haydn never left his house. He grew feebler daily, but suffered little pain. One day, when he was thought to be past consciousness, he suddenly rose from his couch, and by a superhuman effort reached the piano.
There, in a voice which yet held the cadences of the boy chorister of long ago, he sang the national hymn, and so, his hands drooping on the keys, he was carried gently to his bed and to his peaceful death. This was in May, 1809. Francis Joseph Haydn, born in 1732, died in his seventy-eighth year.
As I told you, his great work was to reform and partially reconstruct instrumental music. He followed in the wake of Bach. To him we owe the symphony as we have it to-day, and with this little sketch of the dear master I want to tell you what a symphony is.
Properly speaking, a symphony is a long and elaborate composition for a full orchestra. It contains various movements,[1] and any number of instruments may be employed in its execution. Voices are also occasionally added. The movements of a symphony are the allegro, the andante or adagio, minuet or scherzo, and the allegro or presto. To the first movement are two themes or subjects (we might say ideas), and these are given in two different keys. The andante movement is usually in some key related to the original key. When you study thorough-bass, you will find what beautiful effects this arrangement can produce. It would be an excellent little study to take one of the simplest symphonies of "Papa Haydn," and read it carefully—four hands are better than two. Study the first movement. See how the theme is worked out, back and forth, up and down; find out when and how it all returns to the original key, and then observe how the theme is carried on throughout the whole work. Above all, remember that the perfection to which the symphony has been brought we owe first to Haydn, then to Mozart, and finally to Beethoven.
[THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL.]
BY MARY A. BARR.
All July and August, so glad and so gay,
The Butterfly's feasts they were crowded each day;
But alas for all pleasures, the summer's at end,
And the guests of the banquets now mourn for their friend.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
The Emmets and Flies will no longer advance
To join with their wings in the Grasshopper's dance,
For see his fine form o'er the favorite bend,
The Grasshopper mourns for the loss of his friend.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
And hark to the funeral song of the Bee,
And the Beetle who follows as solemn as he;
And see where so mournful the green rushes wave,
The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
The Dormouse he came and stood cold and forlorn,
And the Gnat he wound slowly his shrill little horn,
And the Moth, being grieved at the loss of a sister,
Bent over her body and silently kissed her.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
The corpse was embalmed at the set of the sun,
And inclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun;
By the help of the Hornet the coffin was laid
On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made.
Poor Butterfly's dead.
In dozens and scores came the Grasshoppers all,
And six of their number supported the pall;
And the Spider came too, in his mourning so black,
But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back
From Butterfly dead.
The Grub left his nutshell to join in the throng,
And solemnly led the sad Book-worm along,
Who wept his poor neighbor's unfortunate doom,
And wrote these few lines to be placed on the tomb
Of Butterfly dead: