REVIEW OF NEW MUSIC.
EVENINGS IN GREECE, the Poetry by THOMAS MOORE, Esq., the Music composed and selected by HENRY R. BISHOP and Mr. MOORE. 2 vols. large 4to. (Power.)
THE design of the present work is as praiseworthy as new: it is to connect together, Mr. Moore tells us, ‘a series of songs by a thread of poetical narrative,’ the object being ‘to combine recitation with music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to take a share in the performance, by enlisting, as readers, those who may not feel themselves competent as singers.’
We have often reflected with some surprise on the little effort made to vary the pleasures of domestic society. In a great, wealthy metropolis, where so many thousands congregate daily, who have only to enjoy themselves,—whose sole occupation is to devise means for passing time agreeably,—it might be imagined that some ingenuity would be exerted to so diversify the character of social amusement as to prevent that ennui which is less frequently complained of than felt. Music, no doubt, is a great resource; but those not actually engaged in it, who are not either singing or playing, who are mere listeners, feel a long evening rather heavy when filled up by a constant succession of song, or even an alternation of song and sonata, more especially if such pieces are, as too commonly happens, of the fashionable kind. Dancing is exclusively for the young; though really the quadrille, solemnly as it is walked—the countenances of the promenaders denoting the votaries of Melpomene rather than of Terpsichore—is quite as well calculated to exercise the aged as to divert the youthful. Cards almost universally shut out the young, females particularly, and are inimical to conversation. What then remains? we shall be asked. Why, among other things, that sort of mixture which is to be found in the volumes under notice—reading and music, in which every one in a small party may assist; and we are now only speaking of such parties, not of what till lately were called ‘at homes’—not of crowded assemblies. A couple of dozen persons might occasionally pass two or three hours very agreeably,—nay, advantageously,—over a poem, partly read, partly sung, every one present taking a share, a pause now and then being afforded for a critical or explanatory remark, or some little sally of wit or humour.
But possibly we shall be called visionaries; we therefore quit our speculations for the improvement of society, and proceed to inquire how far the work before us is likely to answer its proposed end. And first we will briefly describe it.
ZIA, where the scene of these evenings is laid, ‘was called by the ancients CEOS, and was the birth-place of Simonides, and other eminent persons.’ The poem opens with the embarkation of the young men of the island, who are proceeding to fight for the liberties of Greece. They sing a farewell hymn to the Zian nymphs, who, after the departure of their lovers, their relatives, and friends, resolve to meet every evening—
‘And try if sound of lute and song,
If wandering mid the moonlight[41] flowers
In various talk, could charm along,
With lighter step, the lingering hours.
Till tidings of that bark should come,
Or victory waft their lovers home.’
They accordingly assemble; various modes of beguiling the time are proposed and adopted,—all, of course, of a somewhat romantic kind, but singing is predominant, thus affording a fit opportunity of blending music with narrative. Hopes and fears are, as may be supposed, the themes most employed, and a slight episode now and then varies the subject. But what is yet published does not appear to proceed very far with the plan, or enable the reader to form any conjecture of the denouement: the story, in fact, admits of being protracted, and, doubtless, is intended to be proportioned in length to the demand for the volumes as they shall from time to time make their appearance.
The Farewell, beginning ‘The sky is bright,’ a trio for two trebles and a base, by Mr. Bishop, is easy and simple, and flows on agreeably in the key of F, which never changes.
One of the nymphs, who ‘to Leucadia late had been,’ now relates some of the griefs of the hapless Lesbian maid, in a song, also by Bishop, entitled ‘Sappho at her loom,’ in E major, which is set with care and ability. The air, which is gentle and sweet, reminds us of the popular melody, ‘Home.’ But our limited space hints the necessity of noticing these songs without stopping to show their connexion with the poem, suffice it therefore to say, that they are part and parcel of it, though each is complete, musically considered, in itself. And the words of every song are also printed with the rest of the letter-press, so that the poetry forms a perfect whole, even without any vocal aid.
‘Weeping for thee, my love;’ a slow air by Massamino, a name more new to us than the music, is rather to be admired for its introductory symphony than for its melody. The accentuation in this is sometimes faulty—‘—no rest in darkness’—‘whose—dreary tread’—and ‘this—ruined heart,’ evidently are all contrary to the intention of the poet. Immediately after the song we meet with a moral truth, which many can verify, enunciated by Mr. Moore in the following very poetical language:—
When thus the heart is in a vein
Of tender thought, the simplest strain
Can touch it with peculiar power;—
As when the air is warm, the scent
Of the most wild and rustic flower
Can fill the whole rich element;—
And, in such moods, the homeliest tune
That’s linked with feelings, once our own,—
With friends or joys gone by—will be
Worth choirs of loftiest harmony!
‘The Romaika,’ composed by Mr. Moore, is a lively air, supposed to be sung to the accompaniment of the balalaika, a rude Russian instrument, a kind of guitar with only two strings. This is pretty, and, if sung characteristically, will be more generally effective than better music.
Now the Zian maids grow playful, and putting themselves in martial array, sing ‘The War Dance,’ a trio by Mr. Bishop; though we are not told where they found a Grecian lady with a base voice to take the lowest part. This, however, does not matter: the composition is animating, is good, and not difficult. But why does Mr. Bishop so frequently treat the rules of prosody with such apparent contempt?—He must be aware that making the last syllable in the word ‘victory’ long, is not to be vindicated; yet he thus sets it:—
now if he had only repeated a third time—(he has done so twice)—the words ‘to war,’ the evil might have been avoided. e. g.
‘Oh! memory,’ is the graceful well known air of Carafa, beginning:—
But composers now and then are too proud
‘——meanly to borrow aid from sense,’
they too often agree with the goddess of the Stygian lake.
‘As on the shore,’ meant as a martial air, is common. No composer’s name is given.
‘The two fountains,’ by Mr. Bishop, is a sweet, quiet melody in E, six-eight time. The contrast expressed in the following notes is a happy thought:—
but in character certainly not suited to sentiments so far removed from gaiety.
‘They are gone,’ said to be a Greek air, is expressive, though the musical rhythm is of a kind that will distress an ear which only delights in regular measure. Nevertheless there is something remarkably touching in the conclusion of each stanza, and as a whole this song will infallibly please.
‘Maidens of Zia,’ a trio for soprano, tenor, and base, by Mr. Moore, sets up no pretensions as a composition, lays no claim to science, and consists of nothing but the plainest counterpoint—but will operate as a charm on nine out of every ten who listen to its simple strains.
We now commence the SECOND EVENING.
Rumours have reached the isle of Zea, that the youthful warriors are on their return home, and every female bosom beats high with hope, not unmixed with anxiety. The maidens sing a hymn to the Virgin,—to ‘Mary, star of the sea[42],’ a trio, beginning, ‘When evening shades are falling,’ the music by Mozart, but from which of his works we are not able to say, or even to guess; we should certainly not have ascribed it to him, had it been printed anonymously. The air is in a pleasing, familiar style, and the parts run smoothly and agreeably together, which is all the praise we can afford, notwithstanding the illustrious name it bears.
‘Blest be Love!’ is a short, good, frequently repeated chorus for the same voices, with an intervening solo for each, by Mr. Bishop.
‘The Caravan Song,’ is a Bohemian melody, and never yet was brought about a more forced, a more unhappy union of poetry and music. The verse plainly favoured some kind of common time, but is reluctantly wedded to three-four, and, like all ill-matched couples, these are very disagreeable when together, however pleasant when separated.
The nymphs then are joined by a band of mountaineers, one of whom, a minstrel youth,
‘Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills,
Of these wild children of the hills,’
in a ‘German air,’ lively, long, and rather deficient in novelty.
But ‘sad minstrelsy’ now breaks on the ears of the lovely party. It proceeds from a bark, bearing some who
‘———from an isle of mournful name,
From Missolonghi, last they came,’
and their dirge. ‘Thou art not dead,’ (the composer not named,) has at least simplicity to recommend it. Such sad sounds awaken sympathy in a ‘pensive maid,’ who sings, ‘Calm, as beneath its mother’s eyes,’ to an air possessing no little elegance, by Fiorillo, some phrases in which, however, are decidedly à la Mozart. This is also harmonized for two sopranos and base, and makes a terzetto that will invite attention to it.
Sadness soon yields to mirth, and in fancy’s eye a vision appears of two personages, who it is said are seldom found together. A song, ‘Love and Wisdom,’ tells their story; and we shall beg leave to repeat it in the poet’s own words, as a specimen of his verse and wit. The tale itself, we need hardly say, is of ancient date.
I.
As Love, one summer eve, was straying,
Who should he see, at that soft hour,
But young Minerva, gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bower.
I need not say, ’tis Love’s opinion
That, grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.
II.
Though seldom, yet the boy hath given
To learned dames his smiles or sighs;
So handsome Pallas look’d, that even
Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that, by a shady rill,
At sunset hour—whate’er her learning—
A woman will be woman still.
III.
Her flute he prais’d in terms extatic,
Wishing it dumb—nor car’d how soon—
For Wisdom’s notes, howe’er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.
But long as he found face to flatter,
The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;
As, weak or wise—it doth not matter—
Woman, at heart, is woman still.
IV.
Love chang’d his plan, with warmth exclaiming,
‘How brilliant was her lips’ soft dye!’
And much that flute, the sly rogue, blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.
The nymph look’d down—beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shock’d—for, oh, ye creatures!
Ev’n when divine, you’re woman still.
V.
Quick from the lips it made so odious,
That graceless flute the goddess took,
And, while yet fill’d with breath melodious,
Flung it into the glassy brook;
Where, as its vocal life was fleeting
Adown the current, faint and thrill,
At distance long ’twas heard repeating,
‘Woman, alas, vain woman still!’
The music to this is ‘French.’ Why should not the composer have been named? We have a mortal dislike to generalities in such cases; they are unjust, and may create surmises. The next song, ‘Who comes so gracefully,’ a waltz-like and very pretty melody, is described as a ‘foreign air.’ Now, what would the editor of these volumes say, if, when enjoying his friend’s choice bottle, he were to ask the name of the most precious juice, and to be answered, ‘’Tis foreign wine,’ would he not suspect that some sinister motive lurked in such a reply?
But now uprises a
‘——nymph with anxious eye.
******
——joy is in her glance! the wing
Of a white bird is seen above.’
It is, in homely prose, a carrier-pigeon, who, of course, brings her the wished-for billet; and this calls upon her for a song, ‘Welcome, sweet bird,’ which does no little credit to Mr. E. Shulz, the composer, who has here shown much taste and greet feeling, if not equal fertility of invention.
The party grows gay, and some of the elders of the company sing a Bacchanalian trio, ‘Up with the sparkling brimmer!’ which claims, it appears, Bohemia as its country, though the parent is not much honoured by this her progeny; any clime, or any pen, might have produced it.
A warrior now gives breath to a martial air, ‘March! nor heed those arms that hold thee;’ another of ‘Bohemian’ origin, but spirited and very well adapted to the words.
The assembly, however, having once tasted the ‘Zacynthian juice,’ loudly call for the cup again; then gratefully extol the source of their pleasures, in a rapturous eulogium on the tree that bears the wit-inspiring grape,—that is to say, in a trio, ‘’Tis the vine! ’tis the vine!’ in which the ladies join; we fear, therefore, that they, for want of something better, have pressed the sparkling chalice too often to their ruby lips, they chaunt the encomiastic strain so like true Bacchantes. This is by an anonymous composer, but the author need not have concealed his name, if fear of criticism alone led him to withhold it, for it is one of the best pieces in the volumes,—a pleasing air, good harmony, marked rhythm, the words are very appropriately set, and the accentuation perfect.
We have thus at very considerable length entered into this work, for the standing and reputation of the poet and his coadjutor entitle them to more than common notice. The poetical part, though a little obscure in its unfinished state, exhibits all Mr. Moore’s glowing fancy, but without the slightest approach to that warmth of language so characteristic of some of his works; and abounds in richness of imagery. The musical portion has had the benefit of Mr. Bishop’s talent and experience, which are fully displayed in the accompaniments to the songs, the taste and fitness of which admit of no question.