GENTLEMEN,
I notice in your valuable work, the Harmonicon, for May last, a Report made to the [French] Academy of the Fine Arts, 20th of October, 1832, by its Musical Committee, on the Third Metronome of Maelzel.—With this report I am much pleased, and feel glad that so small, yet very useful a thing has received such attention from men of scientific knowledge, in their endeavours to improve the system of musical education. Their notice of the subject redounds greatly to their credit.
My object in this communication is to furnish you with a paragraph from the Liverpool Mercury, of Friday the 19th inst., upon what I consider a very important matter, viz. Improved Musical Time Beaters.—It is as follows:—‘Many of our musical readers are, no doubt, acquainted with Maelzel’s Metronome, for ascertaining the time in which musical pieces should be played. It is a very simple instrument, but is not intended to accompany the player, as it is completely dumb. We would not say anything in disparagement of any useful invention, but we may be permitted, we trust, to observe, that every object attained by Maelzel’s Metronome would be fully accomplished on a graduated pendulum with a sliding ball, which might be sold for half-a-crown at the utmost. Mr. Abbot, of Manchester, has very greatly improved upon Maelzel’s instrument, by rendering it what it ought to be, not only a time indicator, but a time beater. At the commencement of each bar it gives a very audible beat. It will be found advertised under the head “Musical Indicator,” in another part of our paper. In consequence of some conversation we had with the inventor on the subject, we trust that Mr. Abbot will construct some Indicators which shall not only mark the beginning of the bar, but any sub-division of it. The Musical Time-beater, invented many years ago by Mr. Egerton Smith, of Liverpool, and simplified by Mr. Condliffe, of the same place, possesses this advantage over every similar instrument previously or subsequently introduced. It marks the beginning of the bar by a pretty loud blow, and indicates also the component parts of the bar by minor but audible beats, whether there be 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, or 12 in the bar. The machine, however, is perhaps too complicated for common use, and we should greatly prefer Mr. Abbot’s, if it gave the subdivisions of the bar.’
I have seen Mr. Abbot’s Time Indicator; it is a simple, good instrument, but not what it professes to be, in my humble opinion: it beats every crotchet, or rather it is like a clock that beats, or ticks loud and quick.
Mr. Smith’s invention, simplified by Mr. Condliffe, is greatly superior to it in every respect. It gives a good beat at the beginning of every bar, and generally divides the bar into its smaller proportions very accurately. It is not so complicated as the above; is an excellent contrivance, and the best that has ever yet appeared.
I am, Sir, your constant reader,
And humble Servant,
L. T. CROSSLEY.
July 22d, 1833.
BELLINI’S LAST OPERA.
A FRIENDLY correspondent, whose letter exhibits more gentlemanlike politeness than musical judgment, has mildly reproached us for the contempt we have expressed for the Italian opera, I Capuleti e Montecchi. Of this work we hoped never to hear further mention, but the grave remonstrance of our correspondent, who desires that his communication may not be published, induces us to insert a critique, a very just and able one, from the German Iris, of the 21st of June last, by which our friend will perceive that foreign critics do entertain the same opinion of this last production of Signor Bellini, as that universally felt in London.
—— As to the opera itself,—says the German writer, M. Rellstab,—it is like many other modern works, which we might find ample fault with, if we found but a footing in any part which was good or beautiful, so as to be able to separate the bad and to submit the latter to criticism; but when a thing is awry on all sides,—if no part of it display rationality of ideas, much less beauty, where is a poor critic to begin? Begin? whether we start from above, from below, at angles or across, whether we skim like a swallow over the work, weaknesses will present themselves at every step. But suppose he has begun, where is he to leave off? but no matter, let us venture upon the task. Why is everything to be censured? Why is criticism to demand absolute perfection, since the art itself cannot arrive at it; and since the greatest work of art must fall short of the desired perfection, at least as far as regards an author who culls his labour to a strict account? Goethe himself confesses unceremoniously, that a work of art can never be finished: why should we, Dii minorum gentium, not subscribe to that opinion? Why should criticism take into its head to attain a greater perfection? No such thing! The reader therefore shall be served with more critical aphorisms;—a critical thunderstorm, with some flashes of lightning. But ad rem! The overture, a charivari more destitute of ideas, a more unmeaning ding-dong of instruments, a more mawkish whine of melody, has never reached my ears or eyes. Verily the overture is invaluable! it is as if it were prefixed to the work as a sort of board, with the warning ‘Here nothing is to be gained, a mere triumph of insipidity is celebrating within.’ It is, indeed, a bold thing to speak thus of a renowned man, who has the public so much on his side. Honest Germans! Honest Viennese in particular!—for you more especially constitute the public of Bellini—I have but a poor opinion of you who can live tens of years without hearing Gluck, who can find Mozart antiquated, and Beethoven’s Fidelio and Weber’s Euryanthe dull and tedious. From that which you reject and spurn, we may judge to a nicety of the value of that which you choose. But let us proceed: choruses, arias, recitativos, everything runs helter skelter, without rhyme or reason, into each other, and at cross purposes. Tebaldo sings like Romeo; Romeo like Lorenzo; Lorenzo like Julia; the enemy like the friend; the happy like the miserable; the lover like the deadly foe. How divine! how perfectly freed is the critic from the odious task of entering into the sense and meaning of a work of art! How heavenly a state of existence when the mind is absolved from all exertion, when we may stretch our limbs comfortably, gape away, and enjoy the dolce far niente! I myself had nearly fallen into this pleasing state; I felt as if I had exclaimed, ‘Pursue your musical sounds; blow on, whistle, fiddle, and drum away; drag the melody through endless suspensions like a chain of sighs, then let it rattle off like a Dutch alarm clock, which enhances the enjoyment of sleep, because it just renders us conscious of being asleep. But how is all this? How comes it that every thing penetrates but skin deep? How? because the question was to write something which should not remind the hearer that he possessed a heart or brains; or, in short, that he was an intellectual being. But surely this problem might have been solved by the composer in a less offensive manner. Fifths and octaves will split the tympanum of a New Zealander, of a buffalo; will rupture the asses’ skin of a drum itself. Oh, Signor Bellini, you really are going beyond a joke with our poor ears! Faults and crudities are permitted, we allow, but such lumps and clumps of faults which would make an elephant stumble, such blocks, ought surely not to have been strewed across my critical path. The public, it is true, regards them as genial mountains, as aërolites dropped from the moon, or a something else unheard of before. Ah, if they remained but unheard! if they were but inaudible! but there are many abodes upon earth, and I will add, there are many sorts of ears.