“Omitting the sweet benefit of time.”
It should never be forgotten that, in the playing of the most simple piece of music—the commonest air —there is much more required than merely to render, or deliver, the notes that are dotted over the page. It too often occurs, however, that the Amateur, who chances to have heard at some Concert a fantasia or a potpourri, performed by the agile bow of a De Beriot or a Sainton, returns home fascinated exclusively by the brilliant execution he has witnessed, and stimulated by vague aspirations after similar power of display. He calls next day at a Music-shop, and just “happens to enquire” whether the said piece is in print. It is handed to him, and he finds, to his agreeable surprise, that the passages, with a few exceptions, do not look so difficult as their dashing effect the evening before would have led him to anticipate. He buys the piece, and, with uncased fiddle, sits down before it, in his own chamber. He picks out the passages with which he is best able to tickle his own ear; hammers them over till his hand gets some familiarity with them; hurries the time, to encourage his mind in the favourite idea of “execution;” slurs over those passages that threaten to puzzle him; and, having got through the thing à tort et à travers, hastens to shew his friends what he can do (in reality what he can not do) as a performer of De Beriot’s celebrated fantasia! A little applause, from the over-complaisant or unthinking, deludes him, already too confident, into the belief that he has succeeded in that piece; and the same ambition of display, coupled with the eager and unrepressed love of novelty, leads him on to attempt another, and another, and to spoil himself with more triumphs of the same unfortunate and mistaken kind. Thus, everything is done most imperfectly—no satisfaction is given to a single soul of the commonest musical notions—and no real progress whatever is made. In short, when once the unhappy Amateur abandons himself exclusively to execution—it is all over with him!
It is impossible to build without the frequent use of the ladder. The scales are the ladders of music; and, without constant and diligent recourse to them, there is no true edification—no reaching to “perfection’s airiest ridge.” Slowly and cautiously must they be ascended and descended, at first, till the acquisition of a firm hold, and a nice habit of measurement; then comes the dexterity that enables the practitioner to run up and down with a safe celerity of precision, such as the curious beholder may witness in the movements of those Hibernian hod-iernal ministrants of mortar, who are so powerfully instrumental towards the construction of houses.
Let not the young Amateur, then, be diverted from the practice of his scales, which are the regular steps to improvement. Let him not commit the error of jumping about among those broken and irregular flights, consisting of bits of airs, and snatches of tunes. These will not help to raise the musical edifice; and the expectations which they may assist to build, will prove mere castles in the air. The dryness and sameness of the labour are apt to be alleged as the excuse for omitting this essential practice of the scales and intervals; while the love of melody is pleaded in behalf of the more eccentric course. Now, what should be desiderated for the student is, not to love melody less, but improvement more. He should not, by reason of the tedium experienced in working at the scales, cast them aside—for, while he perseveres, on the contrary, in daily exercise upon them, are there not the immortal Solos of Corelli, to furnish him with all that is needful of the recreative principle? Here he will find refresh ment enough, after the perhaps fatiguing iteration of the ladder-work. Here, in connexion with passages that will form his hand—here, along with modulation not dull and crabbed, but graceful and natural—he will find enough of melody to sweeten his toil, without impairing it—to cheer his progress, without retarding it. Here he will find fascination for his ear, with no corruption for his taste—
“Airs and sweet sounds, that give delight, and hurt not.”
Yes, when the tyro, tired, makes yawning complaint of the want of encouragement, we would point to the Solos of Corelli, and say to him, Hæc tibi dulcia sunto—let these be unto thee for sweet-meats.
This distinction, however, should be noted that while Corelli is recommended for the acquisition of tone and steadiness, he is not a sufficient authority as to the varieties and subtleties of bowing; for (as heretofore observed) much that relates to these has been added since his time to the province of the violin. But the cultivation of these graces and refinements of the bow is, after all, in its natural order, a thing for later attention. The simplicity of Corelli is always admirable for the earlier purposes; and then, for the niceties of the bow, and for the communication of modern resources, there are various special guides of good value—as the studies of Fiorillo—the elaborate, systematic, and explanatory “Violin-School” of Spohr, as edited for English students by Mr. John Bishop—and that justly-cited boast of the French Conservatoire, the combined system of Rode, Kreutzer, and Baillot[65].
Among the consequences of that ambition of display which I have had occasion to refer to as a root of evil among Amateurs, is the tendency to throw off prematurely the salutary restraints of professional aid. This is a mistake of the most injurious kind. The violin, as the most difficult of all instruments, demands more than any other the prolonged assistance of the Master. There is no such being to be met with as a real self-taught Violinist. Scrapers and raspers there may be, of various degrees of roughness and wretchedness, who have found out the art of tormenting, by themselves; but that is quite another matter. Paganini himself, the most wild and singular of players, did not acquire his excellence independently of magisterial rule. He was amply tutored during the early years of his study; and, when he had become a great Master, he still proceeded by calculations founded partly on what he had already been taught, though transcending it in reach and refinement. Let not the aspiring student, therefore, seek to fly before he can run, and reject the preceptor while his state is essentially that of pupilage. They who, at a very early period, discontinuing the study of the instrument, think of playing to amuse their friends, will fail inevitably, and be considered as the very reverse of what is agreeable or, to present the same notable truth at the point of an indifferent epigram:
Beginners, lab’ring at the fiddle, Are apt to flounder in the middle: Such, when our comfort they diminish, Are wisely prayed to make a finish!
With reference to the collective efforts of non-professional players, it may be remarked that, as individual vanity is there held in some check, and as something like a painstaking preparation is customary, the auditor is in a less hazardous condition than where one exhibitor has undisputed hold upon him,—besides which, the alternative of an escape is more decidedly open. The single cacophonist, secretly intending a “polacca,” may take you at unawares, after a quiet cup of tea, that has treacherously served to mask his purpose. He may suddenly draw his lurking fiddle-case from beneath the very sofa whereon you are at ease—may summon that passive accomplice, his sister, to subservient office at the piano—and, putting his bow-arm into full exercise, bring you to “agony-point,” before you have had time to recover from your surprise. From the quartett or symphony-party, on the contrary, you have due notice beforehand and, if suspicious of discords that are not within the boundary of science, you can decline the invitation, and maintain the tranquillity of your nerves.