The sixth, ‘My Sword,’ is a fine, spirited, martial air, the accompaniments in excellent keeping, and the whole characteristic and exciting.
‘The Exile,’ in C minor, the seventh of the set, is deeply pathetic: a well-imagined andantino in F comes in beautifully, expressing a gleam of future hope; but this is checked again by reflection; and the last part, ‘Farewell to old England’ is affectingly uttered in the mournful tones of the minor key.
The eighth, ‘Oh, pleasant is the fisher’s life,’ does not conclude the volume in a very brilliant manner; the phrases and cadences offer nothing new, and no part of the song is likely to make any impression on the hearer, whether he belong to the learned or unlearned class of auditors.
This volume is much increased in value by portraits of the poet and composer, drawn by Wivell and engraved by Holt. They are admirable likenesses, and executed in a superior manner. How far preferable are such additions to a work, to those fancy things miscalled embellishments, which we rejoice to find are now pretty generally discarded in musical publications. Portraits, if at all faithful resemblances, are always interesting, and gratify a very natural curiosity; while imaginary scenes and emblematical designs are most commonly destitute of any charm, being too often mean in conception and faulty in execution.
PIANO-FORTE.
GRAND EXERCICE D’OCTAVES dans tous les tons, majeur et mineur composée par CHARLES CZERNY, Op. 152. (Wessel and Co.)
WERE an inhabitant of another sphere—of one of those worlds which many folks think made only for our amusement, for us to spy at through a telescope—to be shown this grand exercise, he would straightway and naturally conclude that all those belonging to the planet Earth, who ‘handle’ the piano-forte, must be under the immediate influence of their own satellite:—‘For who,’ he would ask, ‘but moon-struck people would submit to a piece sixteen pages long, consisting of nought else, from beginning to end, but semiquavers running in octaves without the slightest break or intermission, without air, or rhythm, or any reasonable object, till one solitary chord ends the mad ramble?’ And this is no exaggerated account of the ‘grand’ composition on our desk, strange and almost incredible as it may appear.
It is to be presumed that a nondescript of the present kind would not have been published unless there had been a chance, amounting almost to a certainty, of finding purchasers for it; and we can only say, that if there are many to waste their money, and what is worse their time, upon such a matchless piece of absurdity, good taste in music, and the common sense of its votaries, are in a more declining state than even the former productions of this composer, and others of the same school, have led us to suppose.
- RONDEAU, de l’Opéra de BOIELDIEU, la Dame Blanche, composé par FRED. KUHLAU. (Wessel and Co.)
- Ditto, do. do.
- PRECIOSA LIED, from WEBER’s PRECIOSA, varied by FRED. KUHLAU. (Wessel and Co.)
KUHLAU should ‘have died hereafter.’ Suddenly his sun set before its expected time. Nearly the same packet that brought us the first proofs we ever saw of his talents, bore the news of his death; and since then, every production of his that has reached us has furnished an additional proof of the loss music sustained by his premature decease. Two out of the three pieces conjoined is this article are further evidences of his ability, the subjects of which have been treated by many, by few so well, and by none better.