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Fame almost failed to overtake him in life; his course was so rapid, and his works were so swiftly produced. It crowned his memory.
Schubert’s magnificent symphony in C is one of the most beautiful works of the kind ever written, and lovers of orchestral music always delight to find it on the programme of an evening concert. It is a charm, an enchantment; it awakens feelings that are only active in the soul under exceptional influences. Yet the listener does not know to what he is listening: it is all a mystery; no one can tell what the composer intended to express by this symphony. We know that the theme is a noble one, – but what? that the soul of the writer must have been powerfully moved during its composition, – by what influences? It is an enigma: each listener may guess at the theme, and each will associate it with the subject most in harmony with his own taste.
In 1844 Robert Schumann, while looking over a heap of dusty manuscripts at Vienna, found this wonderful symphony, until then unknown. He was so much charmed with it that he sent it to Mendelssohn at Leipzig. It was there produced at the Gewandhaus concerts, won the admiration it deserved, and thence found its way to all the orchestras of the world. The youthful composer had been dead nearly twenty years when the discovery was made.
One of the best known of the dramatic German ballads is the Erl King.
The Erl King is Death. He rides through the night. He comes to a happy home, and carries away a child, galloping back to the mysterious land whence he came.
In this ballad a father is represented as riding with a dying child under his cloak. The Erl King pursues them.
Schubert gave the ballad its musical wings. I need not describe the music. It is on your piano. Let it tell the story.
BEETHOVEN’S BOYHOOD AT BONN
Literary men have often produced their best works late in life. Longfellow cites some striking illustrations of this truth in Morituri Salutamus: —
“It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles
Wrote his grand Œdipus, and Simonides
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers,
When each had numbered more than fourscore years.
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,
Had but begun his Characters of Men.
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales,
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales;
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last,
Completed Faust when eighty years were past.”
Such examples of late working are seldom found in musical art. Men seem to become musicians because of the inspiration born within them. This impelling force is very early developed.
Handel, the greatest musical composer of his own or any age, was so devoted to music in childhood that his father forbade his musical studies. At the age of eleven he as greatly delighted and surprised Frederick I. of Prussia by his inspirational playing; he was in youth appointed to a conspicuous position of organist in Halle.
Haydn surprised his friends by his musical talents at his fifth year. He had a voice of wonderful purity, sweetness, and compass, and was received as a choir-boy at St. Stephen’s Church, Vienna.
Mozart’s childhood is a household story. He was able to produce chords on the harpsichord at the age of three, and wrote music with correct harmonies at the age of six. Glück had made a musical reputation at the age of eighteen.
Mendelssohn was a brilliant pianist at six, and gave concerts at nine. Verdi was appointed musical director at Milan in youth. Rossini composed an opera at the age of sixteen, and ceased to compose music at forty.
No other art exhibits such remarkable developments of youthful genius; though many eminent poets like Pindar, Cowley, Pope, Mrs. Hemans, L. E. L., have written well in early youth. Music is a flower that blossoms early, and bears early fruit.
Music may justly be called the art of youth.
Beethoven was born at Bonn on the Rhine, 1770. He lived here twenty-two years. His musical character was formed here.
Beethoven was put at the harpsichord at the age of four years. He was able to play the most difficult music in every key at twelve years; and was appointed one of the court organists when fifteen.
The boy received this appointment, which was in the chapel of the Elector of Cologne, by the influence of Count Waldstein, who had discovered his genius. Here he was the organ prince.
The following curious anecdote is told of his skill at the organ: —
“On the last three days of the passion week the Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah were always chanted; these consisted of passages of from four to six lines, and they were sung in no particular time. In the middle of each sentence, agreeably to the old choral style, a rest was made upon one note, which rest the player on the piano (for the organ was not used on those three days) had to fill up with a voluntary flourish.
“Beethoven told Heller, a singer at the chapel who was boasting of his professional cleverness, that he would engage, that very day, to put him out, at such a place, without his being aware of it, so that he should not be able to proceed. He accepted the wager; and Beethoven, when he came to a passage that suited his purpose, led the singer, by an adroit modulation, out of the prevailing mode into one having no affinity with it, still, however, adhering to the tonic of the former key; so that the singer, unable to find his way in this strange region was brought to a dead stand.
“Exasperated by the laughter of those around him, Heller complained to the elector, who (to use Beethoven’s expression) ‘gave him a most gracious reprimand, and bade him not play any more such clever tricks.’”
At Bonn young Beethoven devoted himself almost wholly to the organ. The memories of the Rhine filled his life, which ended so sadly on the Danube. Bonn and Beethoven are as one name to the English or American tourist.
THE FATHER OF ORGAN MUSIC
Bach, the greatest organist and composer of organ music of the last century, was born at Eisenach, 1685, and had truly a remarkable history. His art was born in him. He wrote because he must write, and sung because he must sing.
His father was a court musician, and had a twin brother who occupied the same situation, and so much resembled him that their wives could not tell them apart. These twin brothers produced music nearly alike; their dispositions were identical; when one was ill, the other was so likewise, and both died at the same time.
John Sebastian Bach was the brightest ornament of this music-loving family. His parents died in his boyhood, and his musical education was undertaken by his eldest brother, a distinguished organist. He fed on music as food.
An incident will show his spirit. He was eager to play more difficult music than his brother assigned. He noticed that his brother had a book of especially difficult pieces; and he begged to be allowed to use it, but was denied. This book was kept locked in a cupboard, which had an opening just wide enough to admit the boy’s thin hand. He was able to reach it, and, by rolling it in a certain way, to bring it out and replace it without unlocking the door. He began to copy it by moonlight, as no candle was allowed him in the evening, and in six months had reproduced in this manner the whole of the music. About this time his brother died, and the friendless lad engaged himself as a choir-singer, which gave him a temporary support.
Organ-music became a passion with him. He determined, at whatever sacrifice, to make himself the master of the instrument. He might go hungry, lose the delights of society; but the first organist in Germany he would be: nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of this purpose in life. He studied all masters. He made a long journey on foot to Lubeck to hear a great German master play the organ; and when he heard him, he remained three months an unknown and secret auditor in the church.
A youth in which a single aim governs life early arrives at the harvest. Young manhood found Bach court organist in that Athens of Germany, Weimar. His fame grew until it reached the ears of Frederick the Great.
“Old Bach has come,” joyfully said the King to his musicians, on learning that the great organist arrived in town.
He became blind in his last years, as did Handel. Ten days before his death his sight was suddenly restored, and he rejoiced at seeing the sunshine and the green earth again. A few hours after this strange occurrence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit. He died at the age of sixty-eight.
His organ-playing was held to be one of the marvels of Germany. He made the organ as it were a part of his own soul; it expressed his thoughts like an interpreter, and swayed other hearts with the emotions of his own. His oratorios and cantatas were numbered by the hundred, many of which were produced only on a single occasion. His most enduring work is the Passion Music.
In 1850 a Bach Society was formed in London, and a revival of the works of the master followed. Bach wrote five passions, but only one for two choirs.
To the general audience much of the Passion music, as arranged for English choral societies, seems too difficult for appreciation; but the over-choir at the beginning, the expression of suffering and darkness, and the so-called earthquake choruses, with its sudden and stupendous effects, impress even the uneducated ear.
The beauty and power of the oratorio as a work of art are felt in proportion to one’s musical training; but as a sublime tone-sermon, all may feel its force, and dream that the awful tragedy it represents is passing before them.
THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE
We came to fair Lucerne at even, —
How beauteous was the scene!
The snowy Alps like walls of heaven
Rose o’er the Alps of green;
The damask sky a roseate light
Flashed on the Lake, and low
Above Mt. Pilate’s shadowy height
Night bent her silver bow.
We turnèd towards the faded fane,
How many centuries old!
And entered as the organ’s strain
Along the arches rolled;
Such as when guardian spirits bear
A soul to realms of light,
And melts in the immortal air
The anthem of their flight;
Then followed strains so sweet,
So sadly sweet and low,
That they seemed like memory’s music,
And the chords of long ago.
A light wind seemed to rise;
A deep gust followed soon,
As when a dark cloud flies
Across the sun, at noon.
It filled the aisles, – each drew
His garments round his form;
We could not feel the wind that blew,
We could only hear the storm.
Then we cast a curious eye
Towards the window’s lights,
And saw the lake serenely lie
Beneath the crystal heights.
Fair rose the Alps of white
Above the Alps of green,
The slopes lay bright in the sun of night,
And the peaks in the sun unseen.
A deep sound shook the air,
As when the tempest breaks
Upon the peaks, while sunshine fair
Is dreaming in the lakes.
The birds shrieked on their wing;
When rose a wind so drear,
Its troubled spirit seemed to bring
The shades of darkness near.
We looked towards the windows old,
Calm was the eve of June,
On the summits shone the twilight’s gold,
And on Pilate shone the moon.
A sharp note’s lightning flash
Upturned the startled face;
When a mighty thunder-crash
With horror filled the place!
From arch to arch the peal
Was echoed loud and long;
Then o’er the pathway seemed to steal
Another seraph’s song;
And ’mid the thunder’s crash
And the song’s enraptured flow,
We still could hear, with charmèd ear,
The organ playing low.
As passed the thunder-peal,
Came raindrops, falling near,
A rain one could not feel,
A rain that smote the ear.
And we turned to look again
Towards the mountain wall,
When a deep tone shook the fane,
Like the avalanche’s fall.
Loud piped the wind, fast poured the rain,
The very earth seemed riven,
And wildly flashed, and yet again,
The smiting fires of heaven.
And cheeks that wore the light of smiles
When slowly rose the gale,
Like pulseless statues lined the aisles
And, as forms of marble, pale.
The organ’s undertones
Still sounded sweet and low,
And the calm of a more than mortal trust
With the rhythms seemed to flow.
The Master’s mirrored face
Was lifted from the keys,
As if more holy was the place
As he touched the notes of peace.
Then the sympathetic reeds
His chastened spirit caught,
As the senses met the needs
And the touch of human thought.
The organ whispered sweet,
The organ whispered low,
“Fear not, God’s love is with thee,
Though tempests round thee blow!”
And the soul’s grand power ’twas ours to trace,
And its deathless hopes discern,
As we gazed that night on the living face
Of the Organ of Lucerne.
Then from the church it passed,
That strange and ghostly storm,
And a parting beam the twilight cast
Through the windows, bright and warm.
The music grew more clear,
Our gladdened pulses swaying,
When Alpine horns we seemed to hear
On all the hillsides playing.
We left the church – how fair
Stole on the eve of June!
Cool Righi in the dusky air,
The low-descending moon!
No breath the lake cerulean stirred,
No cloud could eye discern;
The Alps were silent, – we had heard
The Organ of Lucerne.
Soon passed the night, – the high peaks shone
A wall of glass and fire,
And Morning, from her summer zone,
Illumined tower and spire;
I walked beside the lake again,
Along the Alpine meadows,
Then sought the old melodious fane
Beneath the Righi’s shadows.
The organ, spanned by arches quaint,
Rose silent, cold, and bare,
Like the pulseless tomb of a vanished saint: —
The Master was not there!
But the soul’s grand power ’twas mine to trace
And its deathless hopes discern,
As I gazed that morn on the still, dead face
Of the Organ of Lucerne.
CHAPTER XV.
COPENHAGEN
Copenhagen. – The Story of Ancient Denmark. – The Royal Family. – Story of a King who was out into a Bag
ON the Denmark Night Mr. Beal gave a short introductory talk on Copenhagen, and several of the boys related stories by Hans Christian Andersen. Master Lewis gave some account of the early history of Denmark and of the present Royal Family; and Herman Reed related an odd story of one of the early kings of Denmark.
“Copenhagen, or the Merchants’ Haven, the capital of the island kingdom of Denmark, rises out of the coast of Zealand, and breaks the loneliness and monotony of a long coast line. It was a beautiful vision as we approached it in the summer evening hours of the high latitude, – evening only to us, for the sun was still high above the horizon. The spire of the Church of Our Saviour – three hundred feet high – appeared to stand against the sky. Palaces seemed to lift themselves above the sea as we steamed slowly towards the great historic city of the North.
“The entrance to the harbor is narrow but deep. The harbor itself is full of ships; Copenhagen is the station of the Danish navy.
“We passed very slowly through the water streets among the ships of the harbor, – for water streets they seemed, – and after a tedious landing, were driven through the crooked streets of a strange old town to a quiet hotel where some English friends we had met on the Continent were stopping.
“The city is little larger than Providence, Rhode Island. Its public buildings are superb. It is an intellectual city, and its libraries are the finest of Europe.
“It is divided into two parts, the old town and the new. In the new part are broad streets and fine squares.
“We visited the Rosenborg Palace, the old residence of the Danish kings; – it is only a show palace now. In the church we saw Thorwaldsen’s statues of the Twelve Apostles, regarded as the finest of his works.
THE STORY OF ANCIENT DENMARK
It is a strange, wild romance, the early history of the nations of the North.
The Greeks and Romans knew but little about the Scandinavians. They knew that there was a people in the regions from which came the north winds. The north wind was very cold. Was there a region beyond the north wind? If so, how lovely it must be, where the cold winds never blow. They fancied that there was such a region. They called the inhabitants Hyperboreans, or the people beyond the north wind. They imagined also that in this region of eternal summer men did not die. If one of the Hyperboreans became tired of earth, he had to kill himself by leaping from a cliff.
The Northmen, or the inhabitants of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, were of the same origin as the tribes that peopled Germany, and that came from the East, probably from the borders of the Black Sea. They were fire-worshippers, and their chief god was Odin.
Denmark means a land of dark woods. In ancient times it was probably covered with sombre firs. One of its early kings was Dan the Famous. His descendants were called Danes.
Many ages after the reign of this king, the land was filled with peace and plenty. It was the Golden Age of the North. Frode the Peaceful was king in the Golden Age. He ruled over all lands from Russia to the Rhine, and over two hundred and twenty kingdoms of two hundred and twenty subjugated kings. There was no wrong, nor want, nor thieves, nor beggars in the Golden Age. This happy period of Northern history was at that age of the world when Christ was born.
According to the Scalds, the god Odin used to appear to men. He appeared the last time at the battle of Bravalla, a contest in which the Frisians, Wends, Finns, Lapps, Danes, Saxons, Jutes, Goths, and Swedes all were engaged. The dead were so thick on the field, after this battle, that their bodies reached to the axle-wheels of the chariots of the victors. At the time of this battle Christianity was being proclaimed in England. It was approaching the North. With the battle of Bravalla the mythic age of Denmark and the North comes to an end.
I have told you something of Louis le Debonnaire, who went to die on a rock in the Rhine, that the waters might lull him to his eternal repose. He was a missionary king, and he desired nothing so much as the conversion of the world to Christ. He was the son of Charlemagne. “It is nobler to convert souls than conquer kingdoms” was his declaration of purpose. He sent missionary apostles to the North to convert Denmark. His missions at first were failures, but in the end they resulted in giving all the Northern crowns to Christ’s kingdom, that Louis loved more than his own.
The Danes in the Middle Ages became famous sea-kings. Before England, Denmark ruled the sea. One stormy day in December Gorm the Old appeared before Paris with seven hundred barks. He compelled the French king to sue for peace.
The sea-kings conquered England. Canute the Dane was king of all the regions of the northwest of Europe. His kingdom embraced Denmark, England, Sweden, Norway, Scotland, and Cumberland. Such is the second wonderful period of Denmark’s history.
THE ROYAL FAMILY OF DENMARK
Royal people, as well as “self-made men,” often undergo remarkable changes of fortune. No one, however high or low, is free from the accidents of this world. All men have surprises, either good or bad, in store for them.
Few families have experienced a more striking change in position than the present royal house of the little northern kingdom of Denmark. Twenty years ago, the present king, Christian IX., was a rather poor and obscure gentleman, of princely rank, to be sure, residing quietly in Copenhagen, and bringing up his fine family of boys and girls in a very domestic and economical fashion. He was only a remote cousin of Frederick VII., the reigning monarch, and he seemed little likely to come to the throne.
But death somewhat suddenly prepared the way for him, so that when old Frederick died, in 1863, Christian found himself king.
This, however, was but the beginning of the fortunes of this once modest and little-known household. Just before Christian came to the throne, his eldest daughter, Alexandra, a beautiful and an amiable girl, attracted the attention of the Prince of Wales. The prince became attached to her, and in due time married her.
About the same time, Christian’s second son, George, was chosen King of Greece, and was crowned at Athens, and is still reigning there.
After three years had passed, the second daughter, Maria Dagmar, who, like her sister Alexandra, was a very lovely and attractive girl, was married to the Czarowitch Alexander of Russia, after having been betrothed to his elder brother Nicholas, who died. She is now Empress of Russia.
Somewhat later, the eldest son of the Danish king married the only daughter of Oscar II., King of Sweden and Norway, thus forming a new link of national friendship between the three Scandinavian nations.
It is thus quite possible that in the not distant future no less than four of King Christian’s children, who were brought up with little more expectation than that of living respectably and wedding into Danish noble families, will occupy thrones in Europe. It may happen that the two daughters will share two of the greatest of those thrones, – that one will be Queen of England; the other is Empress of Russia, – while the two sons will be respectively King of Denmark and King of Greece.
This great good fortune, in a worldly point of view, which has come to the Danish royal family, cannot certainly be attributed solely, or even mainly, to luck or chance. It has been, after all, chiefly its virtues which have won it such a high position in Europe. The good breeding and excellent character of the king’s children have won for them the prominence they now hold; for the daughters are as womanly and virtuous as they are physically attractive, and the sons are models of manly bearing and irreproachable habits.
THE STORY OF A KING WHO WAS PUT INTO A BAG
“His realm was once a cradle, and now it is a coffin,” might be said of the most powerful monarch that ever lived. Kings are but human, and they are pitiable objects indeed when they fall from their high estate into the power of their enemies. Never did a king present a more humiliating spectacle in his fall than Valdemar II., called the Conqueror.
Under the early reign of this king, the Golden Age seemed to have returned to Denmark. Never was a young monarch more prosperous or glorious in so narrow a kingdom.
His empire grew. He annexed Pomerania. He wrested from the German Empire all the territories in their possession north of the Elbe and Elde, and he finally became the master of Northern Germany.
He was a champion of the Church. A papal bull conceded to him the sovereignty of all the people he might convert, and he entered the field against the pagans of Esthonia, with an army of 60,000 men, and 1,400 ships! He baptized the conquered with kingly pomp and pride.
His reign was now most splendid. Denmark was supreme in Scandinavia and Northern Germany. The Pope revered the Danish power, and the world feared it.
But secret foes are often more dangerous than open enemies. The conquered princes of Germany hated him, and planned his downfall.
Among these was the Count-Duke of Schwerin. He pretended great respect and affection for Valdemar. He laid many snares for the king’s ruin, but they failed. He was called “Black Henry” in his own country on account of his dark face and evil nature, and Valdemar had been warned against him as a false friend.
But he was warm, obsequious, and fascinating to the king, and the king liked him.
In the spring of 1233 Valdemar invited him to hunt with him in the woods of Lyo.
“Tell the king I am disabled and cannot leave my couch,” said the artful count, who now thought of a way to accomplish his long-cherished purpose.
He left his couch at once, and sent his spies to shadow the king.
The king landed at Lyo with only a few attendants.
One night the king was sleeping in the woods of Lyo in a rude, unguarded tent. His son was by his side.
They were awaked from slumber by an assault from unknown foes, and a sense of suffocation.
What had happened? The king could not move his arms; his head seemed enveloped in cloth. He could not see; his voice was stifled. He felt himself carried away.
Black Henry had entered the tent with his confidants, and had put the King of the North and his son into two bags, and tied them up, and was now hurrying away with them to the river.
Black Henry laid his two captives in the bottom of a boat like two logs, and hoisted sail; and Valdemar, whose kingdom was now only a bag, was blown away towards the German coast.
He was thrown into prison, and there lived in darkness and neglect. The Pope ordered his release, but it was not heeded. The Danes tried to rescue him, but were defeated.
He was at last set free on the agreement that he should pay a large ransom. He returned to his kingdom, but found his territory reduced to its old narrow limits. His glory was gone. His empire had been the North; it had also been a bag; and at last it was a coffin. Poor old man! His last years were peaceful, and in them he served Denmark well.
