considering that the Italian banditti sing hymns to the Virgin Mary, and that there are kind-hearted Englishmen who cannot distinguish between the airs of 'God save the Queen' and the 'Old Hundredth.' Anyhow, it may be doubted whether certain distinguished royal musicians had really music in their soul. Take, for instance, the Emperor Nero, who lived about the middle of the first century of our era. Some statements transmitted to us, respecting the depravity of this cruel monarch may be unfounded,—such as that the large conflagration of Rome, which occurred in his reign, was the work of incendiaries secretly hired by him, and that he amused himself with looking at the fire from the top of a high tower, and singing to the accompaniment of the lyre the destruction of Troy, of which he had read, and which he desired to see represented in the spectacle before him. Some say that he played on the bagpipe. His principal instruments, on which he practised assiduously, were the lyre and the harp. His voice was weak and hoarse; nevertheless, in contesting with the best singers of his time, he always, of course, gained the prize. Foreign musicians streamed to Rome to hear him, and to flatter him. About five thousand of them were successful in so far as they obtained appointments in his service with high salaries. He undertook a professional tour through Greece, to perform in public; and as those of his audience who did not applaud him ran the risk of losing their life, a brilliant success could not fail to be constantly the result of his appearance as a musician. The surest means of obtaining his favour was to praise his voice, to be enraptured by his singing, and distressed when he took the whim that he could not sing. It gratified him to be pressingly implored to sing. In short, he did not appreciate music for the sake of its beauties, but because it appeared to him a suitable means for flattering his excessive vanity.
Such miserable royal musicians would at the present day, fortunately, not be tolerated. But a rather harmless vanity like that shown in the following example is still not uncommon, and may easily be excused, as it is not incompatible with a good heart.
Joseph Clemens Cajetan, Elector and Archbishop of Cologne, sent in the year 1720, the following letter to the Jesuit Seminary in Munich. It is here translated from the German.
"Bonn, July 28th, 1720.
Dear Privy Councillor Rauch!
It may perhaps appear presumptuous that an Ignoramus, who knows nothing at all about music, ventures to compose. This applies to me, as I send you herewith eleven Motetts and other pieces, which I have composed myself. I have achieved this in a strange way, since I am not acquainted with the notes; nor have I the slightest understanding respecting the art of music. I am, therefore, compelled, when anything musical enters my head, to sing it to a musical composer, and he commits it to paper. However, I must have a good ear and good taste, because the public, when they hear my music, always applaud it. The method which I have prescribed to myself in composing is that of the bees, which extract the honey from the most beautiful flowers, and mix it together. Thus also I. Everything I have composed I have taken from only good masters whose works pleased me. I candidly confess my theft, while others deny theirs, as they want to appropriate whatever they have taken from others. No one, therefore, dares to be vexed if he hears old airs in my compositions; for, as they are beautiful, their antiquity cannot detract from their value. I have determined to present this work to the church Sti. Michaelis Archangeli, with the P. P. Societatis Jesu, wherein my grandparents founded a Seminarium Musicale; and I desire that this memorial of myself shall be preserved there for eternity, especially for the reason that I have composed most of this music in the time of my persecution. The causes which induced me to compose the several pieces I herewith add, thus:—
No. 1. Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini;—I made when I had to suffer the greatest persecution, anno 1706.
No. 2. Ne nobis Domine;—on account of obtained victories.
No. 3. Tempus est;—on leaving the two towns, Rüssel and Valencien, in gratitude for the many kindnesses which I and my kindred received from the inhabitants of those towns.
No. 4. Victoria;—after the battle of Belgrade against the Turks, in 1717.